> Ars Legendi

Book Review - The Color of Magic, by Terry Pratchett

2012-02-15T15:04:00.000-08:00

Back when I was a teenager and first dipping my toes into writing fantasy fiction, one of my regular characters was a bumbling wizard that constantly broke the fourth wall. I hadn’t known at the time that I was essentially doing a rough-hewn Terry Pratchett impression; in fact, at that point I’m pretty sure the only humorous fantasy I had read was a book somewhere in the middle of Piers Anthony’s Xanth series. I read Pratchett’s Soul Music not long after creating that character, and realized even then that I had found something that would amplify and resonate my still-developing sense of humor. At last, here was a book that had everything I wanted from humorous fiction: a fantasy setting, plenty of magic, random absurdity, armloads of meta-humor, and a smirking disregard for the fourth wall. Also, unlike Anthony’s books, it didn’t leave me with the lingering urge to take a shower.

The slapstick aesthetic of the Discworld books (at least, the ones I’ve read) make them a little hard to follow. I’ve always wanted to try them from the beginning to see if things feel a bit more concrete that way, but now that I’ve read the first book, I have to say that it didn’t really help. In fact, this book hopped around so much that I was past the halfway mark by the time I got oriented and comfortable with the material. The Color of Magic is ostensibly a tale of the hapless wizard Rincewind, a naïve tourist named Twoflower that finds excitement in the most dangerous places, and a mysterious, ambulatory, and sapient piece of luggage, which follows them whereever they go and causes no end of trouble. In actuality, the book is a collection of four bizarre vignettes that are tied together by a whirlwind tour of Discworld’s odd cosmology, which is loaded with delightfully silly words and concepts, and often seems made up on the spot. The book is essentially a starting point for Rincewind, and an introduction to the Discworld universe, without much in the way of an actual story. It’s best described as a few zany episodes, capped off by a cliffhanger ending.

As such, it must be said that this is a bit of a niche read. It’s not for everyone. Enjoyment of this book hinges upon having an appreciation for wordplay, British humor, and fantasy clichés. Also, one can’t be too attached to the traditional ideas of character and story structure, or at least be open to the idea of deconstructing and satirizing them. That being said, I had a great time with this book once I adjusted my expectations. It was lighthearted and genuinely funny (in a shake-your-head-and-grin way, rather than a laugh-out-loud way), without being patronizing or one-note. The random locales and situations are hilariously inventive, and there are patterns of consistency throughout that effectively create a sense of setting and highlight what are sure to be future plot threads. While I suspect the quality of the later Discworld is much better, comparitively speaking, this is still a great read for anyone who wants to get away from the self-importance of most fantasy fiction and indulge in a little silliness.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - The Lake, by Banana Yoshimoto

2012-02-11T16:57:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to summarize this novella-length story without giving too much away. In fact, I’d recommend against reading the marketing copy, since it spoils the one and only surprise in the book. It’s best described as a stilted and intensely awkward meet-cute, I guess. Introspective young woman notices odd neighbor, and almost despite herself, begins to reach out to him and draw him out of his shell. They begin a fragile romance as she gets closer to the truth of his ethereal weirdness, and both of them have to reconcile the baggage from their respective pasts if they have any chance of holding on to what begins to bloom between them.

That’s it, really. Lots of walking, lots of monologues, and lots of narrative exposition on the nature of people and relationships. This is very much a thinking person’s book (or, to put it less kindly, a navel-gazing session), and it fits within a defined subgenre of literary fiction that almost eschews plot in favor of evocative, poetic ruminations on the human condition, and how deep and interesting it is to be sad all the time. It definitely has the hallmark style of Japanese fiction, as well- the writing, while occasionally clumsy through the lens of a Western perspective, is consistently elegant, and often beautiful. There are some choice observations in the book that are eminently quotable.

I couldn’t get into it, though. I don’t know, maybe I’m forever ruined by a lifetime of comic books and genre fiction, but I don’t have much patience for this kind of aimless meandering in the stories I read. This isn’t a bad book by any definition of the word; it’s quite good, and short enough that none of its earnest heaviness is lost on the reader. But it’s also extremely slow, and has no character arcs to speak of. I was pleasantly diverted, but I can’t think of anything enthusiastic to say about it, other than that the prose itself was occasionally brilliant.

This is a good one if you’re in a self-reflective sort of mood, but it doesn’t do much in the way of escapism.

Verdict: 2 / 5

Book Review - A Monster Calls, by Patrick Ness

2012-02-11T16:43:00.000-08:00

Conor began having the nightmare soon after his mother first began her treatments. It was always the same nightmare, with the same monster waiting inside. So, when the other monster came calling outside his bedroom window, Conor wasn’t surprised or impressed. However, this monster was different. It claimed to be as old as time, and had come to tell Conor three stories. After the third story, Conor will then have to tell his own story: the truth he is hiding, at the expense of everything, in exchange for his life.

This is not an easy story to read, for a number of reasons. The grim allegory that forms the core of the story reaches beyond fantasy, and moves well into the realm of magical realism. Readers who are looking for a tidy metaphor or a believable plot will be left wanting. The subject matter itself, as one might expect, is heartbreaking.

There is beauty amidst the rubble, though, and the interesting thing is that it’s a different beauty for each reader. Ness narrates and crafts dialogue with elegant skill, and combined with Jim Kay’s haunting illustrations, the story hums with foreboding. The book is affecting even if you know where everything is heading, as most adult readers will. This is a slim book that seems aimed primarily at younger teens, and anyone with even secondhand experience with illness or grief will see the story for what it is and anticipate the ending well in advance. It’s a testament to Ness’s talent that, despite this, I had butterflies in my stomach while reading it and couldn’t stop thinking about it when I wasn’t.

As such, I confess to being a little taken aback at reviews of this book that stridently claim this ambiguity of intended audience is somehow a bad thing. I guess I understand, since I’m in the business of categorizing books and determining their eligibility for fitting a reader. Still, it’s not as if there is any issue with truth in advertising here. This book is therapy for kids dealing with grief, a possible revelation to kids that aren’t, and a powerful (if familiar) fable for anyone else. I can’t think of any higher praise than to state that a book successfully imparts different messages to different readers.

Oh, and for the record, I didn’t cry at the end, but it was a close thing.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, by Ransom Riggs

2012-01-26T17:53:00.000-08:00

This book seems to polarize opinion in the way that most bestsellers do. I’d been hearing about this one in librarian circles for a bit before it exploded into the mass market consciousness, and decided it was worth a buy solely due to what I knew about the story. While the book carries a couple of substantial flaws, I enjoyed it about as much as I expected to, rational criticism be damned.

Jacob Portman spent his childhood in the thrall of his grandfather’s amazing stories, and the bizarre photographs that were displayed as proof of them. Even as Jacob grows into a sullen teenager, the unlikely recollections of a magical island where kids could float and lift boulders exerted a strange, nostalgic pull on him. On the night of his grandfather’s unexpected death, Jacob sees something impossible lurking in the night. Determined to find out once and for all if his grandfather was crazy (and whether he is heading down the same path, himself), Jacob ventures to the remote, supposedly magical Welsh island that sheltered his grandfather from the Nazis during World War II. Expecting to find closure, Jacob instead discovers that the weird tales and photos made more sense than he realized.

The first half of this book was absolutely perfect, as far as I was concerned. The writing is fantastic and the macabre mood is established and maintained with subtle skill. The full-page photos, genuine oddities around which Riggs wrote the book, are a nice gimmick and add a dark weirdness. Between all of this and the sinister-looking cover of the book, I think a lot of people got tripped up on the notion that this is a horror story. It certainly feels that way at the beginning, but before long, the plot takes a left turn and becomes a mishmash of superhero fantasy and standard YA action. The transition is pretty seamless, from a technical standpoint, but it takes some adjustment for readers who were expecting more horror or mystery.

Unfortunately, though I didn’t mind this new focus in the second half of the book, the writing didn’t work nearly as well past the halfway mark. The photographs that were so effective in the beginning, when the story and characters were being established, started to feel a little shoehorned in once the action got going. While some of the characters felt genuine, others seemed inconsistent or shallow. Emma in particular seemed a bit halfhearted in her characterization, which is kind of a big problem to have with your love interest. Worst of all, the ending of the book is decidedly weak, possessing a distinct episodic feel. “Want to know what happens next? Tune in next time!” For all of its charm, this book simply does not carry its weight as a standalone book, from a story perspective.

Still, the creepy wonder that suffuses the beginning of the book made a lasting impact on me. This is one of those rare books that captured me so thoroughly with its premise and atmosphere that I forgave more than I usually would in the actual plot. It is definitely not a perfect book, and its novelty doesn’t quite balance out its problems in execution. However, it is an extraordinarily fun book with an evocative setting, a slick presentation, and a genuinely interesting angle in the antique photos. The writing style is definitely skewed towards teen readers (and Riggs does a great job in capturing an authentic teen voice, at least in Jacob’s case), but this is a worthy read for anyone with a taste for gothic adventure. I look forward to the next book, even if I am annoyed that I don’t really have a choice in the matter.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Astonishing X-Men Vol. 3: Torn, by Joss Whedon and John Cassaday

2012-01-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

I feel like I might be overzealous in my praise of this series, but I'm really, really loving it. None of the small annoyances from the second volume are here; this one is back to high bar established by the introductory volume. Whedon’s run on X-Men makes me feel like the reckless fanboy I used to be when I first discovered the X-books during the Claremont years.

This story arc begins with the faculty and students of Xavier’s school recovering from the hard-fought battles and somewhat pyrrhic victories over Ord and Danger, respectively. Cyclops continues with his seemingly endless inner struggle over whether he has what it takes to lead. Shadowcat tries to get used to the fact that Colossus is alive, and what that might mean for the two of them. Emma Frost, on the other hand, sets a long-dormant plan into motion, after the mysterious meeting with a new incarnation of the Hellfire Club at the end of the last volume. As each X-Man succumbs to their respective version of telepathic hell, the architect of and motive for the attack becomes horrifyingly clear. Meanwhile, in planetary orbit, Ord and Danger discover that they share a singular purpose, if for different reasons, and S.W.O.R.D. tries to locate and stop them before they make it to mansion to carry it out.

I devoured this volume. Admittedly, there isn’t a whole lot of deep character work going on until the very end, but there’s a pitch-perfect balance of action and melodrama that makes the collected issues eminently readable. Things are ridiculously convoluted in the way they should be in any good X-book, but the story arc comes together in a cool and elegant way at the end of the volume. And this bears repeating: Whedon’s take on Wolverine is hilariously dead-on. The panels that detail his thought processes are light on dialogue, but the art design and panel progression are marvelous, and had me chuckling every time.

The only complaint I can think of is a tiny one, and has to do with the art. Specifically, a few close-ups of Kitty’s face seem oddly proportioned in a way I can’t quite put my finger on, and I only noticed it because she looked like an entirely different person in those panels than she did throughout the rest of the book. Considering that the art up to this point has been expressive, attractive, and consistent, though, I’m willing to let that go.

Yup. More please. Maybe this isn’t the most objective review, but I went into this volume ready and willing to harp on something, and couldn’t really find anything worth complaining about. I’m a longtime X-Men fan, though, so keep that in mind. Even so, I can guarantee that anybody who likes the snappy repartee and black humor of Joss Whedon’s various other projects would do well to read these graphic novels, even if they don’t know a thing about the X-Men. This story arc does ramp up the inside baseball; I actually had to look up a villain that was a big deal in the series during the intervening years in which I didn’t read it. I still maintain, though, that these graphic novels are accessible enough to be a great starting point for getting into the X-books.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - Boneshaker, by Cherie Priest

2012-01-19T16:33:00.000-08:00

I don’t get it. This book has everything I could possibly ask for in an escapist action read: plucky characters, air pirates, steampunk weaponry, and zombies. Yet, I could never rise above a general feeling of benign tolerance while making my way through the book, with the exception of a few mildly exciting scenes. I can’t really pinpoint anything wrong with the book, specifically. For whatever reason, though, I just couldn’t get on board, no matter how much I tried. Some spoilers follow, so proceed at your own risk.

