Thursday, October 29, 2009

It's Goodbye Flashbacks, Hello Time Travel in Season Five of LOST

July 2007 was a momentous month for me. I expect May of 2010 will be the same. It isn't every day that a beloved series concludes, and I can honestly say that ABC's LOST has seeped as deeply into my soul as Harry Potter. It's hard to believe it's almost over. But before I settle in for the sixth LOST premiere, something tells me I'll be returning to the penultimate season for a refresher course.

Season five of LOST is a curiosity known by many as "the time-travel season". While season one focuses on basic survival, two on the hatch, three on the Others and four on the consequences of leaving the Island, season five finds the remaining contingent of Islanders leaping around through time, experiencing nasty side effects and wondering how they might go about geting back to a fixed continuum. Sawyer (Josh Holloway) finally steps up as a true leader, with an increasingly traumatized Dan (Jeremy Davies) his frazzled advisor. Meanwhile, the Oceanic Six are back in the "real world," and since Jack (Matthew Fox) has come to the conclusion that it's time to return to the Island after three years away, he has the unwelcome task of trying to round up his fellow escapees, with the help of the notoriously untrustworthy Ben (Michael Emerson). Bridging the two parties is John (Terry O'Quinn), whose obsession with destiny compels him to leave the Island he so adores in order to coax Jack and his friends back. And that's all before 316, which introduces another major division resulting in most of the characters being on the Island together, but in different times.

Structurally, season five is pretty unique, since so many of the episodes have neither traditional flashbacks nor flashforwards. Because the groups are so divided, instead of focusing primarily on one character at different points in his or her life, the writers choose to jump back and forth between the Island and the mainland, or the 1970s and the 2000s. John, Sayid (Naveen Andrews), Kate (Evangeline Lilly), Ben, Miles (Ken Leung) and Dan are the only characters with the sort of flashback episodes we've come to expect, while Saywer, ageless Richard (Nestor Carbonell) and enigmatic Jacob (Mark Pellegrino) have arguably centric episodes, though the execution is unusual. Lessening the focus on individuals allows the season to cover a lot of ground quickly, which it needs to do. While new questions are introduced, the season provides more answers than any previous season, and the accelerated action primes us for an explosive conclusion. (I hope I don't mean that literally.)

Back when I watched the devastasting finale of season three, the deaths of two of my favorite characters left me gutted, but I was perhaps most distraught over Jack's miserable future state, which seemed to negate any purpose behind the sacrifices made throughout the first three seasons. In season five, one of the first things Jack does is shave off his beard, the symbol of his descent into realms of haggard despair. We see him clean up his act, seemingly bothered little by his sudden alliance with the conniving Ben, who, throughout much of the season, comes across as being genuinely good-willed. Jack continues to grapple with his faith until he finally boards the plane that will return him to the Island, a process that unfolds much more quickly than I expected. His sense of purpose is renewed. But once he gets back, the situation is vastly different, and there's little for him to do but sit back and try to act inconspicuous. Not so easy for this born leader. Erratic behavior ensues. It's good to see Jack coming out of the doldrums, but he's not really at his best in this season.

Sawyer, on the other hand, is marvelous. He's his old snarky self as he leads the remaining survivors in a series of Island treks, but it's clear that these desperate circumstances have at last molded him into the hero that's been percolating all along. LaFleur, one of my all-time favorite LOST episodes, swiftly covers three years of his life, enabling us to see how the dimpled con man goes from scoundrel to respected official. The new Sawyer is perhaps not as entertaining, but while he's grown responsible, he's still got enough of his old spunk to be pretty satisfying. As the season begins, he's still smitten with Kate, who seems to be thoroughly over him by the time they finally meet again. There's a definite world-weariness to her this time around, and it seems her only concern at this stage of the game is doing what's best for pseudo-son Aaron (William Blanchette), and by extension, children in general. Juliet (Elizabeth Mitchell), meanwhile, ceases to seem even a little bit sinister as she and Sawyer help one another recover from their wounds and find powerful new roles in a placid society. If only for a couple of episodes, we get to see Juliet incandescently happy. We also get to see what strong stuff she's made of.

John, always enmeshed in mystery, becomes more enigmatic than ever as the episodes progress. This season finally seems to answer the age-old question, "Just what's so special about John Locke, anyway?" The revelations are surprising and, more often than not, disturbing. O'Quinn does some of his best work yet in this season, particularly whenever he is partnered with Emerson. Every time they share the screen, it prickles with energy. Their scene together in The Life and Death of Jeremy Bentham is among the most riveting confrontations I have ever seen. This season takes John in some very strange directions, and the sense of wonder is undiminished by what the season four finale revealed about him. As John has been one of my favorite characters from day one, I'm very curious about where these developments will leave him in season six.

It's hard to believe now that Ben was supposed to be a short-term character, only lasting a few episodes. Thanks in large part to the amazing Emerson, who finally earned an Emmy for his work on this season, Ben is the one character on the show who seems hardest to figure out, as evidenced by the following overheard exchange in this month's Reader's' Digest: "Girl #1: This whole Ben situation is really starting to tick me off. Girl #2: I know! I just don't know what his deal is. Girl #1: He called me like 12 times yesterday. Girl #2: He called you? [Pause.] Oh, you mean Ben your boyfriend. Girl #1: As opposed to? Girl #2: Ben from LOST." Like Snape in the Harry Potter books, Ben is probably the most complex character in the series, and the one whose motivations are most hotly debated. As the season opens, he seems to be on the castaways' side, though as he stands to gain as much as they do from their return, I wouldn't go so far as to call him altruistic. The second half of the season shows a Ben who is apparently deeply conflicted, and peeks into his past, including his youth (meaning the return of Sterling Beaumon as pre-teen Ben), help shed light on some of his methods. Some of Emerson's most powerful scenes are in Dead Is Dead, which shows how Alex became Ben's "daughter" and reveals the outcome of his vendetta against Penny (Sonya Walger), daughter of his longtime nemesis Charles (Alan Dale). Most of the season seems to support my conviction that Ben will turn out all right in the end. But st least two shocking scenes deal hefty blows to that theory. I'll just have to wait and see...

If Ben is the most inscrutable character in the series, Hurley (Jorge Garcia) has to be the least complicated. Perhaps season six will dredge up hitherto unsuspected depths of darkness from Hurley's soul. But I find that hard to imagine, since from day one he has been nothing but sweetness and light, crippling anxieties notwithstanding. Hurley is rather underused this season, but when he's around, he makes a big impression, from his heartfelt (and simultaneously hilarious) confession to his mother (Lillian Hurst) that the Oceanic Six have been living a lie to the mystical scene that leads to his decision to return to the Island. Ever the voice of the everyman, Hurley pesters Miles with all those pesky time-traveling questions the audience has been pondering; the two turn into quite the comedic pair, particularly in Some Like It Hoth, which, like season three's Tricia Tanaka Is Dead, involves male bonding and daddy issues. Unlike that episode, however, we also get copious amounts of Star Wars. Hurley continues to take nearly every opportunity to make people's lives better, whether it's helping Miles reconcile with his father or ensuring that no more passengers wind up on the second flight to the Island than necessary. But it's hard to blame him for his one act of violence: pelting Ben with a Hot Pocket when he turns up to whisk him away in the middle of the night.

Sun (Yunjin Kim) begins the season as a black widow, determined to avenge the death of her husband Jin (Daniel Dae Kim). Except Jin isn't dead. Somehow, he washes ashore in the late 1980s, just in time to meet up with a lovely young Danielle (Melissa Farman). One upside of the structure of the season is by the midway point, Jin is speaking fluent English. But as of the finale, he and Sun are still no closer to each other; though she's returned to the Island, 30 years separate the couple, and despite John's claims, no one seems very clear on how to facilitate a reunion. Both characters are seriously underused, but Sun gets one of my favorite moments of the season when she makes a discovery relating to a cherished character no longer on the show.

Among the original main castaways, that leaves just Sayid, who starts off the season with a killing spree and never loses that violent streak. Some of his actions are motivated by self-defense, but as the season goes on, it becomes harder to find the moral, conscientious side that was so prevalent in the first season. Sayid is as much of a train wreck as Jack was, and probably more. He's Our You finally delves into his childhood with a scene reminiscent of Eko's youth, prompting us to wonder if he is noble for sparing another the trauma of killing or if he simply gets a charge out of the act itself. Vincent (Madison the dog) and Rose (L. Scott Caldwell), other characters who've been with the show from the beginning but who have never been given as much attention as I'd like, disappear after the second episode, along with Rose's husband Bernard (Sam Anderson). I've been very displeased with the way these characters have been neglected, especially since the end of season two, but at least the the writers eventually acknowledge what happened to them after their separation from Sawyer and the gang.

Desmond (Henry Ian Cusick), having finally achieved his happily-ever-after with Penny, hardly seems like a part of the group anymore, but in response to a sudden memory cleverly planted by Dan, Desmond takes his seafaring little family on a trek to fulfill the mad scientist's request. Aside from Jughead, in which he unearths some unsettling facts about Dan's tenure at Oxford and, with a single word, delivers one of the most touching moments in the season, Desmond is present for only a scene or two in the few episodes in which he does appear. More compelling reasons for the curious kinship between Dan and Desmond are revealed, but it's unclear whether that relationship will ultimately be good for the wandering Scotsman. Penny's fate is tied to his, so while it's exhilarating to see them together at last, there's occasion to wonder whether her husband is unintentionally leading her into danger.

Since the four newbies introduced in season four's Confirmed Dead managed to survive to the fifth, we have a chance to get to know them all a bit better. Charlote (Rebecca Mader) begins to remember her hazy past, even as she loses her grip on the present in the wake of time-travel sickness. Her connection to the Island is intriguing. Miles, too, has unexplained ties to this place, and the sharp-tongued ghost whisperer becomes more sympathetic as his vulnerabilities are exposed. At first, it seems crusty but trusty pilot Frank (Jeff Fahey) may have little more to do with the Island, but he is reincorporated brilliantly, and in 316, he gets to utter what is quite possibly my favorite line of the season. None of these characters get as much time in the spotlight as I might have preferred, but given the constraints, I'm happy with their representation.

I particularly adore Dan, who won me over immediately in season four, though I wasn't entirely sure I could trust him. He vanishes for several episodes, but boy, when he's there, he makes an impact. In the beginning, this brilliant but absent-minded theoretical physicist has to explain to Sawyer and all us ordinary folks at home the scientific principles behind what is going on. Dan knows his stuff, but conveying that to Joe Schmoes isn't so easy for this severely socially stunted fellow. Since he's really the only one who has any idea what is going on, the burden is on him to find a way to stop it. The situation is made all the more urgent by the fact that Charlotte, with whom he is in love, is affected so adversely by the time travel. Largely, Dan serves as a liason between the inner workings of Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse's Stephen Hawking-drenched minds and the baffled viewers, but he is also fascinating as an individual, and the profoundly moving The Variable finally firmly cemented him as a character I love every bit as much as Hurley, John, Desmond and the late great Charlie (Dom Monaghan).

We are introduced to surprisingly few new characters this season. Almost everyone we meet is somebody we already know or know about, though we might not realize it at first. Ms Hawking (Fionnula Flanagan), who, in her one previous third-season appearance, seemed likely to be deeply involved in the inner workings of the Island, resurfaces with an intriguing connection to one of the characters. Like Charles, she is a Desmond flashback character who has gone on to become vitally important in her own right. She and Charles are both fleshed out considerably this season, and glimpses of their earlier years reveal a great deal about the Island's history and their roles in shaping it. Like Ben, these are shadowy characters with plenty of evidence both for and against the idea that they are "good guys", as is the soft-spoken Richard. While it takes several actors to give us a complete view of these two, Richard, while having his most significant role in the series to date, is still played solely by Carbonell, even though we see him in a number of different years stretching all the way back to 1954. One of my major hopes for the sixth season is that he will finally get a proper flashback that explains his unique position on the Island.

Because the end of the time-skipping means that Sawyer and his friends are stuck in the 1970s, several of their new colleagues are folks we met in Ben's first centric episode, season three's The Man Behind the Curtain. Much to my delight, hippie-ish Dharma official Horace (Doug Hutchison) becomes a fairly major player, and Ben's despondent dad Roger (Jon Gries) gets more screen time, appearing both more reprehensible than before and easier to pity. We're able to see Pierre (Francois Chau), the man of many pseudonyms from the Dharma filmstrips, off the job, and the long-overdue introduction to loose cannon Stuart (Eric Lange), first referenced in the season two finale, begs the question of the correlation between unhinged behavior and communications duty. Much to my disappointment, however, there is still no mention of Annie (Madeline Carroll), the childhood friend who meant so much to Ben. I trust that season six will offer some closure on that front.

Of the new characters, only a couple seem likely to have much significance. There are several bit players in Dharma times, including one played by Kevin Rankin of Friday Night Lights, but I rather doubt we'll be seeing them again. Modern-day, the most interesting addition is Ilana (Zulekha Robinson), a dangerous but perhaps virtuous woman with a long-standing alliance with Jacob, who might almost be considered a personification of the Island itself, or at least certain aspects of the Island. Though it takes a hundred episodes before LOST finally assures us that this murky figure truly exists, he's been stitched into the fabric of the show all along, first explicitly mentioned midway through the second season but hinted at in some ways from the first episode. I suspect that he will be the central figure of season six, though whether or not we'll actually see him again is anybody's guess.

LOST has a lot of questions to answer, and little time in which to do it. No doubt, some of those mysteries will remain when the series ends, but I believe the stage has been effectively set for the most pressing concerns to be addressed. Seasons five is a head-scratcher, full of confusing concepts that aim to make amateur scientists of us all. But then one of the plusses of the show has been the way it challenges its audience intellectually. Wrapped up in the science are ethical debates, with the chief question being whether it is possible to change a seemingly fixed future and advisable to try. Add to that wide-ranging discussions, from religious topics - often, curiously enough, instigated by Ben - to pop culture phenomena - in season five, usually courtesy of Hurley - and you've got a show that's constantly encouraging its audience to explore new areas of study. In Namaste, Sawyer coolly tells the newly-arrived Jack that his leadership style involves reading and thinking, mulling things over before he acts. This seems like a good way to describe the most invested LOST viewers as well. Incidentally, I was disappointed that, although so much of the season is set during the '70s, the ol' Dharma record player never spun anything by Simon and Garfunkel, John Denver or any of my other favorites of the era. I can think of a couple of episodes in which Jim Croce's Time in a Bottle would have felt particularly fitting. Oh, well. At least I got It Never Rains In Southern California.

Of course, I don't have the complete inside scoop on the DVD set, since it doesn't come out for another couple of months, but anticipation over Monaghan's appearance tonight on Flashforward, a show that explores so many of the same themes as LOST, has whetted my appetite for season six so much that I decided this review just couldn't wait, especially since I rarely pay much attention to special features beyond deleted scenes anyway. The season five DVD includes those, along with Lost on Location, A Day with Josh Holloway, Los Angeles crew tribute with Michael Emerson, the 100th episode, Time Frame and Continuity and Bloopers. The Blu-ray's list price is 20 bucks more, but right now, Amazon is selling them for practically the same price, so if you're as high-tech as all that, the Blu-ray is probably worth it, especially since it includes a tie-in to Lost University, the Alternate Reality Game meant to tide fans over for the last month before the new season starts. For those of us who still think of DVD players as newfangled, I hope there will be a way to participate; I'm already enrolled and looking forward to sitting in on a lecture by Jeremy Davies! In any event, I know that the fifth season's episodes are ones I will want to return to, especially as I gear up for the final season. Oh, the anticipation! Darlton, you'd better not disappoint me.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Experience Simon and Garfunkel Unplugged in Live From New York City 1967

Back in 2002, Simon and Garfunkel released a live album from a concert that they performed at Philharmonic Hall in January of 1967. I'd never seen Simon and Garfunkel in concert, and the chances of them reuniting for a tour seemed increasingly remote, so I was excited to get my hands on this official, pristinely preserved recording. Little did I know then that I'd get to see them the following year. I eagerly snatched up my copy, admiring the shiny packaging and lyrical liner notes by Anthony DeCurtis. I confess that in my years as an avid Simon and Garfunkel fan, I've tracked down some unofficial recordings, so I wasn't entirely new to the experience of the duo performing live in the '60s. But the recording quality here is much more consistent, and besides, it's on the up and up.

Knowing of those recordings makes me just a little wistful that they had recorded something during this particular concert that wasn't from their albums. But there's no changing now what they did then, so that complaint would be more pertinent for the 1969 album, which draws from several concerts. Among the several rare gems I unearthed, my favorite is The Lightning Express, an old folk tune once recorded by the Everly Brothers, sung by Simon and Garfunkel in Paris in 1970. Live From New York City 1967 includes no such surprises. Nonetheless, it's exciting to hear Paul and Art singing together in such intimate harmony, with nothing to come between their voices except Paul's guitar. Additionally, about half of the tracks include some sort of introduction from either Paul or Art; they divide the speaking duties pretty evenly, and though there are few revelations here for the die-hard fan, it's great to hear them offer these nuggets themselves.

Following the opening number, He Was My Brother (an rather surprising choice for the first song but a reflection, I suppose, of the prevalence of the Civil Rights movement), Art, in a blissed-out tone, breathes, "Wow! Carnegie Hall!" before launching into Leaves That Are Green. Paul's the one who introduces Sparrow, earning a laugh as he does so; a couple tracks later, he describes You Don't Know Where Your Interest Lies as "almost finished". Paul takes the lead again on A Most Peculiar Man, explaining its genesis in a four-line article in a newspaper in England that struck him as "a very bad way to go out".

Art describes The Dangling Conversation as the song that took the longest to write and record and also claims it as their favorite at that particular time, though the highly intellectual number was never especially popular. While that song references Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost, Richard Cory is practically lifted right from the Edward Arlington Robinson poem Art says was "written many years ago and studied by myself in junior high school." It was high school for me, but I can relate!

Before For Emily, Paul laughingly tells an unruly audience to tone it down, which is odd since the same thing happens just before For Emily on the 1969 album. By the end of the set, he seems to be in a thoroughly goofy mood, doing a Beatles impersonation before launching into Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M. and concluding the song - and concert - with a brief guitar homage to Yankee Doodle. But the best spoken bit on the album has to be Art's recollection of the photo shoot for the Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M. album cover. This live track was included in the Old Friends boxed set, so it won't be new to everyone, but I never get tired of hearing Art, by way of introducing Poem on an Underground Wall, tactfully mentioning "the old familiar suggestion" that none of them had noticed plastered all over the wall where against which they had been standing.

The songs without banter are, of course, lovely as well. I was particularly surprised by Benedictus, which doesn't seem like it would be a concert selection, but they perform it gorgeously. Other tracks include Homeward Bound, Feelin' Groovy, A Hazy Shade of Winter, Blessed, Anji, I Am a Rock, The Sound of Silence and A Church Is Burning. If you're a fan of Simon and Garfunkel, particularly unplugged, then Live From New York City 1967 is for you.

Hear History in the Making With Simon and Garfunkel's Live 1969

Back in July, I made two startling musical discoveries. One was that Celtic Thunder had just released a new album. The other was that Simon and Garfunkel had released a "new" album as well - several months earlier. I was surprised I didn't know Take Me Home had been coming up, since I'd checked several times to see if there was anything new in the works from my favorite newly-found band. But I was shocked I hadn't heard a thing about Simon and Garfunkel's live album, since I'm always very up on their news and have several friends who are as well. I snatched the albums up together, a decision made all the easier by the fact that Amazon was selling them both for half-price. Though Simon and Garfunkel fans won't find much here that's genuinely new, it's still a nice album to have.