The story takes place in an alternate, steampunk version of 19th century Seattle. The title of the book refers to a massive drill built by the eccentric genius Dr. Leviticus Blue, conceived as a response to a challenge from Russian investors looking for a new way to dig for gold under the Klondike. His first test run of the device, however, ended up destroying entire blocks of the city, precipitating the mysterious disappearance of both Blue and the Boneshaker. Even worse, however, was what the drill uncovered during its destructive test run: the Blight, a mysterious gas that pours out of the broken ground, killing anyone who comes in contact with it and transforming them into a ravenous undead creature. Seattle is turned into a sealed-off ghost town, and most of the survivors relocate to a shanty town outside the massive walls. Dr. Blue’s widow, Briar Wilkes, lives a hardscrabble life in this refugee camp with her teenage son. Briar does her best to forget the past, but her son Ezekiel refuses to accept the shame of his father’s work (and, as an additional problem, his grandfather’s reputation for assisting criminals during Seattle’s evacuation). With typical teenage bravado, Zeke concocts a poorly designed scheme to slip into the toxic, zombie-infested city and redeem his family legacy. Briar follows him in, intent on nothing more than retrieving him, but discovers that the living residents of the Seattle wasteland may be even more dangerous than the dead ones.

Everybody I know who has read this book has gushed over it, without exception. I don’t know if I fell victim to an excess of hype, but I just couldn’t get as excited about this as everyone else seems to be. To be sure, the setting is fantastic and the writing is solid. I’m not so sure about the characters, though. Priest puts a lot of love into sketching them out; their mannerisms and dialects are perfect, their physical descriptions are evocative, and the masks and weaponry are a fun and intriguing touch. But underneath the surface, they all share a curious blandness. The story says they get emotional at all the right parts, but for some reason, it wasn’t really coming across. It didn’t help that there isn’t any real exploration of character motive, other than Briar (mother searching for her son) and Zeke (disaffected youth searching for meaning). Everybody else stumbles in and out of the story, without any real elaboration on why they do what they do.

Considering all the alternative history zombie airship goodness in this book, I would be fine with the dearth of introspection as long as there is plenty of excitement in the story. And there is, in a basic sense. The zombie attacks are sufficiently scary, and the creeping threat of the Blight lends a sinister, claustrophobic element. There is a treasure trove of added coolness, what with all the airship chases, gun battles, and hand-to-hand combat. The problem, though, is that there are no real surprises in the plot itself. Briar sets out to find Zeke, and finds him. The first person Zeke meets is bluntly foreshadowed as untrustworthy, and it turns out he is, but he’s removed from play before that revelation has any real impact on the story. Despite everybody’s well-founded suspicion that the book’s villain, Dr. Minnericht, is actually Leviticus Blue, Briar is grimly sure from the very beginning that he isn’t. This is set up as one of the book’s main mysteries, even though there’s one quite obvious reason why she might be so sure. Once we get to the big reveal at the end, we find that’s indeed the reason, exactly as constructed, and neither Briar nor the reader is a bit surprised. Bleh.

It’s incredibly frustrating to be so underwhelmed, because there really is a whole lot here to like. The secondary characters are really interesting, and the world itself is meticulously realized. The action sequences do not disappoint, and things start to get really good in the last third of the story. But there’s something robotic about the whole endeavor. I couldn’t get invested in the story, and wasn’t distracted enough by the shiny stuff. I did like it enough to be interested in the next Clockwork Century book, since I love the aesthetic and am curious to see if I’ll find a different story in this setting more engaging. But while this is a good book that is a great choice for steampunk and zombie fans, I just wasn’t as captivated by it as I thought I’d be.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - Notes from the Blender, by Trish Cook and Brendan Halpin

2012-01-11T13:02:00.000-08:00

I’m a bona fide genre enthusiast, so I’ve been trying to expand my reading out into general literary fiction, both in adult and YA titles. This one seemed like a safe bet: an odd-couple story, replete with quirkiness and devoid of any sci-fi gimmicks. I never really got enthusiastic about it, but it ended up being a decent, enjoyable read.

Declan is a fairly typical suburban teenage boy, but ever since the death of his mother, he has hidden behind a thorny exterior. Immersed in Finnish death metal, porn, and violent video games, he gleefully cultivates a loner persona, though he’s secretly as insecure and desperate for affection as any other teenage boy. He'd love to get the time of day from popular girls like Neilly Foster, who he’s pretty sure isn’t even aware of his existence. Neilly, meanwhile, has problems of her own. Her dad is getting remarried, and she just found out that her boyfriend cheated on her with her best friend. Worst of all, she recently walked in on her mom cavorting with a secret paramour. Who, by the way, happens to be Declan’s dad. When their twitterpated parents decide to drop another bomb on them- everyone’s going to move in together and be a nuclear family- Declan and Neilly decide that their lives might as well be over. However, as they prepare for their impending forced relocation, they discover that they might have more in common than meets the eye. All that remains is for Neilly to get over her preconceived notions of who Declan is, and for Declan to be able to consider sharing a roof with Neilly Foster without his thoughts immediately heading into the gutter.

I liked this book immediately. The authors handle the teen voice pretty well (at least as far as a rapidly aging person like myself can tell), and the two protagonists are charming and likeable. This book uses the familiar trope of alternating first-person perspectives each chapter, but the transitions are seamless. Declan and Neilly are strong and distinctive enough characters to ward off any confusion at the narrative jumps. Most importantly, there’s a humor and sweetness about this story that stays consistent from beginning to end.

There’s also a predictability to the proceedings, though, and that kept me from getting too excited about it. I also ran into a few minor annoyances as I read. The heavy emphasis on the characters being straight edge, or at least taking a dim view of drinking and drugs, felt a bit preachy to me. It fit well with the story, especially with Declan, where it is actually a pretty interesting bit of characterization. But it gets thrown into Neilly’s chapters, too, and no real effort is made in the plot to make it a shared outlook or experience between the two of them. That makes it an organic bit of character development, true, but it also has a whiff of “just say no” when presented this way in a teen novel. Speaking of Declan, even though I liked his chapters the best, the masturbation jokes got a little tired. Yes, teen boys are eternally horny, and yes, it doesn’t take much to rev up the ol’ internal sexual fantasy machine. Some of the humor derived from that angle flew into American Pie territory, though, which didn’t really do anything for me.

All in all, while I didn't think this one was much of a standout, it was competent and enjoyable. It works in the way you would expect it to, and provides interesting characters and a positive, funny story. It's a solid choice for those who like upbeat teen slices of life, or quirky romances.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Level Up, by Gene Luen Yang and Thien Pham

2012-01-06T13:53:00.000-08:00

This trim little graphic novel has been picking up some buzz, much like everything else that Gene Luen Yang does. Plus, the cover looks like a classic Game Boy. Win. Seriously, though, I was pleasantly surprised by this graphic novel. What looked like and began as a familiar story about a disillusioned young person finding solace in video games turned into a quirky, profound morality play about coming to terms with your family and creating your own destiny.

Dennis Ouyang is on the verge of being kicked out of college. Pushed to succeed since he was a small child, Dennis has instead devoted himself to the video games he was entranced by as a child, and found solace in after the early death of his father. However, his lack of motivation and direction attract the attention of four cute, domineering cherubs, who insist they have arrived to help Dennis achieve his destiny. Dennis goes from slacker and college dropout to medical school student, back on the path to achieving the goals his father had set for him. But is that path really the right one for Dennis? Whose well-being are the angels really looking after?

I don’t want to give too much of the story away, but Yang works with a very familiar theme and still manages to produce an original, heartwarming tale. Despite the cover design, video games are only an ingredient, adding spice to a savory mix of dry humor, magical realism, and introspection. Video games are a consistent theme, though, and effectively shape both the format of the book and the plot itself. Most impressively, though, Yang writes deftly about growing up as an Asian-American teen, something he has done quite well before, and yet does so with a universal approach that makes the issue understandable and sympathetic to just about anyone, regardless of ethnicity.

Pham’s art is rough and cutesy, but honestly, it’s perfect. The panels are always drawn and laid out in exactly the right way to convey the humor or sadness in that particular part of story. The caricatures are simple enough to forgive any inconsistency, but vibrant enough to carry a genuine emotional impact. It took me a few pages to get on board with the art style, but I loved it once I did.

I can’t really think of anything bad to say about this book, other than that it’s short and the story resolves itself fairly quickly. It’s a good read for graphic novel enthusiasts and reluctant readers who are inclined towards video games, but honestly, it’s a good read for just about anyone.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Zoe's Tale, by John Scalzi

2012-01-06T13:32:00.000-08:00

John Scalzi personally coerced me into taking an autographed copy of this book from him, under threat of being hunted down by Wil Wheaton. No, seriously, that's a true story. I’m glad he did; even though this probably wasn’t the best starting point for the Old Man’s War series, it’s a tight and fun read that promises even better stuff from his other books.

Zoe’s Tale is a retelling of the previous Old Man’s War book, The Last Colony, from the perspective of teenager Zoe Boutin-Perry. A small group of pioneers are chosen to establish a new colony on a fringe world, with Zoe’s parents plucked from a quiet agrarian community and chosen to lead the expedition. Things go awry from the very beginning, though, when the world they arrive at is revealed to be a different world than the one they were supposed to settle. The colonization mission is revealed to be a ploy, culminating in a confrontation with a vast, heterogeneous armada that seems dedicated to preventing human colonization of the galaxy. Zoe is unfortunately caught in the middle of this intergalactic chess game, along with the people she cares about. However, her unique status as a demigod/treaty provision for the fearsome Obin race allows her to do something about it, if she can summon the courage to do so.

It became clear to me fairly early on that I would have liked this book a lot more if I had read The Last Colony beforehand. This book seems to place a lot of emphasis on filling holes and explaining plot points in that book, and there are a lot of deleted and extended scenes meant for readers that are already familiar with the series. That makes Zoe’s Tale a great companion book, but for a first-time reader like me, it didn’t quite hit the mark. I read somewhere that this book goes a long way in fleshing Zoe out so that she doesn’t seem like a deus ex machina in the previous book, but unfortunately, all that extra focus makes a lot of the rest of the story seem a little too convenient. The bad guys are mysterious, ill-defined, and ultimately irrelevant. The introduction of a crucial alien character near the climax, while heavily foreshadowed, feels a lot like a deus ex machina, itself. Worst of all, there is a lot of world-building done in the beginning, and most of it is promptly ignored once Zoe’s story gets going (since the ideal reader of this book already knows that stuff), which makes for some baffling inconsistencies.

While that sounds harsh, it doesn’t necessarily make for a bad standalone book. Zoe is a great character, and exhibits the right mix of teenage insecurity and adult intelligence. The book is a nicely paced, genuinely exciting space opera, which is all I really wanted from it. Since the book is narrated in the first person by a teenaged protagonist, there is a dry humor and whimsical flightiness injected into the proceedings that nicely complements the serious nature of the plot, making it a true “alternate perspective” tale. Even though I wasn’t on board the whole time with the setting and how the story progressed, things move at a nice clip and are punctuated by some extraordinarily well-written scenes, particularly near the end.

I left the book with a definite feeling of regret that I didn’t read the original Old Man’s War books before trying this one. Even so, the characters and lore are affecting enough that I’m eager to jump into Scalzi’s other books. I wouldn’t recommend using this one as an entry point, like I did, but I’d definitely recommend it to sci-fi fans that are already familiar with Scalzi's work.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Y: The Last Man, The Deluxe Edtion Vol. 1, by Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra

2011-12-23T17:21:00.000-08:00

I’ve had this collection for a while, now, having bought it on a random whim right after my son was born. I have a bit of a soft spot for post-apocalyptic settings, especially disease outbreak scenarios. Maybe it’s my latent hypochondriac tendencies. Further, there seemed to be a lot of places to go with the idea of “the last man on Earth.” Having finished the first ten installments via this deluxe volume, I think I’m still unsure of what I think about it. I definitely enjoyed reading it, but I can’t decide whether it’s clever or smug.

The titular last man, a twenty-something named Yorick Brown, is about as a normal as you’d expect a young person named Yorick to be. He is an accomplished escape artist that has trouble finding and keeping a real job. He has accepted responsibility for training a helper monkey named Ampersand, for some reason, and is preparing to propose to his girlfriend Beth (who is currently on walkabout in Australia). One day, every mammal with a Y chromosome suddenly drops dead of a violent and bloody plague… except, apparently, Yorick and Ampersand. Suddenly thrust into a world where he is a curiosity, commodity, and marked man all at once, Yorick crosses a dramatically altered landscape in search of his family, and hopefully, a way to get to Australia and find Beth.