Several years ago, Simon and Garfunkel released the album Live in 1967, an acoustic set drawn from a single concert right in the middle of their principal period of musical partnership. I love the intimacy of that concert, the quietude of just the two voices and the guitar and the little bits of banter that Paul and mostly Art provided. Live 1969 is a little different. A few of the songs are acoustic, but the bulk of them are performed with a band whose members include Joe Osborn on bass, Hal Blaine on drums, Fred Carter, Jr. on keyboards and Larry Knechtel on keyboards.

The tracks are drawn not from a single concert but from several. Something of the innocence of that earlier recording seems to be missing, and occasionally Art's quips seem to hint at the strain between him and Paul. Mostly, though, this is just a chance to hear the duo live in their prime, making it easy to imagine what it must have been like to be part of one of those early audiences. As someone who saw them live in 2003, I can attest that Simon and Garfunkel in concert is a pretty amazing experience.

For the die-hard fan, there's nothing too new here songwise. Of 17 tracks, only one is a song not drawn from their studio albums. That's the exquisite That Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine, a Gene Autry song recorded by the Everly Brothers, Simon and Garfunkel's most profound early musical influences. But even that isn't new if you got your hands on Old Friends, the three-disc boxed set released in the 1990s. The novelty, then, lies mostly in these particular performances and hearing the dynamic between the men and their audience, with the attractive packaging and heartfelt introduction by Bud Scoppa a plus.

Song for the Asking is the first really interesting track, as it includes an introduction from Art as well as some lovely harmonizing, which is absent on the Paul-centric studio cut. Art delivers a gorgeous performance of For Emily after shushing a mildly unruly audience. Scarborough Fair is performed without Canticle (despite the song list label to the contrary), as it's always seems to be in concert; I suppose they could only pull off all those rich layers of harmony in the studio. Still, this more basic version is lovely.

Track seven, Mrs. Robinson, is the first with the band, and Art introduces them accordingly, while getting testy with an audience member who complains the keyboards are too quiet and accidentally starting to introduce the wrong song. Why Don't You Write Me is fun because, unlike most of the other studio songs, it's not one they perform in concert these days. So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright includes a nice little introduction in which Art explains that he'd studied architecture at Columbia and had suggested Paul write a song about Frank Lloyd Wright. (Of course, the song was really more about Art, but I read an interview with him years later in which he claimed not to realize that at the time.)

Of all the tracks, perhaps the most fascinating is Bridge Over Troubled Water, simply because there's a sense that you're listening to history unfold. On the other tracks, either Art, who pretty much does all the talking, announces the song, or Paul plays the opening chord, and the audience erupts into applause as they realize what they're about to hear. But on Bridge, Larry starts playing that iconic piano opening, and Art notes that this is a new song, and there's dead silence. It seems nobody in this November 28 audience has heard it before; I presume the silence denotes not lack of enthusiasm so much as a desire not to drown out any of this brand-new listening experience with applause. But silence it is, up until that final glory note, when the audience erupts into one of the most exuberant ovations I've ever heard. Just getting the experience second-hand is pretty powerful.

Other tracks include Homeward Bound, At the Zoo, Feelin' Groovy, The Boxer, The Sound of Silence, I Am a Rock, Old Friends / Bookends, Leaves That Are Green and Kathy's Song. One thing this concert drove home to me is that Simon and Garfunkel aren't very interactive in concert; there's never an invitation to sing along, and the chatter is minimal, though you do get more of that on the 1967 album. If you've never seen them live, either of these albums is the next-best thing.

Corny Underdog Entertains, With Some Help From Peter Dinklage and Patrick Warburton

When I was in elementary school, there was a stretch of time when I awoke bright and early every morning at 5 a.m. so that I could start my day with a series of old-timey TV shows before I went off to school. These included Lassie (I had such a crush on Timmy), Dennis the Menace, Rocky and Bullwinkle and Underdog. I hadn't watched those in years, though, so I barely remembered the premise of Underdog when I watched the live-action movie a couple weeks ago. And could a cartoon that operated under time constraints of about 15 minutes per episode really be effectively stretched into an hour and a half-long movie?

In the movie, Underdog is an ineffectual police dog voiced by Jason Lee who winds up in a lab where Dr. Simon Barsinister, a nefarious scientist played by the always-impressive Peter Dinklage, is running experiments in hopes of creating super-powered animals. Something goes haywire, and the humble beagle ends up getting a full dose of the madman's goo, resulting in a shocking transformation, the impact of which the dog doesn't initially realize. It becomes clearer to him when Dan Unger (Jim Belushi), a guard at the lab, comes across him in the street and brings him home to his son. Jack (Alex Neuberger) is a typical overdramatic teenager. He has issues with his dad, and he's initially completely turned off by the arrival of the dog, who Dan names Shoeshine. But when Underdog starts talking in Dan's absence, Jack decides that he might make pretty good company after all, and when he realizes the extent of his abilities, he urges the pooch to take on a secret identity and purge the city of evil deeds.

This is a very slapsticky sort of movie. There are lots of cheesy special effects related to the various stunts that Shoeshine / Underdog can pull. All of the actors deliver performances that are fairly over-the-top, and most of the time I find Neuberger a bit grating. Taylor Momsen, who I loved as Cyndi Lou in How the Grinch Stole Christmas, has grown up a lot, but while her character is perfectly likable, I found her performance rather generic. The most low-key performance is Belushi's; some of his characters grate on my nerves, but he makes Dan a very sympathetic guy who's obviously doing his best to preserve his broken family. Meanwhile, the most entertaining members of the cast are Dinklage, who revels in Dr. Barsinister's exaggerated villainy, and Patrick Warburton, who, as the doctor's sidekick, is slightly more ill-intentioned than usual but every bit as dopey as his typical character. A running joke involving a thesaurus is particularly amusing.

If you're looking for a really top-notch dog movie, Underdog isn't the place to start, but it's pretty fun nonetheless. The bad guys' bumbling antics, father-son bonding, Shoeshine's growing self-confidence and hints of romance of the teenage and canine variety (with an amusing nod to Lady and the Tramp) all help to make this a fun flick for the Hannah Montana generation, and if you grew up watching Underdog - the first episode of the cartoon, incidentally, is offered as an extra - it might be a fun walk down memory lane.

Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story Takes Anne in Desolate Directions

I've been on a bit of an Anne of Green Gables kick for the last couple of months, ever since I pulled out the first two Kevin Sullivan miniseries on a whim and watched them. We own the third, but it arrived completely mangled, and we never got around to going to our local PBS affiliate and requesting a new copy. So I decided to refresh my memory of the third installment courtesy of Netflix. I remembered Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story fairly well, but it had been nearly a decade since I'd watched it. I'm glad I saw it again, but I really don't think we're missing out on much by not owning it. This isn't a miniseries likely to get a lot of repeat viewings.

In reading up a bit on this production, which came out in 2000, I learned that Kevin Sullivan was in the midst of a dispute with the family of series author L. M. Montgomery. One might think that under such circumstances, he wouldn't make another movie with Anne as the subject, but he went ahead and did it, evidently free to use Montgomery's characters but not allowed to replicate any of her plots. Hence, making a faithful adaptation was impossible. Nonetheless, Sullivan and co-writer Laurie Pearson took enormous liberties with the story and characters, so that even fans of the miniseries who've never read the books might object to the drastic shift in tone.

The first two miniseries have their share of darkness, but for the most part they are fairly light and funny and thoroughly heartwarming and life-affirming. The Continuing Story, by contrast, is pretty dreary right from the get-go. Within minutes, Anne (Megan Follows), who has been away on a teaching position with an orphanage, beholds Green Gables and nearly gets into a fight with its cranky owner, who is content to let the house of Anne's happiest years fall into squalor. As usual, we see far too little of Gilbert (Jonathan Crombie), and while he's clearly devoted to Anne, he spends most of the movie seeming exhausted and depressed. Similarly, Diana (Schuyler Grant), who has grown up into a proper lady rather like her mother, fears her marriage to Fred (Greg Spottiswood) is falling apart. He's surly all the time, right up until he sneaks off to join his comrades in World War I, leaving Gilbert to explain things to Diana - and to find his own sense of duty stirred.

Probably my favorite portion of the movie occurs when not-yet-married Anne and Gilbert are living in New York. Initially, I thought they were co-habitating, which seemed a little odd for early 20th-century devout Christians, but a throwaway line from Gilbert explains that they have separate apartments. Gilbert longs to make a difference as a doctor, while his superiors seem keen to limit his skills to healing the prestigious members of society. Anne gets an in with a publishing company and strikes up a friendship with suave Jack Garrison (Cameron Daddo), a bestselling adventure novelist, who insists that her work has potential and might actually reach a decent audience if his name were attached to it. There are hints of romance between these two from Jack's end, but Anne keeps very firm boundaries. It's nice to see her actively pursuing her writing dreams, which she abandons in the novels by the time she and Gilbert are married, and there's some humor and spunk in the way she deals with her curmudgeonly boss and his rather persnickety assistant.

In the books, by the time World War I hits, Anne and Gilbert are around 50 years old. But this movie takes place only five years after Anne and Gilbert's engagement, which puts them in their mid-20s. Montgomery does write in some detail about the war in Rilla of Ingleside, but it's from the home front perspective, and neither Anne nor Gilbert ever come anywhere near a combat situation. But here, Gilbert is guilted into signing on as a trauma surgeon, and Anne decides to spend the bulk of the war traipsing around Europe searching for him. So instead of idyllic Avonlea, we spend most of the movie in one war zone or another, as Anne absurdly searches for Gilbert, making a nuisance of herself as often as not. In the process, she manages to track down Fred and get tangled up with Jack again, which leads to a fulfilling writing job but also a dangerous mission. Moreover, despite her obsession with finding Gilbert, she grows somewhat uncomfortably close to both Fred and Jack during this time.

Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea are both family films, but I wouldn't say there's much here to hold the interest of children. There are basically no juvenile characters, with the exception of Jack's infant son, and the movie has a very adult, bleak tone. War is raging, so there is violence and peril as well as hints of marital discord and extramarital tomfoolery. Rarely do we get to see Anne's sparkling smile; Follows still plays Anne well, but this Anne spends so much of her time depressed, she's not a very uplifting character. All the old faces are fine for what they have to work with, but the writers have bathed everyone in disillusionment, making Anne feel like Ring-tormented Frodo, Avonlea like the polluted Shire. I suppose it's somewhat interesting to put Anne in such a different setting, but I don't think most Anne fans really want heart-racing adventure. They'd prefer the simple pleasures and mishaps Montgomery details in most of her books.

To that end, they may find themselves more drawn to the Special Feature, which is a rather extended promo for the episode of the television series Road to Avonlea in which Marilla dies and Green Gables falls into the hands of land-grubbing neighbor Mr. Harrison. I wish the whole episode had just been included; the clips are wonderful, quite touching and occasionally funny despite the dark circumstances. There's little humor to be found in The Continuing Story, whether it's Fred glowering at the world or Anne in hysterics as she asks every nurse in France if she's seen her husband. If you're a fan of Sullivan's previous Anne projects, you'll probably want to check this out, but don't expect the same level of satisfaction. You may also want to look into Montgomery's later books, especially Anne's House of Dreams, to see how Montgomery covered this period of Anne's life. For me, The Continuing Story is an interesting but dreary side trip, and I don't think I'll ever be able to think of it on the same level as Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Stephenie Meyer Hits Her Stride With Eclipse

October seems like an ideal month to finish up Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, which involves an ordinary girl caught up in the conflicting worlds of vampires and werewolves. If I can get to the library in the next couple of days, I might manage to be done with the series by Halloween. Though the final installment was not particularly well-received - I recall a particularly derisive review in Entertainment Weekly - I've got the itch to read it, since I just finished Eclipse, the third book in the series, and liked it about twice as much as either of the previous books.

Eclipse finds 18-year-old Bella Swann back to her relationship with Edward Cullen, a drop-dead gorgeous, unfailingly courteous vampire. In the previous book, he had abandoned her for about six months, intending to stay out of her life entirely for her own good, but perilous circumstances had brought them back together, resulting in Edward's promise never to leave her again. As she has gotten increasingly entangled in the vampires' world, Edward finally has agreed to turn her into a vampire, though he has deep misgivings, and he refuses to consider it before high school graduation.

Meanwhile, Bella's dad Charlie, who despises Edward for the pain he caused Bella in his absence, has his daughter under house arrest after finding out that she spent much of her Edwardless time zooming around on a motorcycle trying to get herself seriously injured. So her time with Edward is limited, and there's an additional wrinkle in the form of Jacob Black, an old family friend to whom Bella became especially close while Edward was out of town. As the book begins, Jacob, stung by her return to Edward after all that he did to her, is still refusing to speak to Bella, and she's still not too happy with him for ratting her out about the motorcycle. Moreover, Jacob is a werewolf, the natural enemy of the vampire, so Edward doesn't want her going near him for any kind of reconciliation. But soon, a sinister threat will force Edward and Jacob both to set aside their prejudices and jealousies for the greater good.

Reading Eclipse, I couldn't help but think that the first two books might have been better if they'd been consolidated into one, cutting out a lot of extraneous prose. New Moon's main purpose of developing Bella's friendship with Jacob probably could have been accomplished if Twilight had skipped a couple hundred pages of describing Edward's perfect features and if New Moon has skipped a couple hundred pages of Bella feeling sorry for herself. In any case, though, once I got to Eclipse, the first two volumes seemed mostly like set-up. Here, we really get to the meat of the story.

Bella is still a rather annoying character, whiny and sulky. She gets huffy with most of the other characters in this book, particularly Charlie and Alice, Edward's "sister" and her best friend, because of their attempts to "babysit" her, and Edward and Jacob, because of their disdain for each other. Now that she has Edward back, it's rather refreshing to see that her life doesn't completely revolve around him. She tries to make the most of her few remaining months with Angela, a sweet, intuitive girl at school, as she reasons that she will have to break off contact once she makes the transformation - though I would think that she could maybe manage an occasional e-mail... Additionally, once she and Jacob get over their aggravation with one another, Bella spends as much time with him as she can, even when it means defying Edward, because she knows how deeply she has hurt him and yearns to somehow make things right. Unfortunately, her show of fraternal affection only muddies the waters, leaving smitten Jacob more reason to hope.

Some of Jacob's actions in this novel are frustrating too, but understandable, since he is so desperately in love with Bella and so afraid of losing her, not just to Edward, but to vampirism. For how can they maintain any sort of friendship when she has transformed into his mortal enemy? Meyer gives us more background on each of the werewolves and, most interestingly, lets us sit in on a pow-wow where the elders of the Quileute tribe of which Jacob is a part recount the old legends explaining the origins of their werewolf forms. Meanwhile, we're also given insight into the backgrounds of a couple of the Cullens, with Jasper's history particularly important to understanding the string of deaths that has nearby Seattle terrorized.

Bubbly, affectionate Alice is still my favorite character, and hers is a nearly constant presence throughout the novel. While the obsessive quality of Bella's relationship with Edward gives it an occasionally unhealthy flavor, her friendship with innocent Alice is a breath of fresh air, despite Bella's tendency to be a wet blanket. Though he doesn't trust Edward, Charlie adores cheerful Alice, which is quite understandable; everyone who knows her seems to regard her with the same unabashed affection lavished upon Kaylee, the empathetic ship's mechanic in Firefly. Like Edward, she seems to appreciate the value of the human experience more than Bella does, and with no memories of her own human life, she never misses an opportunity to live vicariously through her.  Additionally, her unique ability to see into a constantly changing future makes her an indispensable resource as the Cullens strategize about their upcoming ambush.

This book feels much more balanced than the previous two, as Bella divides her time between Edward and Jacob, and there's a slow build toward the book's final conflict; we see it coming almost from the beginning, and Meyer heightens the tension over several hundred pages. What I especially like is the way this threat, from another group of vampires, forces the Cullens and the werewolves into an alliance, particularly Edward and Jacob. Additionally, while Carlisle, the Cullen patriarch, has a pretty small role in this book, his compassionate nature manifests itself powerfully on a couple of occasions. It's unfortunate that the happy event of these feuding factions uniting must be precipitated by the threat of violence; readers are treated to a fairly gruesome battle, though much of it occurs "off-screen".

One of the oddest elements of the book is Bella's revulsion when it comes to the subject of marriage. Her life revolves around Edward. He is like air to her, like water and food. There's really no way to exaggerate the heights of her devotion to him. And she wants nothing more than for him to end her human life by transforming her into a vampire, a permanent commitment if ever I heard one. Yet when Edward tells her that he will only transform her himself (as opposed to Carlisle, who has volunteered his services) if she agrees to marry him first, she recoils. She's completely willing to give up her human existence to spend the rest of eternity with Edward, but marriage? Man, that's just asking too much! She has her reasons, but in context, it's impossible for them not to sound pretty weak and silly.

The pacing of this book is much better, the conflict more compelling, whether it's the ever-present sense of danger from intruding vampires or the tug Bella feels between Edward, who she knows she can't live without, and Jacob, who dragged her out of the depths of despair during her darkest moments. Meyer aptly opens the book with the Robert Frost poem "Fire and Ice," and throughout the book, the metaphor is extended, with warm, furry Jacob fire and stone-cold Edward ice. Given the extent to which this series is all about Edward, I couldn't imagine that it could end any other way than with Bella and Edward together, presumably with her finally a vampire herself.

Whenever I read the passages in which she and Jacob were together, I couldn't help thinking of Ryan Kelly's angst-ridden rendition of Ride On, with part of Bella, a part she can't quite always submerge, aching to return Jacob's romantic devotion. The violence of the line "Run your claw along my gut one last time" seems particularly appropriate for this young man who is also a savage creature, as is the speaker's assertion, "I could never go with you, no matter how I wanted to." Yet Meyer manages to make the possibility of Bella choosing Jacob over Edward actually seem plausible.

My understanding is that when Eclipse came out, it was billed as a conclusion to the series, and if Meyer had left it at this, I can imagine fans being disappointed. The ending does have a ring of finality to it, but readers who waited for three books to see certain things occur have to count on their imaginations to fill in the blanks. However, since there is now a fourth installment, a true conclusion, I think this book's ending is just right, a reflection of a book that exceeded its predecessors considerably.

Linus Learns the Pitfalls and Triumphs of Campaigning in You're Not Elected, Charlie Brown

One of my favorite Halloween traditions is watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. We have the special on tape, but there's something extra-special about snuggling in to watch it with the rest of America on network television. Just to make it more of an event, the special is often coupled with a second; this year, it was You're Not Elected, Charlie Brown, which has more in common with the Halloween special than one might think.

While Great Pumpkin takes place primarily on Halloween itself, You're Not Elected is set slightly earlier in October, making it seasonally appropriate for Halloween, as well as upcoming Election Day. Nobody seems to be paying much attention to that this year, but when it ran last year, it seemed especially fitting. Both specials focus primarily on Linus, which surprised me a bit the first time I watched this. Given the title, I figured it would focus on Charlie Brown's attempts to get elected. But while he briefly considers running, he abandons any thought of candidacy when Lucy's early poll reveals a complete lack of support. Linus has a much better shot, if only because Lucy is more eager to threaten physical violence on her brother's behalf, so Linus is the one stuck in the spotlight while his sister and friends campaign to get him as much recognition as possible.