After the virulent misogyny that seems to keep ramping up in the Walking Dead books, I actually found the freely-displayed and open-for-dissection sexism in Y: The Last Man to be somewhat refreshing. Vaughan knows exactly what kind of powder keg he is playing with, so he doesn’t attempt to be subtle. The post-plague world is unfettered by the biological and sociological strictures of gender identity, and so every character archetype is loaded with contextually interesting baggage. Nurturing mother-types, strong female leaders, hysterical housewives, femme fatales, lipstick lesbians, butch lesbians, women who really want a man, badass woman soldiers, calm and rational mentors, and violent, avenging man-haters... they are all here, and they are all concerned with or have a stake in Yorick’s existence. It takes the unfortunately common trope of female characters in a story always being secondary to male characters, and makes it quite literal, which makes for an interesting exercise. It also provides a tense and suspenseful backdrop to the story, as Yorick must dodge the various attentions of those around him as best he can in order to simply get from one place to another.

There are a couple of problems with this book, though. First and foremost, Yorick happens to be an irritating douche. Now, I realize that this injects a bit of irony into the “last man” scenario, and removing that element would make this either a harem manga or a letter to Penthouse. Still, it was consistently hard for me to get behind Yorick, and every stupid thing he said or stupid decision he made pulled me out of the story just a bit. Moreover, I understand the purpose for playing with sexist stereotypes, but, uh, they’re still sexist stereotypes. The Daughters of the Amazon wanting to kill Yorick because DOWN WITH MEN seems like kind of a waste of thematic possibility (and I can't decide if there's any meaning to the fact that they've all burned the wrong breast off, or if it's just a pointless inaccuracy meant to drive people like me crazy). And being vastly outnumbered by women doesn’t really make Yorick throwing around feminine-specific slurs all that much more palatable, even if it’s setting-appropriate.

I don’t know, maybe I’m white-knighting too much. I just think that there is the potential for some exciting, intelligent stories, here, and it is being ignored in favor doing something easier. Oh well. The story is still quite readable, regardless, and is packed with exciting moments. Guerra’s art is vibrant and effective, if sometimes a little loose. The panel layout is conventional, and aids the story just fine. All told, this is a solid comic with an intriguing mystery at its heart: what exactly happened, and how did Yorick and Ampersand survive it? It’s definitely worth reading for comic and graphic novel fans, as long as you can take the gender politics Vaughan plays around with in stride.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, by Robert T. Jeschonek

2011-12-23T15:30:00.000-08:00

I gave this one a try solely from the cover and from the basic plot gimmick: a hoax band that might actually exist. It was clear right from the outset, though, that there is considerably more to this book than meets the eye. So much so, in fact, that I really don’t know what to make of it. It’s a weird cross of speculative fiction, YA romance, and bizarro, with a heaping spoonful of magical realism and dash of pulp fantasy homage. I think I liked it, but it was kind of a mess.

The story is told through three different viewpoints. Idea Deity is a boy on the run from his family, and suffering from a condition wherein he believes he is a character in a novel, being manipulated by a malevolent author. As a release valve for his anxiety, he has created a fake band called Youforia and maintains their web presence, effectively nurturing an online following for an indie band so obscure that they don’t actually exist. Meanwhile, Reacher Mirage, the lead singer for the band Youforia, is driven to distraction by the news about his band that keeps leaking out onto the Internet. Determined to keep the band a secret until he is ready to play in public, he is confounded by reports of the band's doings that nobody else should know about. The third perspective is told through a tattered fantasy book called Fireskull’s Revenant, which both Idea and Reacher happen to be reading. As that story draws to a climactic confrontation, Idea and Reacher are slowly pulled together in a meeting that could save them both.

This book is utterly confusing at the outset. Jeschonek does not give the reader much time to get accustomed to the quirks and idiosyncrasies in Idea’s world before shifting to Reacher’s much odder one. Furthermore, it’s not particularly clear until later that the sudden jump to reading a chapter in the book-within-a-book, Fireskull’s Revenant, is a narrative device that will continue throughout the story. I almost gave up in the first third of the book, because the technicolor mishmash of existentialism and bizarre characters was a bit much to handle.

With a little perseverance, I broke through to a place where I started to get into the story. As the characters and their disparate worlds began drawing together, the pace evened out a bit. Still, once I got to the end I was left feeling a little unsure about what I had just read. I think I understood what Jeschonek was going for, and I liked the themes and the unique concept, but I’m not sure how successful he was at translating it all into a readable story. Still, there’s an eclectic, punk-rock aesthetic at play, here. This book would be worth trying if you’re looking for something way off the beaten path, or are in the mood for some weirdness without venturing into full-on bizarro territory.

Verdict: 2.5 / 5

Book Review - Dumpling Days, by Grace Lin

2011-12-21T19:43:00.001-08:00

This one falls outside of my normal reading habits; while I’ve developed a bit of a weakness for teen lit/YA/whatever you want to call it, I don’t typically delve into middle-grade fiction now that I’m so far beyond my middle grades. I picked up an ARC of this because it looked cute, though, and it didn’t disappoint.

This is apparently the latest in a series of Lin’s books about Taiwanese-American girl Pacy. In this volume, she goes on a summer trip with her family to Taiwan. In the past, Pacy has felt like the odd girl out for being the only Asian kid in the room, but she feels a new anxiety exploring her parents’ homeland as she realizes she now sticks out for being profoundly American. Even her talent for art, the thing that she truly believes makes her special, is put to the test. Thanks to the company of her family and plenty of interesting things to see and do, though, what starts as a scary journey to an unfamiliar land ends up being fulfilling and even profound.

There isn’t much to say about this book that the description doesn’t tell you, but as the title suggests, Pacy’s tour of Taiwan revolves around the food she eats. Maybe my gluttony is showing, but I can’t think of a better way to do it. The descriptions of all the various foods were a nice, immersive touch, and the occasional illustration of said foods and other Taiwanese cultural items were a whimsical addition to the story. This is definitely targeted towards younger readers, but it’s a cute story that offers a friendly introduction to Taiwanese culture, and the travails a kid must go through when trying to navigate their own ethnic identity.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Dear Creature, by Jonathan Case

2011-12-21T19:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Creature was placed enthusiastically in my hands by a librarian colleague, who knew about my rekindled relationship with graphic novels and insisted that I would love it. I was already intrigued by the pulp cover, but the description of an atomic sea creature that speaks in iambic pentameter and is looking for salvation through love was more than enough to sell me. Let this be a lesson to trust your local librarian when s/he suggests a book to you: other than a few minor quibbles, I did indeed love this little gem.

Written, illustrated, and designed all by triple-threat Case, the setup for this standalone graphic novel seems complicated at first glance. Grue is your typical sea monster, lurking in the depths of the ocean and emerging only to devour horny teenagers. Beneath his scaly exterior, however, beats the heart of a poet; he has learned to speak English through the castoff pages of Shakespearean classics, found in a series of mysterious notes-in-bottles. Inspired by the works of the Bard and moved by whoever left them for him to find, Grue seeks to transcend his predatory existence by discovering true love. He begins exploring dry land, egged on and occasionally mocked by a crass Greek chorus of amoral crabs that would much rather go back to snacking on cheerleaders. Meanwhile, however, a sheriff in a nearby seaside town has taken notice of all the missing kids, and his suspicions are leading him directly to Grue.

The artwork in this graphic novel is understatedly fantastic, using stark black-and-white illustrations that lend an appropriately retro feel to the book. The story itself lives up to all of the delightful quirks that are apparent on the surface. The creature himself is a lovable fiend, and his Shakespearean dialogue is charming. The secondary characters have surprising depth for so short a graphic novel, and defy every stereotype that one might expect for the roles that they play. And honestly, the book is worth reading just for Grue’s wisecracking crab companions.

The book hiccups a bit near the end, with a bizarre encounter with a giant squid that didn’t really add much, other than to reinforce the story’s undercurrent of silliness. It’s enough of a detour to make the end feel somewhat rushed. But other than that, this book was really an unexpected treasure. It blends themes and genres so effectively, and with such a sense of fun, that it is a solid read for anybody who is in the mood for a quirky love story.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Throne of Jade, by Naomi Novik

2011-12-08T14:31:00.000-08:00

I was all riled up after finishing the first book in this series. Napoleonic wars, plus dragons? What’s not to love? In theory, this second volume of the Temeraire series should have piled on the awesome, adding nineteenth-century China to the mix. Granted, the book was… mildly awesome. I guess. In any event, it had all of the required elements to continue the story of the first book. However, the story and pacing is so weirdly listless that it was difficult to get excited at all about it.

The second book follows up on Temeraire’s origin as a mere egg: a gift from the emperor of China to Napoleon, seized en route by the Royal Navy. In the intervening time, the emperor has discovered the whereabouts of his truant gift, and furthermore, what use it has been put to. As revealed in the last book, Temeraire is a rare breed of dragon called a Celestial, bred as companions to royalty and expected to live as scholars rather than soldiers. Laurence, his loyalties already painfully divided, is summoned to the emperor’s court to answer for these twin affronts. As he and Temeraire begin the long journey to China, Laurence increasingly finds himself herded towards choosing between losing his beloved dragon and giving the hated French a powerful new ally.

The key phrase above is “long journey to China.” Most of the book is a drawn out ship voyage, which lends a certain staidness to the proceedings. Even with the occasional punctuation of action- some related to the larger plot, and some not- the middle of the book plods along, not really going beyond just marking time. It’s well-written, to be sure; the characters are still lovable, the dialogue has just the right amount of authentic stuffiness, and the blending of genres is as charming as it was in the first book. However, I found it difficult to stay engaged throughout the majority of the voyage.

When Laurence and Temeraire finally get to China, the damage kind of felt like it was done. Novik does some interesting things at this point, contrasting the way dragons are treated in Chinese society to the social norms that Laurence and Temeraire have heretofore taken for granted. The political intrigue is ratcheted up a bit, too, as the choice Laurence thought he was facing is revealed to be considerably more complicated. Again, though, nothing seems to rise above a dull roar. By the time the villains are revealed and the climactic confrontation begins, I was dismayed to realize that I didn’t really care enough to be affected too much by it. Especially considering that it plays out exactly as foreshadowed.

I don’t know. I liked this book, but I wanted to like it more, since I was so excited by the first one. This book technically works as a standalone, but I wouldn’t suggest starting with it. It’s weak compared to the first book, but it does reveal some interesting backstory on what Temeraire is and where he comes from.

Verdict: 2.5/5

Book Review - Why We Broke Up, by Daniel Handler and Maira Kalman

2011-12-06T14:54:00.000-08:00

I picked an ARC of this book up from an unmanned pile sitting outside a film screening, and it ended up being a pleasant surprise. It took me a few chapters to get comfortable in the story. Something about the characters and the writing gnawed at me for a while, but I couldn’t put this book down after getting acquainted with the charcters, and ended up loving it despite a somewhat disappointing ending.

The author of this book is better known to many as Lemony Snicket, the creator of the Series of Unfortunate Events books. This book is a little less ostentatious, but does use a storytelling trope that is currently popular in teen lit: revolving the narrative around the description or progression of a physical object. In this case, it’s a box of bottle caps, flyers, and other mementos. The story is presented as a letter by Min Green, written to her ex-boyfriend Ed Slaterton and dumped on his porch with a box of detritus from their short and tempestuous relationship. The letter details each object in the box, placing them within a timeline that chronicles the unlikely meeting and courtship between odd, “arty” Min and the co-captain of the school basketball team. Each object is rendered in detail by artist Maira Kalman, though the ARC is sadly incomplete in this regard. Min narrates each description as a stepping stone through her first serious relationship to its inevitable (in her estimation) demise.

My first moments as a reader with Min were irritating, but as a testament to Handler’s talent, it was because she is a fully realized character right from the beginning. Min is replete with a smug, quirky bravado that only an intelligent but insecure teenager can appreciate. As the narrator of the letter/book, her exaggerated mannerisms and dramatic flourishes dominate each page. By the tenth run-on sentence and third unnecessary use of the word “whatnot” in the first two chapters, I was rolling my eyes.

Once I got accustomed to Min, though, the payoff for powering through was quite nice. She even acknowledged how pretentious and silly it was to throw “whatnot” around with such reckless abandon, eventually. The character that emerges as the story of her breakup unfolds is complex, sympathetic, and realistic: a teen girl who embraces eccentricity in order to bridge the awkward gap between childhood and adulthood, falling in love for the first time with someone she had no reason to even talk to. Despite her cleverness, she lets passion distract her from the signs of impending doom (like any teenager in love for the first time would), and is completely blind to the prospect of something beautiful that’s been in front of her the whole time.

Handler and Kalman’s grab bag of tricks keeps things interesting. Even without the benefit of the complete art, the introduction of each “chapter” with a rendering of an object from Min’s box keeps the whole affair from seeming too much like a checklist. While some of the supporting characters feel a little shallow and underexplored, the dialogue is snappy and the streak of jaded irony that all of them seem to share creates a consistent, humorous set piece. I was particularly amused by the constant references to obscure cinema; Min tends to compare everything in her life to her favorite scenes from a variety of arthouse foreign films, all of which she discovers through a well-loved reference book on the subject. I read over half of the book before it dawned on me that all of those references to classic films, actors, directors, and musicians were completely made up. The thing is, since Min is as much a hipster as any knit-capped twenty-something you’d find in real life, I had just assumed that they were real people and things that I just hadn’t heard of. Whether this was something Handler intentionally chose or just did for the sake of storywriting convenience, it felt like a gentle dig at being indie for indie’s sake, which fit perfectly into the dry humor and sweet vulnerability that suffused the rest of the book.

The only hiccup for me was with Min’s erstwhile love, Ed Slaterton. There isn’t a whole lot to his characterization, other than some brief hints at a tragic home life and the obvious revelation that teenage boys, even the good-hearted ones, are generally fuckups when it comes to relationships. Ed’s bemused normalcy does paint a nice contrast to Min’s over-the-top quirkiness. Also, it’s actually refreshing to have all of the theatrics of Min’s letter and box of memories lead to something as simple and time-tested as two kids who are crazy about each other, but lack the experience to keep from burning too quickly and trusting too blindly. Still, the story builds to a somewhat abrupt and underwhelming conclusion, realistic though it might be.

The book was a slow starter for me, but I was hooked once I got a few chapters in. It will be a mainstay recommendation for YA romance, and it’s a great read for anyone who doesn’t mind an emo sensibility and has a thing for Juno-esque “I’m precocious as hell but still an awkward girl that gets in over my head” protagonists.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - The Walking Dead Vol. 5: The Best Defense, by Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard

2011-10-27T15:44:00.000-07:00

Be warned: minor spoilers ahead.

All right. Before reading this volume, I went back and reread all of the trades up to this point, in order to recapture the narrative and get back into the spirit of the story for Halloween. A few things I noticed during the read-through:

1. I appreciate the switch to Adlard’s art after the first story arc. While Moore made the characters much more distinguishable from one another, he also lent an exaggerated aspect to their features and expressions that was almost cartoonish. The more realistic drawing from Adlard gives the artwork a gritty feel that’s more in line with the story.

2. Kirkman actually does a very good job in setting things up for future revelations. Much of what goes on in plot and character development is subtly constructed and foreshadowed in previous story arcs. And on that note:

3. I’ve said it before, but it’s definitely not my imagination. The world of the Walking Dead is profoundly misogynistic, populated with complicated male characters that are propped up by submissive, shallow female supporters. However, the jury is still out on whether this is a product of the story Kirkman is telling, or the heteronormative assumptions he makes while telling it.

In this volume, the story moves from a simmering internecine struggle to a more dangerous external conflict, as the sudden appearance of a helicopter leads Rick, Glenn, and Michonne to the doorstep of another survivor camp. This group is led by a man named Philip, who has styled himself The Governor. This new player in the story is quickly established as certifiably insane, as well as the extreme example of securing authority through the “might makes right,” do-anything approach to keeping people safe that Rick has been struggling with up until now. As the three protagonists begin their ordeal in the Governor's hands, the rest of the group back at the prison wait anxiously for their return, with no idea that a new, non-zombie threat is now bearing down on them.

As usual, I’m conflicted. The introduction of an honest-to-goodness, crazy-ass human villain that doesn’t immediately flame out and get shot in the next issue is exactly what the story needed. I appreciated the claustrophobic tension that suffused the last volume, especially considering that finding and keeping a sanctuary broke the formula that had previously been established. That sort of conflict can only keep up for so long before getting tiresome, though, and a clash with another survivor ideologue is the next logical step. As over-the-top as the Governor is, I needed a shock to the system. We’ve spent a lot of time in the past few arcs on what the end of the world has done to our heroes, so I appreciate the reminder that yes, by the way, it really is the end of the world. Dead people are trying to eat everyone that’s left, and that can make people justify doing some really screwed up things in the name of survival. I consequently ate this volume up. The story is exciting, the pace is perfect, and I’m primed for the fallout that’s sure to come in the following volumes.

Here’s the thing, though: did we really need another refresher course on how women are not welcome in this version of the zombie apocalypse? Maybe it’s because I reread everything, but the no-girls-allowed mood was already firmly entrenched. At this point it’s really starting to grate, and I wish Kirkman would stop harping on it and just fucking move on, already. I like that the theme of deconstructing nuclear families and monogamous relationships has appeared, but as foreshadowed, it comes from the female character that apparently can’t function without a man. More problematic, though, is that the reasoning for this development actually makes sense and is dramatically interesting, but is immediately met with “we don’t do that in Kentucky,” etc. I’m not sure if that was a reference to polyamory or homosexuality, but considering how Andrew and Dexter turned out and what happened to them, I wouldn't be surprised if homosexuality is unwelcome in this zombie apocalypse, too. We can forget about Andrea being a solid female protagonist, too, now that she's voiced her committment to doing whatever Dale tells her to do.

And, of course, Michonne. Oh, Michonne. To be fair, our sole remaining strong female character was effectively subjugated right as she was introduced in the last volume, when she immediately glommed onto a male protagonist for no other apparent reason than that they are both black. But yes, the brutal, prolonged rape and torture of Michonne for daring to physically attack the man that had, without provocation, maimed one of her companions was particularly hard to read. Not just because it’s hard to stomach on its own, but because Kirkman has decided to frame it in the perspective of what it does to the men around her. The Governor’s so crazy, he rapes people for fun! What a scary and interesting character! And oh, poor Glenn! Look how traumatized he is by having to hear Michonne being raped! Meanwhile, we get one line of dialogue from the victim herself concerning what she plans to do to her tormentor (which I’m convinced will happen, and will be as bad as she implies), but otherwise, no actual focus on what such horrific treatment is actually doing to her or what she is thinking. Other than some artistically drawn panels of her tied spread-eagle, of course, and renderings of her beaten face and cries of pain for dramatic effect. That says all we need to know, right? Sigh.

I usually don’t have patience for people that go searching for reasons to get offended, but Jesus, WE GET IT, ROBERT KIRKMAN. MEN ARE IN CHARGE. I think my problem with all of this is that Kirkman is taking pains to write what he feels might actually happen in a zombie apocalypse, which implies that somewhere deep down, he imagines violent patriarchy to be the natural order of things that would immediately be reestablished without social norms to hold it back. Admittedly, that’s an argument that can’t be dismissed offhand, considering that institutionalized rape and the relegation of women to submissive wards meant to be owned, guarded, shepherded, and/or used can be found this very moment in various parts of the real world (and even in our own “civilized” country). It’s still unpleasant, though, and I have yet to see the purpose for constantly reasserting it in every single story arc, especially since it’s largely done through and abetted by the female characters that I’m supposed to like and sympathize with.

But I’m still giving this one a four. Yeah, I know. Insensitive, privileged white male. The story is still fantastic, though, and I liked this volume much better than the previous few. It’s a really good zombie melodrama, and at this point in the series it’s still a great read for fans of the genre. Just, you know... trigger warning. Don't read this series with any illusions of it being more socially enlightened than any other comic book aimed at young men. Also, I’m realizing that most of the protagonists are pretty hard to like at this point, and I’m torn between finding that odd and recognizing it as interesting, as the reality of the world they are in continues to take its emotional toll on them.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - The Shattering, by Karen Healey

2011-10-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

Is this a story about teen suicide? A murder mystery? A dystopian parable? A paranormal tale about plucky young people holding off the forces of evil? A realistic take on coming out of the closet? Well… yes. The Shattering is undoubtedly an engaging read, but there’s a lot of competing themes to contend with.

The story opens with Keri, a Maori girl who has lived her entire life in the idyllic New Zealand seaside hamlet of Summerton. Her older brother Jake has recently committed suicide, leaving her in a frustrated limbo of rage and grief, and straining the bonds of her family. However, her childhood friend Janna comes to her with a shocking assertion: Jake was murdered. At Janna’s request, they meet with an online friend and former summer fling of Janna’s, Sione, who has deduced that not only do the three of them have firstborn older brothers that have committed suicide, but that the trend spirals unsettlingly outward. Each year, a firstborn older brother from somewhere in New Zealand or Australia visits Summerton, and is subsequently reported to have killed themselves shortly afterward. Determined to put an end to what they are convinced is a serial murder spree, the trio bumps up against a force much more powerful and insidious than a lone killer, which weaves through the entire town and is tied to everyone who lives in it.

I didn’t know a whole lot about this one when I started. I guess I was expecting something like Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher after reading the blurb, but the story took a hard left in the first few chapters. Once the pace really started to ramp up, it changed directions again as the neo-Pagan elements came to the fore. Out of nowhere, everything stopped for a minute to ponder on the complexities of being gay in a small town, in an almost completely internal conflict. Finally, after the intense, rapid-fire climax, we slide right back into the suicide motif that started everything off. Quite frankly, this whirlwind of themes is extremely disorienting. All of them fit nioely into the story, adding dimension to the characters and making for a story that is never boring. However, the sheer number of ideas pretty much ensures that none of them get explored very deeply. I left the story feeling vaguely dissatisfied, as a result.

Other than a slight case of multiple personality disorder, though, the book is a fairly engaging read. The upshot of all these themes is that the story remains fresh and occasionally surprising from cover to cover. The character work is great, with a multicultural cast of sympathetic characters that are unapologetically flawed and believable. Healey also did some interesting stuff with the setting, here. For all that the story takes place in a beautiful coastal tourist town, there isn’t much in the way of flowery descriptions. The closest the narrative comes to describing the backdrop is a vague trance that occasionally overcomes Summerton’s visitors, leaving them ensnared by a picturesque beauty that is never really depicted in detail (which makes perfect sense as the plot begins to thicken). Meanwhile, the reader is immersed in various words, rituals, and articles of clothing in the Maori and Samoan cultures, and bombarded with New Zealand and Australian geography. The result is an understated but real and comprehensive introduction to the setting, delivered almost wholly through the somewhat jaded eyes of the characters themselves.

Ultimately, I wasn’t really blown away by this book, but I did enjoy following the various narrative twists and turns. There are a lot of moving parts, but if you aren’t particular about your story focusing on one thing at a time, the parts make for a decently fun read for a wide swath of YA readers.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - It Gets Better, ed. by Dan Savage and Terry Miller

2011-10-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

For roughly three years of my teenaged life, I was the target of anti-gay bullying. The fact that I am quite heterosexual did nothing to alleviate it; in fact, the bullies harassed my girlfriend, too, just for good measure.

Granted, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. The main instigator was as cowardly as he was stupid, and he lost much of his power to intimidate when he backed out of a surprise opportunity to settle things one-on-one, outside of school (one that I was more than happy to take advantage of). But he always had a flock of his mouth-breathing buddies with him, some of whom were twice my size and seemed intent on really hurting me. Furthermore, he was consistent. If ten days had gone by without them sauntering up to me at lunch, I could reliably expect an encounter at any moment. Even though things rarely went beyond words, the constant, absolute mindlessness of the regular harassment wore on me.

Worst of all, the adults in my life seemed powerless to stop it, in some cases willfully so. After an altercation that almost got physical (I had a soda can thrown at my face, and pushed the little shit who did it away from me), I was herded into a vice-principal's office. I was solemnly warned by my school’s administration that because I threw my tormentors’ words back at them, demanding to know what it was about “faggots” that seemed to get them so hot and bothered, I could be suspended for “sexual harassment” if I did it again. My parents gave me moral support, but it was clear they weren’t going to get any help from the school, at least in an official capacity. Because I felt confident enough to handle it on my own, I didn’t want to risk making things worse by kicking it up to them until the moment I felt that I had no other choice, which thankfully never came. And even then, things almost went very bad one night, when a van full of drunk chuckleheads (one of whom I thought was a friendly acquaintance of mine) tried to trap me, my girlfriend, and her little sister in a deserted parking lot after a school dance, forcing me to almost wreck my car getting away.