You're Not Elected offers some sly commentary on the political process, emphasizing the importance of publicity and strong oratory skills and the dangers of mixing politics and religion. It's no surprise that precocious Linus is a gifted speaker, and one particularly rousing speech recalls Marc Antony's "Friends, Romans, countrymen" spiel. But when he lets his passion for the Great Pumpkin leak into his platform... Well, that's problematic. What's more, Schulz seems to speak through disillusioned Sally when she declares that campaigns are nothing but empty promises and that once elected, officials are bound to just sell out to The Man.

Lucy is her usual abrasive self in this special, but she channels her energy in positive directions, and she and Charlie Brown make a surprisingly good team. Meanwhile, there's a recurring bit with Snoopy, in his Joe Cool guise, trying to pass himself off as a member of the student body. He even has his own jazzy theme song performed by Vince Guaraldi to match the persona. Those scenes aren't as dynamic as his Flying Ace fantasies, and it's strange to have all the action taking place at school, so detached from the landmarks of Charlie Brown's yard. But his contributions are always fun. Other characters like Sally, Schroeder and Violet have minor roles to play.

This special came out in 1972, seven years after the first, so it's not the original Charlie Brown voice cast, but they all sound convincing in their roles, especially Stephen Shea, who took over the role of Linus for his brother Christopher. The special ends rather abruptly, and in a different way than I might have expected. But it feels like an appropriate ending, one of mingled triumph and defeat. Every accomplishment in the Peanuts world seems to come tinged with disappointment, every let-down with a silver lining. Linus is probably my favorite of the human Peanuts characters, so I was happy to root for him for half an hour, even though he'd spent the half hour before it waiting fruitlessly for the Great Pumpkin. Win or lose, it's rewarding to watch Linus and his supporters make the effort.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

David Benedictus Grants Pooh Fans a Return to the Hundred Acre Wood

"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred." So entreats Christopher Robin in the final chapter of The House at Pooh Corner. Eighty years have now passed since A. A. Milne penned that stirring plea, and David Benedictus has taken it upon himself to see that this promise is honored, at least after a fashion. For us, Christopher Robin is closing in on a century, but for the residents of the Hundred Acre Wood, he's only been gone a few months. Time has little meaning in the Wood, its chief measure being changes to the lad Pooh and his friends love so dearly. For both dragons and Pooh Bears live forever, but not so little boys. He may be doing it slowly, but Christopher Robin is growing up. This reality sets a wistful tone for Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, but in the joy of reunion, the sense of melancholy seeps through only occasionally.

The book hints strongly that Christopher Robin is keenly aware of the change in his circumstances, while Pooh and Piglet have vague suspicions. While they savor Christopher Robin's return, they sense a greater degree of maturity, and neither can quite forget his long absence, as the rest seem to do fairly quickly, or be entirely assured that he won't leave again. The book takes place over one golden summer in which Christopher Robin appears to make a conscious effort to cram in as much fun as possible, knowing that another nine months or so of boarding school awaits and unsure of what sort of person he will have become by the time of his next extended visit.

I came by knowledge of this book from an unlikely source: Saturday Night Live. Seth Meyers mentioned the book's release during the Weekend Update segment, announcing that there would be a new character, which set him up for the distasteful punchline that this was a replacement for Eeyore, who had decided to do away with himself. Eeyore is just as gloomy as ever in this book, his sense of sarcasm as sharp as the thistles he craves, but of all the characters, he seems to benefit most from the arrival of spunky Lottie, an otter. Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes is just what is needed to draw Eeyore more deeply into the affairs of the rest of the forest. The others are so tired of being shot down that they hesitate to make friendly overtures to him anymore, but Lottie has the right mix of optimism and stubbornness to lift Eeyore out of the doldrums now and again.

The book has ten chapters, and while certain scenes focus on only one or two characters, most are ensemble efforts, effectively drawing in not only the major players, who also include Rabbit, Tigger, Owl, Kanga and Roo, but oodles of Rabbit's Friends and Relations. Consequently, there are many busy scenes in which characters essentially talk over top of one another, their personality quirks allowing for some very funny dialogue. I don't think there was a single chapter that failed to make me laugh out loud. Benedictus has a wonderful feel for these fluff-filled friends, and he imitates Milne's style so effectively that it's easy to almost forget Milne didn't write it himself.

Meanwhile, Mark Burgess does an admirable job with the full-color illustrations. The mimicry isn't quite as precise in this department; I don't think I would ever mistake these paintings for Ernest Shepard originals. It's mostly in the faces that a slight difference is apparent. But they are very well done nonetheless, enhancing the book on nearly every page, with one massive two-page spread toward the end of the book and a new map of the Wood on the inside of the cover. Because the book is meant to be set less than a year after The House at Pooh Corner, there's an old-fashioned sense to story and illustrations alike, with a gramophone and Latin lessons some of the more noteworthy antiquities. The book also has a distinctly English feel to it, especially during the chapter in which Christopher Robin teaches all of his friends how to play cricket. Moreover, a chapter about the formation of a Hundred Acre Wood Academy reminded me of Harry Potter with its talk of headmasters and prefects.

Benedictus gives each of the main characters moments in the spotlight. Hyperactive Roo often rambles, while Kanga has a tendency to let her maternal instincts extend beyond her own son; she especially has a knack for reining in Tigger. Rabbit remains a fussbudget, which leads to his extensive woodland census project, a source of amusement to me since it reminds me so much of Hurley's similarly poorly-received attempts at the same on LOST. Meanwhile, in one chapter reminiscent of his attempts to cure Tigger of his bouncing, he hatches a rather mean-spirited plan to dissuade Owl from writing his uncle's biography, as the exercise makes the bird excessively cross. Never one to squelch creative impulses, I found that chapter somewhat sad but was pleased to see acknowledgment from some of the others that Rabbit's idea might not have been too kind. Owl's pomposity is on full display whenever possible, facilitating some of the book's funniest moments, and though Christopher Robin usually humors him, there are times when even his patience is tested by Owl's self-importance.

Though Christopher Robin is the impetus for the adventures in this book, Piglet remains Pooh's most constant companion, which is scarcely avoidable now that they share a home. Piglet is as jittery as ever, both excitable and timid. While the book is pretty episodic, a longer story arc, wrapped up in the predominant theme of change, or lack thereof, is Piglet's concern that Lottie's arrival will diminish him. In chapter four, Piglet is secretly disappointed when he does something heroic but Pooh overlooks it in favor of Lottie's contributions; in the eighth chapter, he receives dramatic reinforcement of Pooh's respect for him.

Pooh himself is as obsessed with honey as ever, a preoccupation that leads to more than one adventure this time around, and though he is kind, he sometimes fails to notice the needs of others. At other times, however, he is surprisingly attentive, as when he worries that he may be offending the bees by taking their honey all the time without asking, and he also concocts a clever plan or two over the course of the summer. Most of all, Pooh is reflective. For a Bear of Little Brain, he certainly does a lot of thinking, and scattered throughout the book are five Hums of his composition.

Even better than the Hums themselves are the ruminations on the poetic process. There's this, from the first chapter: "...a hum is all very well as far as it goes, and very well indeed when it goes for seven verses, but it isn't a Real Hum until it's been tried out on somebody." Then, at the end of the eighth chapter, comes the admission that made me laugh more than any other single moment in the book, partly because I can relate so well. After reciting a Hum containing a rather dubious simile, Pooh confesses, "But it wasn't really like a fish, only I couldn't think of anything else and then I ran out of time, and sometimes it's best to have something not quite right in a hum so that everybody can say: 'Humph! I could have done it better myself.'"

To this bit of self-deprecation, Christopher Robin responds, "I couldn't have," and while I'm a little bemused by the decision to publish an authorized sequel to the Pooh novels after all these years and hundreds of unofficial books, I find this conversation particularly fitting for the book itself. Just as Pooh seeks to honor Piglet with his humble hum, Benedictus pays homage to the world Milne created, and I think he does a better job of it than even he might be quick to admit. All of the characters feel incredibly authentic, and they weave in and out of simple adventures with clever twists and perfect comic timing, with just a hint of somberness more likely to be noticed by adults than children.

"Are you really going to write us new adventures?" Christopher Robin inquires of the author in the introduction. "Because we rather liked the old ones." Thankfully, if you rather liked the old ones too, then I expect you will find these new ones a rare treat indeed.

Beautiful But Despairing, Spike Jonze's Where the Wild Things Are Revels in Primal Ferocity

When I first saw the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are, Spike Jonze's big-screen adaptation of the classic Maurice Sendak book, I was immediately impressed by the visuals, as young Max and each of the Wild Things he encounters seems to have been flawlessly transformed to three dimensions through the magic of puppetry and computer animation. Although I never counted the succinct but stirring picture book as a particular favorite, I enjoyed it, and I was curious to see how it might translate into an hour and a half long movie. I got to find out yesterday. The visuals still swept me away, as did many other elements of the film. But though I expected the movie to be a bit dark for a film likely to be seen by millions of children, I wasn't prepared for how gutted I would feel during and after the viewing. Rarely have I had such a visceral reaction to a movie.

Where the Wild Things Are revolves around Max, portrayed with primal ferocity by young unknown Max Records, who screams and slashes his way through his everyday life and his stint as the ruler of the Wild Things, all while dressed in a wonderful wolf suit. Other humans are scarcely present. Catherine Keener's role as Max's mom, an understanding but overtaxed divorcee, is the most significant. Blink and you'll miss Mark Ruffalo as her boyfriend, who unwittingly sparks Max's massive meltdown. Only barely more visible is Pepita Emmerichs, another unknown playing Max's older sister Claire, who clearly loves her little brother but currently gravitates more toward friends. Max's big scene with her and her pals is both exhilarating and devastating, with a brief compassionate gesture by one of Claire's friends our best invitation to sympathize with her perspective. In just a few sentences in one short scene, Steve Mouzakis establishes Max's teacher as a man possessing passion but little regard for his students' sensitivities.

The bulk of the movie takes place with the Wild Things, each of which has a precise visual inspiration in the book, though the specific personality traits are invented for the film. Most of the creatures are representative of some element of Max's own personality. Big, lumbering Ira (Forest Whitaker) is gentle and simply longs for affection. Rhino-like Judith (Catherine O'Hara) is perpetually sullen and snarky, while the nearly silent bull (Michael Berry Jr.) keeps to himself. Alexander (Paul Dano), a goat, often feels neglected. Douglas (Chris Cooper), a bird, is fiercely loyal. Most of all, James Gandolfini's Carol, a loose cannon of a creature who hero-worships Max and is furious when he fails to live up to his expectations, reflects the rage and frustration Max has been feeling. Alone among the Wild Things, K. W. (Lauren Ambrose) seems to serve a different purpose. Warmly maternal, she helps Max to work out his complicated feelings about his mother and sister while she attempts to demonstrate to him that inviting new people into one's life doesn't have to mean disregarding those who are already there.

All of these characterizations are well done, and it's magical to watch as iconic images from the book find their way to the big screen with deeper layers of context. What's more, the savagery of Maurice's vision is thoroughly intact. However, therein lies the trouble. This is an excellently done film. But the anger coursing through it is sometimes alarming, and the sense of despair it produces is hard to shake off. In particular, Max's teacher enthusiastically describes the eventual death of the sun, and as someone who spent many an evening freaking out over a bloated orange sun on the cusp of setting, half-convinced it was about to explode, I can thoroughly appreciate the terror this produces in Max. He revisits this tutorial in a later scene with Carol that is set in the desert and is so desolate I half-expected Dust in the Wind to start playing in the background. I was forcefully reminded of the disturbing planetarium scene in Rebel Without a Cause, which I happened to be watching in a culture studies class as the events of 9-11 unfolded. Despite the undercurrent of affection among Max and his newfound subjects, most warmly indicated in a scene in which they all sleep together in one big pile, I couldn't shake the overpowering sensations of chaos and nihilism.

Jonze clearly had a vision for this movie, and I suspect he achieved just the tone he was seeking, and one of which Sendak approves. Nonetheless, I would hesitate to recommend the movie for young or especially sensitive children. I'm not a crier, and I didn't have dry eyes for most of the movie. Obviously it's an effective film if it can provoke such a strong reaction. Just be warned that if you leap into this wild rumpus, it may be a while before you can extricate yourself.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Celtic Thunder Bowls Fans Over on October 14 at Erie, PA's Warner Theater

It's hard to believe that it's been less than a year since I first became acquainted with Celtic Thunder. I'd heard the band's name before, but I didn't experience them for myself until last December. Since then, they've come to feel very familiar. Paternal George Donaldson, the Scotsman, bald and beautiful, with a rumbling voice as warm as his smile. Dashing Ryan Kelly, dark and dangerous, yet exquisitely profound in songs that strip him of the bad boy persona. Humble Paul Byrom, sweet and old-fashioned, with a voice of astonishing power. Breezy Keith Harkin, with feathery blond hair and delicate fingers perfect for guitar-playing. Innocent Damian McGinty, a master showman growing into a deeper voice. They seem like old friends. And I was anxious to greet them as such when my parents and I attended their concert at the Warner Theatre in Erie, PA yesterday.

We learned of this concert back in July, the same time I discovered the third Celtic Thunder album. I watched the paper constantly for some sign that tickets were about to go on sale; the day they did, I made the call first thing in the morning, landing tickets in the third row. Our seats were ideal. Next to us was a man who had traveled here from Buffalo; this was his sixth Celtic Thunder concert, and he'd gone as far as 500 miles to see them. After the concert, we bumped into two women who'd made a six-hour trip from West Virginia for the show. The lads seem to draw people from far and wide.

We arrived near the theatre just before 7:00 and quickly found a parking ramp with the manageable fee of four dollars. Outside, my mom snapped a picture of me under the marquis, and we went inside with plenty of time to buy a program. For $15, it's one of the better concert programs I've collected, with pages of high-quality photographs, paragraphs detailing the history of the group and tidbits about the lads' lives. There's also the very helpful list of crew and musicians, along with a set list, though there were a few alterations to it last night. My only beef with the program is the number of grammatical errors, particularly when it comes to apostrophes and commas. Everything about Celtic Thunder screams, "Spare no expense"; surely they can afford a decent copyeditor. (If not, I volunteer my services for free.)

I managed to resist the allure of the rest of the merchandise, partly because my parents and I came in homemade t-shirts. Mom and Dad got different group shots of the lads, Mom's on stage, Dad's against a white background sporting kilts. Hers is more colorful, but his boasts the slogan "Real Men Wear Kilts." Meanwhile, after falling completely in love with some demo tracks Ryan released on his MySpace page, I restricted my t-shirt to just him, augmented by the line, "If you want it, you can have my heart." It's a quote from Broken Things, a song as vulnerable as the saucy Heartbreaker is brazen. I was happy with how it came out. But I could almost swear that at one point in the concert, George stared straight at me, shook his head and chuckled. Rest assured I didn't intend to diss the others, especially the balladeer who is the only member in the group not saddled with a song I find annoying.

The stage at the Warner was set up with an attractive series of stone steps that would have looked familiar to anyone who has seen the concert on PBS. This lends the proceedings an aura of antiquity that is bolstered by occasional fog; it also allows for more interesting choreography. Our concert began right on time, starting with a series of announcements, including perhaps the most severe prohibition against photography during a show that I've ever heard. From there, we moved instantly into the dramatic opening of Heartland, complete with thunder, mist and Gregorian chanting, which eventually led to the lads' appearance on the stage.

Keith, the particular favorite of the friend of mine who first told me about the group, was the first to catch the spotlight. The others soon followed. My eyes soon strayed to George, who was looking especially grave as he squinted under the bright stage lights, but when they came to rest on grinning Ryan, I had a hard time pulling my gaze away, so I missed the cheeky winks Mom insists Paul tossed in her direction. I tried to watch him more carefully throughout the evening, though, and perhaps my biggest surprise of the concert was Paul's playfulness. I was also struck, once the gravitas of the thunderous opening had faded, by George's general joviality. Of the five, I got the sense that those two were having the most fun out there. I'm glad their personalities had a chance to come out a bit, since there's not nearly enough frivolity on the concert DVDs. It's also nice to get an unexpected moment now and then, since ardent fans will be able to anticipate most of the movements in any given song, right down to the facial expressions.

Keith got the first solo, with guitar in tow. He does Castles in the Air much faster than Don McLean does, almost as though he's rushing through it; then again, if I were the speaker, I'd probably be rambling through my embarrassing little request as quickly as I could. "Hey, buddy, we're such great pals, do ya think you could break up with my girlfriend for me?" Classy. But Keith did a great job. Next up was Yesterday's Men, one of my favorite songs, and it was fantastic to see George singing it up-close, with such pronounced emotion. Oh, the sting when he "fought back the bitterness burning inside!" The only trouble with George is that most of his songs are a tad depressing, so it's a little harder for him to find opportunities during his solo numbers to flash his grin at the audience. Nonetheless, I was impressed with how effectively he drew the audience in on that one, and I wish the third verse hadn't been cut.

After that, the instrumentalists took the stage and soon got everyone's toes tapping. Seeing a band live in concert always gives me a deeper appreciation for the instrumentalists who are otherwise in the background. It's easy to see the extent of their talent and enthusiasm. I was especially impressed with guitarist Neil Byrne, who understandably had his own little cheering section. After the concert, he was very approachable, and we chatted briefly with him. On stage, he had a prominent role in several songs, always looking like he was having the time of his life.

Ryan was up next with Ride On, and as he raced up and down those stairs and sprinted across the stage, it was easy for me to imagine the furious energy of him performing Jesus Christ Superstar's Heaven on their Minds, which helped secure him a spot in the group. He, too, was especially good at connecting with the audience; every time he froze into a particular position, he stared out into the crowd, and as I was dead ahead of him a couple of times, I got the impression that our eyes locked, though I suspect many others had the same feeling. I've only ever had seats that close to the stage at a concert twice; it sure beats the nosebleeds! Ryan's performance was angsty and exhilarating - though I still couldn't help but chortle at the moment partway through the song when, during an instrumental break, he stands about two inches away from electric guitar-wielding Neil and stares him down. I figured it was coming, but that didn't make it look any less silly.

If I had to objectively judge, based merely on the volume of applause, which member of Celtic Thunder is the most popular, I think I'd have to go with Damian. When he stepped out for Come By the Hills, the crowd went wild. Now 17, he's settled nicely into his lower range, which so startled me when I first heard the group's third album. The difference is striking, but he's still an amazing singer, and this was one of the most restful songs of the night. Once again, though, the song was shortened by one verse. Paul followed it up with Love Thee Dearest, which showcased his operatic leanings well, but it was in the following group number, Raggle Taggle Gypsy, that he showed his roguish side by delivering his lines with a most unseemly pelvic thrust that had the audience howling. That song was more of an instrumental number, its highlight a frenzied three-way drum battle, but before the singers retreated backstage, they played up the jocularity.

Then it was time for Ryan to sing the song that first drew me into Celtic Thunder. Desperado was every bit as earnest as it should have been, and Ryan's eyes are even more expressive in person. I missed the dazzling smile on "It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you"; he went for pensive rather than jubilant in that particular rendition. But it was an exceptional performance, and the only Ryan solo that didn't emphasize the bad-boy persona, at least not directly. I was hoping for the exquisitely sad Brothers in Arms but not really expecting it, given its absence on the second DVD. Interestingly, all of the overt war songs - Brothers in Arms, The Island, Christmas 1915 and, most disappointingly, Green Fields of France - were left out. Too depressing, perhaps? Is that why they skip the second verse of Danny Boy, which is kinda what the song is all about? Then again, George performed The Old Man, which elegiacally captures the parent-child bond of Danny Boy but from the son's perspective.