It was a serendipitous combination of my own moxie and the support of friends that got me through that time, but I didn’t escape unscathed. I still carry the marks of that old rage, at peers who could be so arbitrarily cruel, and at grown men and women who were supposed to help me and instead stood by and let it happen. Even though I was more angry than despondent over it, I can easily imagine a victim of such treatment feeling like they have no escape and no hope, especially a young victim who deals with it over the course of years. Even with more publicity of bullied teens committing suicide, many people still seem to think that this isn’t a problem, or even more reprehensible, that it isn’t a problem worth caring about. It’s really sad that a book like this even needs to be written, but it does, and the inspiring essays within serve a crucial need.

This book is basically a print extension of the “It Gets Better Project,” an online compendium of short videos recorded by LGBT and straight adults that speak candidly to teens being bullied over their sexuality or perceived sexuality. The project is meant as a lifeline for kids who are considering ending their own lives, by assuring and/or reminding them that while it may not seem so at the time, high school isn’t forever. If they can endure the static that they are getting from their peers, the adults in their communities, or even from their own families, they can still grow up and create a normal, loving, happy life, just like any other person. The assertion of things actually getting better is subjective, considering how ugly people out in the world still are, but many of the contributors acknowledge this. The point isn’t to paint an unrealistic picture of a bully-free life after high school, but to give these kids a glimpse of the power that they will have over their own life, and the great things waiting for them, once they get through this comparably short period of time.

In light of that, I feel like a bad person for not giving this a perfect rating. Honestly, though, this is only a cover-to-cover read for the harried kids who really need a chorus of voices affirming that things get better, and for those who are close to one and want to help them. For everyone else, it’s more of an inspirational read, to be picked up every now and again and read in short bursts. Each essay is a couple pages long, and follows the same formula: a description of bullying, the consideration of suicide, the good things that have happened since, and an affirmation of how loved and important the reader is, and how things will eventually get better for them, too. The essays do have variety, with authors that are gay and straight, old and young, politicians and students, men, women, and transgendered. There are two pretty awesome comics, and one screed aimed at the bullies rather than the bullied. All together, though, they do follow the same formula, making them undeniably repetitive. From the standpoint of a curious reader, the website is a bit more engaging than the book.

But that takes nothing away from the point of the book. In the introduction, Savage writes that the It Gets Better project was born out of a realization that no parent or school was going to invite him to speak directly to LGBT youth, who need to hear this message the most, so he took matters into his own hands. Not every teen has access to the Internet, and many who do can’t afford to have a browsing history that will call the attention of their family on them; this book is for them. Honestly, though, speaking as a parent and as a librarian, it’s a book that every teen should at least flip open, wWhether it’s cover-to-cover or a simple skim through a couple of the essays. The sentiment behind the book is absolutely correct, and many kids and teens desperately need to hear it.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness, by Bryan Lee O'Malley

2011-10-06T12:37:00.000-07:00

The halfway point of the Scott Pilgrim series is where things start to get a little more complex. We’re still firmly on the “beat the evil exes to date Ramona” boss-battle rails, but in Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness, an evil ex of Scott’s shows up, as well. Despite the story getting a little deeper, I had a little more trouble getting into this one than I did the previous books.

At the end of the last volume, Ramona reveals that her next evil ex is Todd Ingram, who just happens to be the bass player for the art-rock band The Clash at Demonhead. Incidentally, that band’s frontwoman is Envy Adams, the femme fatale who broke Scott’s heart by cheating on him with Todd, sending him into the pathetic spiral of insecurity and self-pity that he’s currently trying to fight his way out of. Got all that? As it turns out, Envy’s callous toying with Scott in the previous book has a purpose. She knows all about Scott’s quest, including some mysterious information about who Ramona really is. Further, she’s determined to see that Scott fail once and for all, at the hands of her current true love.

Getting into Scott’s backstory a little more is nice. The one consistent problem I’ve had with the books so far is Scott being somewhat of an unsympathetic jackass, and so a little exploration of the relationship with Envy and what went wrong alleviated that a little. In fact, it was done in a fairly brilliant way, paralleling the “main quest.” The cool art, hilarious sarcasm, and trademark video-game chic are all still in effect, as well, making for a read that’s at least as fun as the first two.

I kind of felt that O’Malley wanted to balance the more complicated plotline with an extra helping of jaded cleverness, though, and it got on my nerves a little. The story of Scott and Envy is told in choppy flashbacks that are interspersed with the main story, and the vignettes occur literally without warning upon the turn of a page. In fact, other than some slightly different hairstyles on the characters, a page turn is the only clue that the story has shifted to a flashback, every single time. It’s disorienting the first few times it happens, and annoying every time after. I could have lived with the haughtiness of it all, but it happens just a few times too often. Too many flashbacks, too little attention to the main narrative. I also thought that the forays outside the fourth wall were a little ham-handed this time around, compared to the previous books. Tablature play-alongs and impromptu cooking shows were quirky and clever; references to “the book” and character acknowledgments of a deus ex machina are trite by comparison.

All of which is not to say I didn’t like this one. I just liked it a little less than the first two. One positive note is the strong feeling that the story is going to shift a bit, now that we’re past the midpoint. The hints about Ramona’s past are much more pointed in this volume; the next three will hopefully change things up from the current formula. Even with the little problems I had, I got the definite feeling that the overarching story is really crystallizing by this point. Best of all, it does so without losing any of the charm, humor, or ridiculous over-the-top theatrics that I liked in the first two so much.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Underdogs, by Markus Zusak

2011-10-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what it is with me and omnibuses… omnibusseses… omnibi? Anything that’s packaged as a complete set, be it made up of novels or comics, tends to attract my attention these days. This particular omnibus appeared to me out of nowhere, and didn’t do anything for me at first. Somewhere between when I started it and when I finished it, though, it crept up on me and became one of my favorite recent reads. It’s a meandering, quirky coming-of-age story that is funny and heartbreaking by turns, and will definitely touch a chord in anybody who has been a teenage boy before.

This is a collection of Markus Zusak’s first published works, before his recent fame for writing The Book Thief. The trilogy, comprised of The Underdog, Fighting Ruben Wolfe, and Getting the Girl, is narrated by a teenager named Cameron Wolfe. Cameron is the youngest son in a blue-collar family trying to make ends meet in an Australian suburb, and the books are a mesh of his stream of consciousness and his poetic writings as he attempts to navigate through his daily existence. The first book, The Underdog, introduces the Wolfe family and follows Cam through an aimless period in his young life where he tries to reconcile who he wants to be with the reality of who he is. Fighting Ruben Wolfe offers a bit more of a linear story: feeling like they should somehow contribute to the family, which is facing increasingly dire straits, Cam and his older brother Ruben get mixed up in clandestine, amateur boxing. As they fight, though, Cam realizes that Ruben is fighting for something other than money, and that he might be fighting for something deeper, himself. The third book, Getting the Girl, brings the themes of the first two into a familiar focus: first love and its consequences, which refines and changes everything that Cameron thought he had knew about himself.

At first, I wasn’t so impressed. I have a consciousness that streams just fine on its own, and so I tend to get annoyed by fiction that doesn’t have a point. But the Wolfe family makes an indelible impression, and Cam in particular is intensely likeable in all his quiet nobility and earnest insecurity. Once I got accustomed to the tone of this particular slice of life (which, with all of its Australian mannerisms and references, took me a bit to do), the narrative began to solidify a little, first into an exploration of the fraught relationship between close siblings, and then into a time-tested story of love and frustration. The character development is particularly excellent, and gets more nuanced throughout the books. Fighting Ruben Wolfe’s themes of sibling rivalry and family bonds build directly on Cam’s observations from The Underdogs, while the messy relationships in Getting the Girl spring from the character development in Fighting Ruben Wolfe. Taken as a whole, the story arc is subtle, and brilliant.

Getting the Girl particularly resonated with me. It could have easily been another entry in a somewhat crowded genre: horny teen boy learns a lesson about healthy relationships! As funny and enjoyable as books in that vein can be, they don't usually do too much for me. Perhaps it’s because most of those stories only touch the surface of what it’s like to have an adult’s sex drive but a child’s impulse control, and I don’t harbor any particular nostalgia for the situations that arise from that. But Zusak’s take on this particular form of teen angst struck home. While reading this, I occasionally mused that girlfriends and mothers should give these books a spin to gain some insight into the teen boy’s brain. Cameron struggles with the conflict between his hormones (sex with any female that looks his way, and proving once and for all that he isn’t a loser) and his heart (the little-boy desire of wanting to be nurtured and loved, and the manliness of being perceived as honorable and chivalrous). The results are the same insecurity, shame, and tendency towards self-defeat that almost every boy has to go through while growing up, and find inventive ways to cope with. His sexual fantasies are constant, and he accepts their inevitability. He also can’t help but fall in love at the drop of a hat, desperate to find something noble that gives those fantasies meaning, which makes him even more self-conscious. And best of all, this is not a motif that show up fully formed in the third book, even though the story itself stands alone. Rather, it is the result of Cameron’s character growth up to that point. It is beautifully understated, and cathartic to read, at least for me.

The only complaint I have with this book is the same complaint I have with every omnibus edition I read, and it has to do with the cognitive dissonance of reconciling the chapters of a collection to actual standalone books. As I mentioned, my infatuation with this book was a slow burn, since I was a little nonplussed by The Underdog and didn’t warm up to it until well past the halfway mark. If I were reading the standalone novel instead of this compilation, I don’t think I would have hung around for the following books, and that would have been a terrible loss. But as always, I can’t decide whether that speaks to a failure in the writing, or with me being psyched out by reaching the end of the “book” even though I have hundreds of pages left to read in the volume I’m holding. Suffice it to say that the first book is considerably more freeform and light on actual plot than the other two, so it pays off to stick it out if that bothers you.

But besides that small issue, this is a fantastic little smorgasbord of coming-of-age vignettes. It effortlessly brought me back to my own struggles with my self-worth as a young man, and it has the mark of a truly great read: the more I ruminate on it after finishing it, the more I love it. I would particularly recommend this to teen guys, who I suspect would not object to a little stealth introspection hidden amongst a tale of girls, fighting, and making fun of stupid little yappy dogs.

Verdict: 4.5 / 5

Book Review - Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher

2011-09-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

This book has been attracting buzz for a while, especially since the impending film version was announced. I am characteristically late to any sort of hyped material, but I think that serves me well; it allows me to approach the “best ever” anything with a healthy dose of cynicism. In this instance, though, I was completely blown away. After finishing Thirteen Reasons Why, I promptly placed aside all of the baggage and special considerations that come with “dark YA” and “teen readers.” This is one of the best books I’ve read this year, irrespective of genre or intended audience.

Thirteen Reasons Why has two narrators. The first, Clay Jensen, is a teenage boy who finds himself in possession of a package of seven mysterious audiotapes. Listening to the first tape reveals them to be recorded messages from the second narrator: Hannah Baker, a classmate that Clay knew and liked, but had committed suicide a few weeks prior. The tapes turn out to be Hannah’s last message to thirteen people she claims were in some way responsible for her death; each side of the tapes holds an anecdote about a single person, all of which connect into a series of events that took Hannah to her fateful decision. Following a map that had been surreptitiously placed in his locker, Clay follows in Hannah’s footsteps as she traces the stories across the various landmarks of their small town, listening to each tape and dreading the moment when his name will appear. As the various threads of Hannah’s story come together through the tapes, Clay must come to terms with his own feelings about what happened to Hannah and the repercussions of why it happened.

Stylistically, this book is pitch-perfect. The format is unique without being gimmicky, and is fine-tuned with a perfect amount of suspense. I found myself walking along with Clay, trapped in the thrall of the tapes and waiting with curiosity and apprehension for the next one. When I wasn’t reading the book, I was thinking about it, processing the previous chapters and anticipating the forthcoming ones. The story is compelling enough to keep readers turning pages, with no stumbling blocks in the narrative and no extraneous plot elements.

Regarding the content itself, it’s fairly obvious at first glance that the story is dark and heavy. But Asher handles the complexities inherent to a story about suicide (specifically, attempting to explain suicide) masterfully. I read a couple of other reader reviews, and was dumbfounded at how many people commented on how they didn’t buy the depiction of Hannah Baker, or didn’t agree with how Asher wrote her particular reasons for what she did. I was especially astounded by some reviewers who claimed experience with suicide attempts, and blasted her motivations as “unrealistic.” I didn’t know that there was such a thing, outside of some extreme exceptions, as a “realistic” motivation for ending one’s own life. Generally speaking, a friend or loved one’s suicide is fraught with mysterious motives, and when reasons come to light, they never justify or even explain why that person would do something so drastic.