George followed up Desperado with Working Man, quite the one-two punch for me, since Working Man is my favorite solo song on the new album. Actually, it's not technically a solo, since the other four join George on the last chorus, but it's close enough. This song, such an ideal complement to Yesterday's Men, once again demonstrated George's ability to connect with an audience. Additionally, David Cooke's piano accompaniment sounded even better live. What really got me with this song, though, was the way George completely cracked up as they moved into the chorus. I got the sense that there was some sort of technical glitch, like the musicians and singers weren't quite in sync with each other or something. The balance did seem a bit off, with the instrumentals overpowering the vocals somewhat. Then again, maybe George was just remembering a funny joke he'd heard earlier in the day...

There was no opportunity for giggling with the haunting a cappella version of Danny Boy. It was perfectly lovely, especially Ryan's aching "but come ye back" solo bits. I'm still annoyed about the omission of the second verse, but I guess the choice has been made, and there's not much chance they'll start doing it differently now. In the first major deviation of the night, Keith, instead of singing The Island, performed Homes of Donegal from the new album. I would have liked to see him wrestle with the meatier verses of The Island up close, but I do love listening to him do those massive runs, even if I sometimes tease him for succumbing excessively to Mariah Carey syndrome. Good melodies don't need that much embellishment. But I think I prefer that Keith doesn't just play it straight on this one, even though it's a track Dad skips so much that last night was the first time Mom heard the song.

That was one of the few new songs of the first act. Ryan, Paul and Damian all stuck with the classics during this portion. Damian's second song was A Bird Without Wings, the soaring inspirational anthem of gratitude. Damian's vocals were in fine form, with just a creak or two here and there, and George, standing off in the background, provided a wonderful undercurrent. During this song too, I noticed George chuckling when he wasn't singing; Dad figures he was concerned that Damian might be having a Bobby Brady moment. Paul was all business for Remember Me, Recuerde Me, and his glory notes at the end brought down the house.

Celtic Thunder has several songs that make good openings and finales. Take Me Home is one of the heavy hitters, and it ended the first act on a high note. Ryan started it off with conviction, and the rest followed. When they all came together for the chorus, their blended voices flooded the theater. And because it's such a long song, and a pretty upbeat one at that, there was ample opportunity for the lads to goof around with each other, and at one point, something off to the side of the stage made Paul break into his biggest grin of the night. I knew we had just reached intermission, but that didn't stop me from joining the large portion of the audience offering a standing ovation.

The 20-minute intermission gave us ample time to peruse our programs and get an idea of what songs were coming up, not to mention chortle over some of the answers the lads provided to the mini-surveys accompanying their personal profiles. For instance, when asked what quality he looks for in a woman, former accountant Ryan responds, "A healthy enough bank balance to be able to support the both of us as we grow old together on the secluded island her father gave us as a wedding present." Hmmm, not asking too much, are we, Ryan? Then there's Paul, who, when asked who his favorite singer is, declares, "Damian McGinty... he's SO dreamy!!!" Later that night, when he boarded the bus, someone called out, "Look after Damian!" to which Paul laughingly replied, "He's old enough now to look after himself!"

Act two began not with a group number, as might have been expected - and frankly, this probably would have been the perfect spot for Green Fields of France, which I really hope they incorporate into their concert sometime - but with Ryan's Heartbreaker, which Phil Coulter wrote specifically to establish his bad boy persona. It's among the most theatrical of the songs, with Ryan bouncing between two women, the somewhat passive cellist Megan Sherwood and the fiery dancer Zara Curtis, who gets in a hearty slap to his face as he plies her with insincere apologies. His guttural growl was particularly apparent from our short distance last night as he tore into words like "dark destroyer" and "romancer", and squeals filled the theater at his over-the-top "Welcome to the pleasure dome!" Like That's a Woman, it's a song that makes me slightly alarmed that Ryan is my favorite - but after all, it's just an act. I think.

Paul's next number was equally rousing, though for different reasons. Though the program promised Nights in White Satin, I was pleased that instead, he performed Because We Believe. A good chunk of it is in Italian, but enough is in English to give me the gist. It's a beautiful song, and it's perfectly suited to Paul's expansive voice. The sprinkling of stars in the background was a nice touch. After Paul's impressive display of lung power, Damian's Happy Birthday Sweet 16 seemed even goofier, but I had so much fun watching him ham it up that I really didn't mind too much. I got a kick out of the kilted tambourine player in the background, but my favorite part of the song was when Damian and Neil did a little two-person line dance.

George had a different song at this point as well. Instead of My Boy, he sang The Old Man, which was probably the most solemn portion of the concert. As George lost his own father at a young age, and we just passed the birthday of my paternal grandpa, who died 20 years ago, the song really resonated. Then came Keith with Lauren & I, one of the songs that most made me appreciate the vocal contributions of some of the instrumentalists. Some of these songs are definitely augmented by back-up vocals, though they blend so seamlessly into the background that I tend to forget they're there. I got the sense that this was Keith's favorite song to perform; it must be a bit of a rush for him to be able to incorporate a song he wrote himself into such a carefully orchestrated program. I wouldn't complain if Ryan had the same opportunity with The Village That They Call the Moy, his ode to his hometown in Northern Ireland, but something tells me I'll have to wait for a solo tour to see him perform that.

Speaking of which, Ryan's last pure solo was next. Every Breath You Take is probably my least favorite of the songs he does, but it was still enjoyable, and it gave Zara another chance to dazzle the guys in the audience. The mostly-a cappella Steal Away came next, and it was lovely, though I wish guitar-playing George hadn't been hidden in the back where I could barely see him. There was no missing him in 500 Miles, though; it was the most interactive song of the night. Even the image on the projector - an absurd animation of what looked like a glass of Guinness walking down the street - was entertaining. But I couldn't focus much attention on that, since George was busy making sure everyone in the audience was having a rollicking good time. He was particularly attentive to the fans in the pits just inches from the stage, catching their eyes and laughing as he swung his arms about to acknowledge audience and band members alike. By the end of the song, there was a lot of marching, giggling and "da na da da"-ing going on, and if I felt pretty much wiped out, it's probably a good thing that George had a four-song break before he had to take the stage again.

Keith's last solo of the night was I Wanna Know What Love Is, another song I'm not hugely crazy about, but he performed it well, and Damian seemed to be channeling Elvis in his spirited rendition of Breaking Up Is Hard to Do. The most theatrical song of the night was That's a Woman, the Paul / Ryan duet in which Zara has the opportunity to show off her dancing skills. It's a very funny piece, even though it's frustrating to see the nice guy finish last. Ryan's got disdainful sneering down to a fine art, and his spiels were hilarious, though what made me laugh the hardest was watching Paul during Ryan's first rant, standing at the front of the stage rolling his eyes and eventually tapping his wrist where a watch should have been. Paul stayed on the stage for his most impressive number, You Raise Me Up, which started out fairly restrained but ended in a burst of power notes that almost made me forget Josh Groban's version.

Ireland's Call was essentially a first finale, and most of the audience stood up before the first verse was over. The lads exaggerated their lines at every opportunity, with Keith getting the biggest reponse for his fisticuffs on "We will fight until we can fight no more", and eventually, they issued an invitation for everybody to sing along on the chorus, which a lot of people were doing already, not to mention marching in place. It would have been a powerful way to end the show, but two massive group numbers are better than one. Ryan took a moment to acknowledge the band, and then the musicians had the stage to themselves one more time for the rousing Appalachian Round-Up.

Finally, they wrapped the evening up with Caledonia, in which the lads finally delivered on the promise of the PBS representative who opened the show that we were sitting in a kilt zone. I still don't really understand why they wear such drab kilts; I don't think I ever saw a plain gray kilt before I discovered Celtic Thunder. But the main point of their wearing kilts seems to have been to show off their legs, especially Paul, who hiked his kilt up halfway during his big solo line. Later, during the chorus, he made a point of mooning the audience Braveheart-style with a swoosh of the kilt as he and the others turned en masse; never fear, though, as underneath that kilt was a very silly pair of boxers reminiscent of what Goofy wears in all those old Disney shorts. There was also a running gag with whoever was closest to Damian trying to lift up his kilt; when Paul finally managed it, he, too, was protectively clad in goofy boxers. Once again, the audience joined in the final choruses at the lads' invitation. George and Paul fit in some joking around with the fans in the pit, and they all stayed on stage long enough for an extended standing ovation, though they disappeared before the clapping ended. 

And that was the concert, though it wasn't quite the conclusion of our evening, since we hung around to take a couple of pictures of us in front of the stage, now that cameras were allowed again, and when we went out the side door, we found ourselves in the midst of a small crowd of people who were apparently waiting to see if anyone was going to come out after the show. We were drawn toward the crowd, and within a few minutes, Damian and Keith came outside and hopped on the bus. Damian zipped right in, while Keith came and went a few times, at one point stopping to pose for some pictures. The crowd was fairly large at that point, and I didn't have the nerve to try to get much closer, but as it was, he was just feet away from us, and though he seemed ready to call it a night, he was gracious as he bid farewell to the fans.

A little while later, I heard murmurings that Ryan had surfaced, and soon I saw him slowly make his way toward the bus. He didn't seem in a particular hurry to retreat, so I mustered up my resolve, and when he was about a foot away from me, I called, "Hey, Ryan, could I get a picture?" And he smiled, said "Of course," and patiently posed with me. That pretty much used up my reserve of chutzpah, so while we stuck around and saw Paul and George and called out greetings to them, I didn't try for any more pictures, not even with Neil, who spent more time off the bus than on. But it was a pretty terrific capper on a fantastic night. I hear they'll be touring again this spring; here's hoping they liked Erie as much as we liked them!