The anger, though, I do understand. I was occasionally angry with Hannah Baker, in the way I would be angry with a real person for killing themselves. I’ll even confess to having an internal ideological war. Hannah’s tapes are calm, collected, and focused. They are full of dark humor, and of pointed accusation. They depict a teen who knew what she was doing, and knew the impact it would have on the people who listened to the tapes. The parent part of my psyche spent some time wagging its finger at the librarian part, insisting (with some logical cause) that this book paints a somewhat glamorous picture of a suicide victim using her death to exact revenge on her perceived tormentors, which is not the healthiest message to send.

However, I can say with some confidence that that’s ultimately not what gives this book its emotional power. Yes, the tapes have their share of graveyard humor and practiced vengeance, which gives the story a lot of its readability. But revenge isn’t the point of the tapes. I was fortunate enough to meet Jay Asher and get my copy of this book signed, and with his autograph he penned a key phrase from one of Hannah’s tapes: “Everything affects everything.” That, I feel, is the central theme of this book. As Clay makes his way through the tapes, Hannah makes it perfectly clear that the decision to kill herself was hers alone, and came from her “giving up,” not from any one person or event pushing her to it. As the various events recorded on the tapes come together to form a connected story, Clay is made privy to how each small thing affects other small things in her life, creating ripples that cascaded into unintended consequences. Everything affects everything. The story becomes less about explaining why a teenage girl might commit suicide (which will never resonate as “realistic” or “good enough,” honestly), and more about examining how we treat others in light of the fact that we can never know what someone is going through at any particular time, and how we might be helping or hurting without intending to or even thinking about it. This theme has interesting applications all throughout the story, from the sweet and tidy ending to the implied-but-unexplored effects that the tapes might have on the other people on Hannah’s list. I suppose I could construct a lot of interesting arguments about why other people (fictional or otherwise) who go through the same things or worse are often able to cope just fine, but that’s not really the point. In another story, maybe everything affects everything in different ways. Who knows.

Though, I do find it ironic that the common complaint with the book seems to be that many readers can’t sympathize with Hannah because they don’t really know anything about her other than her suicidal thoughts, don’t think that the common high school problems depicted are worth the melodramatic result, and aren’t satisfied with only hearing her side of the story. Guys? There is a scene in the book that deals specifically with that (the peer communications class), and according to the author’s afterword, it was drawn from a real-life incident. Just saying. I realize that it’s easy to dismiss Hannah’s story as “childish” and “unbelievable” due to it being fictional, but I interacted with more than one suicidal friend in my teen years. It was believable to me. Petty problems never seem petty to the person who has to deal with them, and in case you’ve forgotten what being a teenager is like, there is no such thing as a petty problem to someone who is often experiencing powerful emotions and complicated interpersonal interactions for the first time, without the life experience and biological capacity to see things with a longer view. To be fair, though, Hannah’s tapes do smack a little bit of self-righteousness (another reminder: teenager!), and it is easy to get caught up in this being a story about suicide instead of a story about how callously people can treat other people, due to them thinking such treatment isn’t that big of a deal.

Anyway, that’s a lot of philosophizing on a fairly simple idea. Wheaton’s Law: don’t be a dick. Frankly, though, you don’t need to have any aspirations toward deep self-reflection to enjoy this book. It has believable and achingly sympathetic characters, an engaging premise, and wonderful execution. The tone and content is perfect for older teens, while the format and suspenseful pace is the equal of any adult thriller. And I’m confident that even readers who don’t like the book will think about the story and the themes it conveys long after they finish it. I’m wary of what will happen once Hollywood finishes wrapping its flailing appendages around this story, but the book has my recommendation for anyone and everyone, with absolutely no reservations.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Feynman, by Jim Ottaviani and Leland Myrick

2011-09-22T14:57:00.000-07:00

I found the idea of a graphic novel biography of physicist Richard Feynman to be so quirky and interesting that I was fairly excited to get my hands on a copy. Feynman is a bit of a book searching for an audience, but it ultimately encompasses a fascinating man’s interesting life and complicated ideas in a fairly accessible way.

Ottaviani presents this biography as a memoir told by Feynman himself, drawn from various primary sources. The book begins with Feynman’s early life and first marriage, along with his early studies in physics that culminated in some important contributions to the Manhattan Project. The narrative follows his groundbreaking work in quantum electrodynamics, including the invention of the famous notations that bear his name. Along the way, the reader is treated to various anecdotes and hilarious asides on everything from cargo cult science and the perils of accepting a Nobel Prize to Feynman’s tendencies toward safecracking and ogling pretty girls. The meaty graphic novel takes a hard left in the second half, where the largest section of the book is dedicated to Feynman’s famous lectures attempting to explain quantum electrodynamics to the layperson. However, by the time the reader gets to the end, where Feynman approaches his own illness and death with characteristic smarm and wit, they are left with a vivid impression of both who Richard Feynman was and the important contributions he made to modern science.

Myrick’s artwork is interesting. It has a comic-strip feel that sets a scene without being too slick or fancy for its own good. I don’t know if I’d call it attractive, especially considering that it can occasionally be hard to tell characters apart. The faces are beautifully expressive in clean, simple ways, though. Also, Myrick occasionally shakes things up with the injection of random magical realism and, naturally, plenty of scientific diagrams.

I admit that while I’ve always been fascinated by physics, I’ve never had a head for mathematical rigor. Thus, even though I found “the lectures” engaging, I had a hard time following some parts of them even though they are made for people like me. Even so, that made the occasional moments of understanding that much more illuminating. Honestly, I think being exposed to something as complicated as quantum field theory through the medium of a graphic novel helped a great deal, regardless of what that says about my intellect. Especially considering that the actual hard science is incidental, in this case, to the story of the man himself.

The biography is told in a disjointed fashion, comprised of a series of vignettes that are only loosely connected in any chronological order. This takes some getting used to, but ultimately transcribes a life in the way it should be experienced: messy and unexpected. The book covers all of the major facets of Feynman’s life- the atomic bomb, the Nobel Prize, the Challenger Disaster commission, the lectures– but it also chronicles the shenanigans of a hilarious eccentric, and presents the various tragedies in his life with a poignancy born of no-frills simplicity and honesty.

Though there are already a couple of books on Feynman’s life and work that would be good introductions to the general reader, I’d place this one at the head of the pack. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that I spent a decade being too intimidated to pick up one of those books, and after reading this I'm eager to jump in. Most importantly for me, the book has enough heft to it to be a satisfying read for a graphic novel. While hard-nosed scientists and comic enthusiasts with mainstream tastes may not find what they are looking for here, I’d recommend this to general readers as a fantastic story about an insanely interesting person, and to those already familiar with Richard Feynman as a fun, graphical take on the man.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - A Dance with Dragons, by George R. R. Martin

2011-09-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

George R. R. Martin would like you to know that he bought a dictionary of archaic Scottish English in the six years it took to write this book, and he learned a lot of cool words from it.

For example, did you know “leal” was used instead of loyal? It’s true! Also, you can use “neeps” to refer to rutabaga or turnips. And we already know that the word “teats” is awesome, of course, but let’s not forget the marvelous utility of the word “cunt!” It can refer to a woman’s body part, the woman herself, or just be a general exclamation of frustration in any situation where a woman might be involved to the slightest degree!

So, if you’re as excited about these words as you were to read about “groats,” “nuncles,” and “valonqars” in 2005, make sure to pick up A Dance with Dragons. George is so excited about this new batch of words that you are sure to get your money’s worth! Cunt leal cunny cunt leal teats neeps neeps cuntcuntcunt.

Okay, for real, now. I kept my hopes at a reasonably low level after the massive letdown that was A Feast for Crows, and it’s a good thing I did, because there is no appreciable difference between that book and this one. On one hand, that’s kind of a good thing; these two books started as one book, and inhabit the same chronological space in the overarching story while encompassing two different groups of main characters. A radical shift in the writing would have been jarring. However, setting aside the problem of this format slowing the overarching story down to a crawl, the consistency also means that the same infuriatingly bad writing in A Feast for Crows is slathered all over this one, as well, which distracted me from the truly gripping story underneath.

The War of Five Kings is all but over, but the stage is being set for the return of House Targaryen, which could change everything. Daenerys Targaryen struggles to maintain her hold on the slaver city of Meereen, while enemies descend on her from all sides and her famed dragons grow increasingly hard to control. A number of potential suitors race across the narrow sea to her, hoping to win her hand and tip the balance in Westeros: Victarion Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, Quentyn Martell of Dorne, and a young sellsword boy who hides a powerful secret. Even Ser Jorah Mormont hopes to once again reach the exiled queen, with none other than Tyrion Lannister in tow. Meanwhile, Jon Snow keeps his eyes fixed beyond the wall, balancing a tenuous grasp on the Night’s Watch command with the need to do anything it takes to defend against the horrors that are coming with the winter. And, let’s see… Bran’s up in the north learning how to be the best skinchanger ever, while Arya’s still in Braavos learning how to be awesome.

In other words, lots of Going Important Places and Saying Important Things, and not much else. There’s plenty of action interspersed in the various chapters and settings, but most of it is subdued; we’re back to intrigue and foreshadowing as we build up to what promises to be a huge denouement in the final books. The problem is, Martin has established himself to be a master at world-building and writing on a large scale, but as the last book proved, he’s god-awful at writing dialogue and creating small, intimate scenes. Unfortunately, dialogue and intimate scenes make up the lion’s share of this book. So, even though most of these chapters are still pretty interesting, they don’t move the story forward too much, and showcase some of the worst aspects of Martin’s writing.

As I mentioned above, Martin continues his maddening habit of suddenly introducing archaic words that don’t mesh at all with the rest of the prose, and repeating them until you want to use the book to bash your own face in. He also continues to invent new clichés that didn’t exist in the books before, and throw them around like confetti. In this book, people aren’t speculating on anything’s worth in groats anymore, but they all agree that “words are wind.” It’s not just the Westerosi who mutter this gem at any given opportunity; people across the sea, who supposedly speak entirely different languages, are also prone to blurting it out whenever anybody promises anything to anybody else. Also, it’s apparently in fashion to point out that nipples on a breastplate are useless. That one shows up at least twice, and then… spoiler alert!… somebody finds an actual breastplate… with nipples on it! Ha ha! Ha. Meanwhile, expect Tyrion to basically repeat two things for the entire book. Considering how great a character he has been to this point, this is particularly depressing.

The sex scenes, frequent as ever, continue to range between somewhat odd and painfully bad. Well, at least this time Martin isn’t obsessively fixating on the differing sizes and colors of women’s nipp… oh, wait, there it is. And… yup. There’s another passage, a few chapters later. Sigh.

I know I’m nitpicking, but there are bigger issues at play, too. Entire story threads in this book are completely unnecessary. One particular character winds their way through the book, doing nothing much of note, and then suddenly dies at the end after accomplishing one thing of pertinence to the story. This is something that could have been handled in a single chapter. It could have been an aside in someone else’s chapter, for crying out loud. While stuff like this is good flavor text, it takes up a lot of space without adding much.

I’m being harsh, but I really do like this series, and since Martin is king of the fantasy world right now, there’s no point in lobbing softballs. I think Martin has started to believe his own hype. These books have become famous for their grittiness, and for no character being safe and no happy ending being guaranteed. It seems like Martin just assumes, by this point, that he can please the fans that have those expectations by just writing in as much casual violence and pointless sex as he can, and ending every chapter on a cliffhanger. Moreover, the series is starting to suffer from the same affliction that can be observed in every successful popular fiction series: once an author starts raking in wheelbarrows of money, nobody wants to suggest that their manuscripts need editing anymore. According to Clarion West, this man teaches other writers how to write fantasy and science fiction. It’s therefore somewhat alarming to observe that he not only didn’t recognize that his two most recent thousand-page novels should have been three-fifths of a single manuscript (at best!), but that he feels the best way to establish a leitmotif is with unrelenting, context-free repetition. The fact that things go wonky when he strays from that repetition (“womb” is not a synonym for vagina, George) doesn’t do much to reassure me. And nobody seemed to have the courage to point these things out to him. Or, more likely, nobody cared, since this book was bound to be a bestseller anyway, regardless of whether it is actually good.