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Mrs. O'Leary's Cow Has a Bad Attitude

I'm a lifelong fan of folk music, so I'm familiar with a lot of old campfire tunes and legends put to rhyme and passed down through the years. But I don't recall that I ever heard of Mrs. O'Leary's cow, the subject of a book by acclaimed children's poet Mary Ann Hoberman. When I read on the jacket of Mrs. O'Leary's Cow that it had been adapted from a popular song, I sought out the song, and it looks like Hoberman wrote the bulk of the book, using just the opening verse as a jumping-off point.

For those as unfamiliar as I was, Mrs. O'Leary's Cow is the alleged cause of the Great Chicago Fire in the late 1800s that killed more than 100 people and left thousands without homes. The song contends that the cow kicked over a lantern left in the barn, and that's how the trouble all began. There's a hint of malice in the wording, as the cow "winked her eye and said, 'There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight!'"

Hoberman matches the cadence of this verse well in the ensuing pages as various members of the community react to the cow's predicament, with the fire department eventually coming to her rescue. There's no indication in the book of where this is taking place; it seems like a rural area with few houses, not the sort of place where a blaze would be likely to devastate thousands. Hoberman's book has nothing to do with the Great Chicago Fire. Instead, the entire focus of the book is rescuing the cow from the predicament of her own making.

Jenny Matheson's bold oil paintings convey the urgency of the situation, with lots of concerned faces peering out from the pages, wondering if a rescue is possible. My favorite illustration shows the ten firemen working together to get the cow off the roof, though it's rather inexplicable how she gets up there in the first place. The book doesn't go into the mechanics of her getting from the floor of the barn to the roof; readers are simply expected to accept that she manages it somehow. But if she can get up to the roof, why can't she just jump out the window to safety?

Throughout the book, printed in bold, black letters, is some variation on "There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight!" The book concludes as it began, with the cow winking as she reflects on the "hot time" she's made. In the context of the Great Chicago Fire, this seems very distasteful, but even lifted out of that context entirely, the cow doesn't seem to have any regrets for what has happened. Indeed, there's still the sense that she may have done it intentionally, just because she wanted to be the center of attention. If that was her desire, she got her wish, since the whole community rallies around her, and she winds up tucked into bed inside the O'Leary household, as cozy as a cow could ever be. Never mind that the barn burned down and that, if the firefighters hadn't gotten there as quickly as they did, the house could have gone up in flames as well.

Thus, while Mrs. O'Leary's Cow is a creative riff on an old folk song, it doesn't quite sit right with me. It seems to send the message that if you want people to pay attention to you, you should make some mischief, and this hardly seems like a very positive message to send, especially when the mischief is this dangerous.

Giant John Makes a Big Mark Wherever He Goes

One of my favorite authors is Arnold Lobel, who I associate primarily with his four Frog and Toad books. But he had other noteworthy work too. I recently checked out Giant John, which dates back to 1964. There was something familiar about the story and its characters, so I suspect I've read it before, but that must have been many years ago. Mostly, this simple story of a well-meaning giant was new to me, while bearing the distinct stamp of Lobel.

This story is told in a straightforward manner, like many old folktales. It isn't as funny or as profound as some of Lobel's other work, but the protagonist is very likable, and the overall tone of the tale is so cheerful it's hard to avoid breaking into a smile while reading. As with most of Lobel's work, the colors in Giant John are basically limited to various hues of green and brown, giving the book an earthy feel. John wears a green shirt and reddish vest. His socks and hat are a drab shade of brown; his leggings and shoes are black. Handily, he also has a giant-sized green umbrella, which he is perfectly happy to share.

Everything that John does in this book is motivated by a desire to help others. He leaves the home he shares with his mother so that he can earn some money to buy them food. The work he finds involves making life simpler for a royal family living in a tall castle. He finds lots of ways to help the king, the queen, the princess and their dog, and it's clear that he's not just in it for the money. He really cares about these people. Oddly, this king and queen seem to have no subjects, and their castle is scarcely large enough for their family to expand. Perhaps they merely like to think of themselves as royalty and built a home to match their fantasy. In any event, these are pleasant people, and John is ideally situated to aid them, since he stands as tall as their entire castle.

Unfortunately, that's also a liability under certain circumstances. John isn't generally very clumsy, but whenever he hears the music of the fairies of the forest, he is unable to resist dancing. And a dancing giant is hazardous to anyone in his path. The impression one gets is that John never told his friends the fairies that he was leaving and that he would be back as soon as he could. Thus, they felt the need to track him down. Hence, the story potentially offers a subtle lesson in the importance of communicating properly with one's friends and loved ones. That could extend to his mother as well. If she had indicated a little sooner just how little food was in the house - because apparently John wasn't paying attention - she might have been spared several days of hunger and the indignity of considering eating her shoe.

Affable John is an easy fellow to embrace, and there's humor in the creative ways he finds of using his unique talents. The architecturally improbable result of his Extreme Home Makeover on the castle is especially amusing. Though Frog and Toad will always be my favorite Lobel creations, I still get a big kick out of Giant John.

A Robin Comes to Roost in Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest

A few years ago, I discovered Cynthia Rylant, and I quickly discovered that she is one of the most prolific children's book authors in the business. She seems to be constantly publishing something. One reason she writes so often is that she has several different series to juggle, and some have even spawned spin-off series. In the case of Henry and Mudge, the easy reader chronicles of a young boy and his enormous dog, there are two spin-offs: Puppy Mudge, designed for very early readers, and Annie and Snowball, which aims at the same grade level as Henry and Mudge but is geared more toward girls.

Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest is the fifth book in this series. It stars Henry's cousin Annie and her fluffy white rabbit Snowball. Of course, because Annie now lives next-door to Henry, the stories in this series tend to involve all four pretty heavily. Annie's dad and Henry's parents also make occasional appearances. This particular volume has a springtime focus. In four short sections, Rylant lets a simple story unfold. There is a robin building a next on Annie's porch, in a secluded spot that can only be seen easily from the swing. Everyone, especially Annie and Henry, is excited to watch the bird's progress, and when five blue eggs appear inside, anticipation increases. Babies are on the way! But oh, what a long time to wait!

Like the other books in this series, this one is designed for independent readers who are still mastering the skill, so there's a bit of complexity to the writing but it's still pretty basic. Rylant sneaks some facts into the story, sometimes with some comical help from illustrator Sucie Stevenson. For instance, there's a silly picture of an elephant in a nest that is dreamed up by Annie, who figures Mudge could furnish enough fur to house an elephant. But Rylant paranthetically points out that elephants don't really build nests. Annie's dad, meanwhile, informs his daughter that she mustn't touch the eggs, though she is welcome to observe them.

There are a couple of small issues I had with the book. First off, it begins with Henry's birthday party, but Rylant only makes brief mention of this as a happy thing occurring in the spring. It seems like a bit of a letdown to show Henry and Annie at his party with a pile of gifts on the floor and cake on the table and not to linger there long enough even to open one present or take one bite of cake. I'm trying to remember if there is a book about Henry's birthday that takes place after the point in the Henry and Mudge series when Annie moves next door. Maybe this is a sly attempt to make this book a jumping-off point into the previous series.

The other slight complaint I have is that when the robins are finally born, they don't look like newborn robins. They're basically just smaller, fuzzier versions of their mother. I've seen baby robins, and when they first hatch, they're not cute and fuzzy. They're gangly and mostly unfeathered, and their beaks are freakishly enormous. Stevenson's depiction isn't very true-to-life.

Otherwise, though, this is a nice installment in a charming series. As usual, ungainly Mudge provides a few laughs, and the children reading Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest can learn a lesson in the value of patience right along with Annie and Henry.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Adrianne Lobel Unearths a Pre-Frog and Toad Poetry Collection

Children's literature is filled with wonderful friendships. One of my very favorites is the relationship between Frog and Toad in the four easy reader books Arnold Lobel published about the pair. Frog is tall, green and level-headed; Toad is short, brown and emotional. Together, they turn ordinary occasions into grand adventures and cause frequent bouts of laughter. I've read each of their stories many times, so I was delighted when my aunt mentioned to me over the summer that Lobel's daughter had unearthed several unpublished Frog and Toad stories.

I soon discovered, however, that this new collection of old material is not about the specific Frog and Toad I know and love. Instead, The Frogs and Toads All Sang features ten poems about various frogs and toads. The poems are short and are accompanied by paintings done by Adrianne Lobel, based on her father's line drawings. In the introduction, she explains how she came upon these poems and pictures, which were gifts given to family friends, and reminisces about her father. The bulk of the book, meanwhile, features the poem-and-picture pairs, with the words on one page and illustration on the facing page, except in one instance in which both stretch across a two-page spread.

Each of the rhyming poems is about 12 lines long, give or take a line. Some involve just frogs, some just toads, and some both. In keeping with the color scheme in the Frog and Toad stories, all of the frogs are green, while the toads are brownish or yellowish. Most are very cheerful, with a notable exception being the morose frog in Bright Green Frog, whose sadness is a result of a talent for an instrument for which he has no passion. Several end with a little joke. My favorite is Miss Frog Went in the Kitchen, which involves a frog who loves to bake but isn't too anxious to share her confections.  I also like the wisdom of Made for Toads, which concludes with the assertion, "In weather gray / Or weather bright, / For some, the day / Will be just right."

Frog and Toad books include five stories each. Though the tales are short, they feel much more substantial than these poems, which are fun to read but breeze by so quickly that ten hardly seems enough. While Frog and Toad have been known to make me laugh out loud many times, this book scarcely inspired a chuckle. However, I did smile throughout my reading of it, as I expect other fans of Lobel to do. As a stand-alone work, The Frogs and Toads All Sang might not make a very big impression, but as a peek into Lobel's past and a demonstration of a powerful father-daughter bond, the book is a lovely little treasure.