So, with me ranting full bore about this book, is it safe to assume I hated it? Sigh. No. I devoured it, just like the rest of the series. Once again, it must be said that underneath all of the stupid crap is a solid, engrossing, intricate story. It’s tightly plotted, despite the sudden meandering pace, and the themes are smart, realistic, and consistent, even if they are poorly presented. This series is visceral. Each page is alive with textures, smells, sounds, and a sense of unflinching reality. There are important messages in this story, about the nature of power, the arbitrary whims of fate, and the ambiguity of concepts like morality and justice. And though I’m sick to death of Martin’s cliffhangers, there are a couple of jaw-dropping moments in A Dance with Dragons that promise big things in the next books.

It bears repeating that this book is basically the second half of A Feast for Crows, six years or no six years, and thus deserves the same rating I gave that one. I’m not done with this series. I’m still a fan, and I need to know what happens next. I still think anybody who reads fantasy should read the first three books in this series, at least. But this book and the one before are badly written. It’s as simple as that. Not bad enough to ruin the series, but bad enough to pale in comparison to the previous books. I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t like it enough to tear through it and wait in anticipation for the next one.

The nice thing about all of this, as my wife and I often joke about, is that I get to be a fantasy hipster, now. While the newcomers rave about Game of Thrones and buy the reprinted paperbacks with the HBO logo on the cover, I get to smooth my moustache, crack open a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and declare that I was into Game of Thrones before it was big, and was already disappointed with it before you ever heard of it.

Verdict: 2.5 / 5, plus extra credit for being gripping despite its massive shortcomings.

Book Review - Nowhere Girl, by A. J. Paquette

2011-09-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

As I was walking through the exhibit floor at ALA Annual, I chanced to pick up an advance reader’s copy for a children’s book that had some very nice art on the cover, a definite rarity for ARCs. I browsed through the blurbs, and discovered that this particular children’s book is about a girl who grew up in a Thai women’s prison.

I dare you to say no to a children’s book set in a Thai women’s prison. If you say you aren’t interested in how that turns out, you’re a filthy liar.

Naturally, being a children’s book, this story isn’t as eyebrow-raising as one might fear/hope. It’s actually a sweet little parable, set against a very memorable backdrop. Luchi Ann was born behind the bars of the prison, tucked away in the Thai hinterlands and far removed from any semblance of civilization. It is the only home she has ever known, and has always brought here a naïve, sheltered form of comfort. After her mother unexpectedly dies, however, Luchi is propelled into the outside world, more lonely and vulnerable than she has ever been. With only the name and address of an American who might be her grandmother, Luchi must somehow find her way back to a home she’s never known. However, the secrets that sent her mother to prison in the first place may come back to claim her.

While the initial setup and opening chapters of this book are compelling, it doesn’t really have a solid finish. The story starts to come apart about halfway through, and ends with a climax and some drawing-room revelations that are somewhat absurd. The plot works, but the various resolutions to Luchi’s obstacles are too convenient, and overly saccharine. The unique premise and shallow execution make for a story that’s a little hard to take seriously, despite its earnestness. In fact, its earnestness occasionally gets in the way, too, with pages of overwrought internal dialogue and paragraphs of exposition that routinely go purple.

But of course, that’s coming from an adult reader. None of this should present a problem for the school-age readers for which the book is meant. Further, Paquette has a gift for setting; her depictions of Thailand are lyrical and vivid, and even the somewhat unbelievable section describing Luchi's boat trip had me interested enough to look up more information on freighter travel. The story itself has an interesting and likeable protagonist, a carefully constructed theme, and a taste of suspenseful danger without being too intense for the target age range.

Overall: a mediocre but solid book. I wasn’t very excited about it personally, but I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this to a young reader who is looking for a travel story, drama, or a book about Asian cultures.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - The Future of Us, by Jay Asher and Carolyn Mackler

2011-08-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

This kind of book is not my usual choice, but I had the good fortune to meet the authors and get an autographed advance reader’s copy. Turns out, this is right up my alley, and I just didn’t know it yet. While not particularly profound, it is a quick, smart, and satisfying read.

This book’s concept is largely unchanged from the random conversation between the authors that I’m sure it came from. It’s 1996, and Emma’s best friend Josh comes over with one of those America Online CD-ROMs we all once got in the mail and promptly put in the microwave for their pyrotechnic value. Or, you know, used them as coasters, or whatever the rest of you did with them. Anyway, as Emma prepares to venture into the Interwebs, she notices a blue-and-white login box. Thinking this part of AOL, she enters her password again, which leads her to some strange website called Facebook. Further exploration with Josh reveals what seem to be versions of themselves from fifteen years in the future, with everything one would expect from a Facebook page: photos, banal status updates and... naturally... relationship status. Suddenly endowed with the ability to know her future and take steps to change it, Emma begins fiddling with her own future based on the scraps of info she can pull from her future self’s Facebook wall. Josh, on the other hand, fears what such meddling could do to their lives, both in the future and in the here-and-now.

This book grabbed me for a very specific reason. I am 31 years old, and therefore was the exact same age as these characters at the exact time it takes place. It’s like a cultural love letter to my youth. Furthermore, I spent the nineties dealing with the unrequited love of a close friend or two (as I imagine many of you have, as well), so I found the dynamic between Emma and Josh painfully realistic. My personal biases aside, though, this is a pretty neat story. Time-travel stories are fraught with peril, in that they invite science nerds to point out everything logistically wrong with them, but this one is believable. It keeps the “how” vague, because honestly, “how” doesn’t matter. The characters matter, and this story stays focused on them, with split-perspective narration between Emma and Josh that works well and keeps the book moving. There is a strong theme of not being so caught up in tomorrow that you neglect today, but it’s a theme that is inherent and not delivered heavy-handedly. This is a book that’s easy to get caught up in; I devoured it relatively quickly.

The only problem I had with the book has to do with the same reason it resonated so easily with me. I’m not entirely sure what the audience is for this book. Because it’s marketed as YA, it has to do some heavy lifting in terms of setting. Today’s teens don’t remember the 90s, and so there are constant shoutouts to the fads and pop culture of the time. Some of this works (the music, in particular), but most of it feels awkward and gratuitous, and makes the time-travel aspect seem a little gimmicky. On the other hand, while The Future of Us is tailor-made for those of us who actually grew up in the 90s, it doesn’t quite go deep enough to tap into that thirty-something sensibility. There are a couple of great scenes in the book that show how mutable the future is, but instead of really throwing a curveball like it could have, the story ends on a tidy, sweet, and predictable note. Honestly, I think Asher and Mackler could have done a lot more with this story (with everything about it intact) if they had aimed it at adults instead of the YA market.

But for what it is, it’s fantastic. This is a quirky little romance that’s perfect for socially networked teens, and it’s a cultural paean to those of us who actually got those CD-ROMs in the mail, once upon a time.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Glow, by Amy Kathleen Ryan

2011-08-13T15:13:00.000-07:00

This is definitely a case of the right book hitting me at the right time. I’m currently neck-deep in an addiction to the video game Mass Effect 2, which has precipitated a definite sci-fi jag in my entertainment tastes. This rich little dollop of YA sci-fi, which I got to read as an advance reader's copy and will be published in September, is just what I was looking for. It had a couple of procedural issues, which kind of makes me want to knock a point off depending on my mood, but this is a great start to what promises to be a fun series.

The first volume of the Sky Chasers series introduces Kieran Alden and Waverly Marshall, a young couple aboard a huge starship called the Empyrean. The Empyrean and its sister ship, the New Horizon, left an ailing Earth over forty years ago, carrying the hope of creating a new world and saving the human species from extinction. Kieran, being the first baby born to the original Empyrean crew and an all-around golden boy, is first in line for the ship’s captaincy. Everyone expects that he and Waverly will get married, and she does love him, but she has her doubts about whether she really wants to marry him, or if she is merely succumbing under the moral imperative to procreate. Her realtively sedate troubles are violently interrupted by the appearance of the New Horizon, which is supposed to be years ahead of them. An unexpected turn of events separates Waverly and the other Empyrean girls from everyone they’ve ever known, where they must find a way to escape a desperate captivity that is insidiously disguised by good intentions and comforting lies. Meanwhile, Kieran finds his capacity for leadership truly tested, when Seth Ardvale, a rival for Waverly’s affections, decides that Kieran isn’t fit to lead. Facing an increasingly dangerous mutiny and with no adults available to step in and take charge, Kieran is forged into a leader that might save them all, or might take them further down the path to annihilation.

So, I need to address two things right away. First, more and more teen books have characters with names like Kieran, Waverly, Brayden, Madison, et cetera, and my irritation with this is proof that I’m officially getting old. Second, I really wish everybody would stop trying to market new books as “The Next” version of whatever recently made piles of money. Yes, this actually is a fantastic readalike for The Hunger Games, but it doesn’t change the fact that repeatedly bleating “OMG THE NEXT HUNGER GAMES” is marketing at its most crass, and it makes my eyes twitch.

Okay, with that out of the way: this is solid sci-fi, and a fantastic teen book. It definitely places more emphasis on action and character development than it does on space and starships, but it does what it does very well. Of particular note is the interesting way in which it handles religion. A few chapters in, I was ready to dismiss this one as another version of the same story I’ve read plenty of times: religion bad. Being no fan of religious fundamentalism myself, I’m pretty okay with that, but it’s a somewhat tired trope. But then Ryan pulled the rug out from under me: secularism bad, religion good? Wait, no, religion still bad, maybe? Turns out, religion and secularism in this book’s universe are as good or as bad as their adherents. Gee, what a concept. And this not only makes for intriguing character motivations, but deftly sets up the framework and dominant theme for the rest of the books in the series. This, more than anything else, has me excited about how the next books will turn out.

The only problem I had with this book is that it had a whole lot of story tell in a fairly short amount of time. Like I said above, Glow is action-packed, and things move along briskly and with satisfying tension. Trouble is, the story occurs over several months, and it’s somewhat disorienting trying to reconcile the dialed-up pace with the apparently missing chunks of story time. The problem is exacerbated by the split in the narrative; once Waverly and Kieran are separated, the book follows their individual stories in different chapters. Each story could conceivably have its own novel-length treatment, but they are combined into a slim multithreaded plot in which they chronologically overlap. The process leaves certain elements feeling unexplored, or even artificially rushed.

The book also ends with a massive cliffhanger, making no bones about being the first part of a series. However, the two story halves each get a respectable climax, and the cliffhanger comes at the end of some dramatic falling action, letting Glow stand alone quite well. I think there are a few too many things to pick at to call Glow a complete success, but I personally loved it. The story is exciting and satisfying, the setting is a fresh take on a familiar concept, and the utopian themes and realistic motivations are a breath of fresh air in an expanding field of teen sci-fi where the bad guys are bad because they’re just bad, man, and it’s up to the teenagers to make everything all right.

That, I think is my favorite thing about this book: it isn’t at all clear who “the good guys” are, or what the best course of action for the teen protagonists is.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett

2011-08-06T10:25:00.000-07:00

I first read this book for a class in high school, and remember being completely enamored of it. Rereading after an intervening fifteen years of reading experience has given depth to that appreciation. Immediately after finishing, I left the book nonplussed and somewhat unimpressed. After thinking about the story for a day or two, though, I’m in love all over again.

The Maltese Falcon is an essential detective novel and, along with Raymond Chandler’s works, a hallowed progenitor of the hardboiled genre. For those that haven’t already seen Humphrey Bogart’s turn as Sam Spade, I don’t want to ruin any part of the tangled, complex mystery, because all of the fun in this story is in trying to make your way through its moving parts. Let’s just say it starts how you would expect: sullen, sarcastic private eye Sam Spade sits in his office, flirting with his secretary and shooting the breeze with his somewhat oafish partner, when the dame walked in. It started as a simple case, tailing a shady character in order to track down his beautiful client’s sister, but things get complicated quick, and people end up dead. Soon, a host of shady characters are calling on Spade, offering him vast sums of money in exchange for a mysterious black statue that one of them likely already has. Meanwhile, Spade’s acquaintances in law enforcement are increasingly suspecting him of foul play, and his client seems to shift her allegiances whenever the wind changes. Using only his wits and his cool, Spade has to get to the bottom of things without getting wrapped up in them himself... hopefully ending up with a pocket full of cash, to boot.

I finally realized why I had to think about this one for a bit before reaffirming that I love it: Hammett leaves a huge amount of subtext up to the reader to decode. The story is classic noir, and reads just like watching a noir film. In fact, there are no internal monologues, omniscient narrations, or transcriptions of character thoughts. Everything is in the dialogue, and it’s up to the reader to determine what the characters are thinking, which is easy sometimes, but intriguingly impossible much more often. And man, what dialogue it is. Hammett’s writing is whip-smart, and the snappy patter never lets up. Sam Spade, in particular, is a bottomless pit of cool. He’s got a line for everything and everyone, and he never sounds trite or overdone, despite being the literal template for every booze-soaked, cigarette-rolling, skirt-chasing private dick since. He is the best kind of detective to read: the guy that always gets his man, but is quick to acknowledge that he’s always out for number one and never quite clear on just how corrupt he may or may not be.

The other characters in the story are considerably more stereotypical; they fit their assigned roles and play their assigned parts. Again, though, the beauty of Hammett’s writing makes them stand out, in that nobody’s motivations are ever revealed, and the reader only gets a glimpse of what’s really going on. This carries through to the plot, in that while Spade eventually solves one mystery, there are plenty of questions that go unanswered. This isn’t a tidy drawing-room mystery. This is a crime story mixed with an intrigue tale, and it's delightfully messy.

The 1941 film is probably the version of this story that most are familiar with, and rightly so, considering that it’s one of the best films ever made. But Hammett’s original story is a must-read, especially if you like detective fiction or film noir but haven’t yet seen Bogie do Spade. There’s a certain kitsch factor at work, considering that the book will fulfill every last expectation you might have of a book about a hardboiled private eye and the femme fatale that showed up at his doorstep one evening. But having those expectations fulfilled is the best part about this classic.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - The Wise Man's Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss

2011-08-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand how you do it, Patrick Rothfuss. I can’t stop reading your ridiculous fucking books.

The Kingkiller Chronicle books are getting a fair amount of buzz, and well they should. They are epic fantasy in the classic vein: young boy with roughshod background turns out to be The Hero, and goes on a Hero’s Journey in preparation for a much-foreshadowed confrontation with evil forces. It’s time-tested comfort food for fantasy readers. Moreover, Rothfuss is a fantastic author. As I mentioned in my review for The Name of the Wind, he can turn a phrase like few others can. He writes characters and scenes so well that I didn’t particularly care that Kvothe is an obnoxious, smug little Mary Sue with unearthly good luck, or that The Wise Man’s Fear doesn’t have any recognizable climactic action or, for that matter, any story structure at all. I was too busy turning pages to find out what happened next. Well, that’s not entirely true; I did care. A lot. But I was ravenously turning pages anyway. Seriously, I have no idea what to think about this one.

Again, this book doesn’t really have a cohesive story to summarize, being largely an extension of the first book: Kvothe the innkeeper sitting with the Chronicler and relating the continuing adventures of Young Kvothe. The best way to synopsize this book is to consider it a road novel. After a meandering introduction of Kvothe continuing to be the best at everything while at the University in Imre, his quest to find out more about the Chandrian and avenge his family’s murders leads him away from his new home and out across the known boundaries of the world. Now, in theory, this is the perfect next step for developing Kvothe’s character and moving the story along. It works in practice, for the most part. Most of Kvothe’s adventures are compelling, even if they usually result in him growing more as a legendary badass than as a fully developed character. But each fun, well-written part is balanced out by something completely ludicrous. I honestly felt disoriented after finishing this one, trying to decide if I loved it or loathed it. Spoilers ahoy, so skip to the end if you don't want to know some of the major plot points.

When Kvothe first leaves the University, he ends up in the court of a foreign ruler (known colloquially as the Maer), tasked with navigating the intrigues of the local nobility and getting into the Maer’s good graces. He does this by foiling a long-game assassination attempt due to his exceptional powers of observation, and by playing Cyrano de Bergerac to woo the ruler’s lady love for him, which is naturally a cakewalk due to him being the Best Musician Ever. This would all be just fine (especially considering the hints throughout the book concerning just who the Maer’s lover is), if one could forget for the barest moment that Kvothe is sixteen years old. One star.

Kvothe then ends up on an expedition in the wild as the leader of a mercenary band. Since, you know, if I were a powerful noble, I would definitely put a sixteen-year-old in charge of a mercenary band. This part, however, is the strongest section of the book. Kvothe’s struggle to maintain his position amidst battle-hardened sellswords is actually interesting and believable, and the conclusion of their mission (which is the closest thing to a climax that this book has, even though it’s a little past the halfway mark) is tense and has interesting implications for the larger story. Five stars!

Then, there’s Felurian. The Felurian part. I just... I don’t even... I mean...

Okay, the Felurian part. So, this is foreshadowed since the blurb on the first book: "I spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life." Apparently, Felurian is a faerie spirit that is essentially an avatar of sexual desire. Capricious and seductive, she lures men into her domain for no reason other than her own desire and relatively innocent curiosity, but the awesome sexiness of her otherworldly sexitude is too much for a mortal man. Those who don’t suffer a massive coronary from the vigor of her faerie sex are left broken husks, spending the rest of their short lives pining for her after her curiosity and lust are sated. Kvothe, the sixteen-year-old virgin, stumbles into Felurian, and of course, she can't help but sex him up. But Kvothe the sixteen-year-old virgin has sexy sexitude powers of his own! He is so naturally gifted at the sexing that Felurian, the faerie spirit of lust, can’t get enough of his sexy sex. There’s still the problem of escaping her domain, but Kvothe manages that by once again being the Best Musician Ever. But Felurian decides that she won’t let her boy-pet back into the mortal world if he’s not the Best Sex Machine Ever, in addition to everything else, so she spends forty pages teaching him the secret faerie arts of sex wizardry. Seriously. Literally thousands of techniques are apparently imparted, with mysteriously sexy names like “Ivy Climbs the Love Tower” and “Rhino Fondles the Pomegranate,” or whatever. I mean... really? Zero stars, plus an additional penalty for squandering what could have been a fantastic goddamned story opportunity.

Here’s the thing: I could see how this would actually be a cool moment in the book. For all of Kvothe’s skill at everything he touches, Rothfuss has taken pains to depict him as woefully inept when it comes to romance. This could have been made a central point as to why his encounter with Felurian went as it did, especially considering that he manages, just for a brief moment, to master the art of Naming while in her domain. Something could have been made about the state of mind that sexual bliss encourages, especially to those that don’t already have preconceived notions about what it is, and this huge chunk of aimless titillation could have had a point. Instead, Kvothe lounges around naked and marvels at how he can’t remember how many times he’s grabbed Felurian’s breasts, or how much honeyed bread he’s eaten. Deep, man.

Anyway, that steaming ladleful of stupid is balanced out by one of the most intriguing scenes in either of the Kingkiller books: Kvothe’s encounter with a malicious faerie deity that calls into question everything he’s ever done from that point on, and implies that he may be doomed no matter what he does. My imagination is still reeling after reading it. After he escapes from Felurian, he ends up in the homeland of the stoic Adem mercenaries, and spends some time learning their ways. It’s a solid bit of world-building that honestly could have used its own novel-length exploration, but it really is a joy to read. Eight stars, and a demand for a side-project book about the Adem!

And then you once again remember that Kvothe is sixteen frigging years old, and accomplished more in a couple of months than any of the Adem did in years. That knowledge is stuck firm in your mind as you read about his encounter with a group of bandits that had kidnapped some farm girls and subjected them to days of rape and humiliation. By this point, it’s a forgone conclusion that Kvothe will save the day, but the revelation of him being the Best Consoler of Rape Victims Ever is just a bit too much to take. One of the girls had retreated inward after her brutal ordeal, and Kvothe manages to bring her around again just by being awesome. Okay, that’s easy enough to accept, I guess. But near the end of this vignette, the apex of this girl’s anger, shame, and helplessness is expressed thusly: “I hate men!” To which Kvothe deftly responds, “I’m a man too. We’re not all like that.” I’m not sure whether to be aghast at the author’s indelicate, crass handling of such a poignant and potentially provocative scenario, or appalled at how Kvothe is apparently still considered the most smooth-talking ladies' man ever to rescue a damsel after such a clumsy, boorish response. Either way, I have no earthly idea what this whole section is even doing in the book in the first place, as it doesn’t add a single bloody thing to the story. Negative fifty stars, and I want Patrick Rothfuss’s lunch money.

Sigh. I just don’t know. The thing is, there is justification for these problems right there in the text, because once again, Rothfuss is fundamentally a good writer. We have a classic case of an unreliable narrator, expounding on a theme of history and mythology being largely indistinguishable. We have a story framework that revolves around a broken, defeated man, who may have been marked for tragedy from the outset and who is obviously consumed by regret at the folly of his youthful arrogance, as the ritually repeated prologues and epilogues make clear (by the way, after the fourth time you read one of those florid passages, they start to become irritating). Both point to glimpses of a larger theme, and a purpose to everything that doesn’t currently make sense. Both also make me feel as if I’m being an apologist for a thousand pages of masturbatory author wish-fulfillment.

I can’t get around the fact that I really liked reading this book, and though I was frequently outraged, I was never bored. I would definitely recommend this to fantasy readers, and it decidedly belongs in the “must-read” pantheon for the genre. As for myself, though, I can’t decide between giving it a completely non-scientific five stars for being fun, smart, and readable despite its flaws, or an angry one star for the brazen, sustained assaults on my suspension of disbelief. You’re all duly warned, I guess, so I’ll split the difference with three stars.

This must be how Twilight fans with any remaining sense of shame feel.

Verdict: 3 / 5, I guess.

Graphic Novel Review - Astonishing X-Men Vol. 2: Dangerous, by Joss Whedon and John Cassaday

2011-07-28T14:44:00.000-07:00

More hilarious snark! More fantastic artwork! The second volume of Whedon and Cassaday’s run on Astonishing X-Men is as good as the first in terms of story, characterization, and artwork, though it is perhaps not quite as accessible to new X-Men readers as the first volume. Thankfully, I’ve got enough background knowledge on the X-universe that it didn’t slow me down at all.

This volume breaks away from the story arc established in the first. Ord, the Breakworld, S.W.O.R.D., and the ominous prophecy of interdimensional warfare are all present, but referenced only briefly. Instead, this volume heads back to the mansion. With Colossus back from the dead and back on the team, the X-Men continue to try and find their place as protectors and heroes. However, an unexpected death caused by the events in the first volume force the team to circle the wagons, as an unknown force attacks their weakest point: the students at Xavier’s school. It is no coincidence that the assault takes place in the Danger Room, a holographic combat simulator in the heart of the mansion; as the X-Men learn more about the Danger Room’s true programming, the real target of the attack slowly becomes clear. Meanwhile, an old enemy bides their time in the background, and the motives of Emma Frost become murkier.

All of the best bits of the first volume are still in evidence here, but the new direction that this story arc takes can be a little jarring. Since I am reading this as a graphic novel, I am trying to approach reviewing it from a standalone perspective, and weigh its merits based on how it reads without an encyclopedic knowledge of X-Men lore (because, let’s face it, if you are already a fan of the title like I am, it’s all gravy). From that perspective, there are few oddities in this second arc. Much was made about Professor Xavier’s absence, and Scott Summers’ struggle under the burden of leadership without him. Okay, well, turns out he’s in Genosha (and let’s take a moment to say WOOOO BACK TO GENOSHA), and once everyone finds him, there doesn’t seem to be much of a revelatory moment.

“Oh, hey professor. Good to see you. We're not really curious at all about why you're her, so allow us to pour some of our angst on you.”

So, it wasn’t a big deal he was gone, after all? Nobody wonders what he was doing in Genosha, or why was he gone at all, exactly? What huh?

There are a few other things here that might confound newbie readers. I was excited to see some obvious references to the Shi’ar, but that’s some pretty inside stuff. Same with the big cliffhanger reveal at the end of the volume, though that will definitely become clearer in due time. And as cool as this story arc is, I’m not entirely sure how it connects to the first volume, other than the oblique references I mentioned before.

Thankfully, there’s enough surplus awesome in these pages to encourage forgiveness. An early cameo from another superhero team was a pleasant surprise. Beast and Shadowcat are more hardcore here than I’ve seen in a long while. The twist and cliffhanger at the end raises the bar for the larger story considerably, even if you don’t know who or what it refers to. And I once again have to hand it to Whedon’s writing: Logan’s three-word internal monologue in the introspective first chapter of the volume was hilariously perfect.

This is still a solid comic run, even if I didn’t quite geek out as much for this volume as I did for the first one. It’s a perfect introduction to the X-Men comics, and a smart and satisfying read for established fans. I almost feel ready to immerse myself in the more esoteric X-stuff again.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Dark Parties, by Sara Grant

2011-07-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

Dystopias are where it’s at in YA, these days. I personally think the upswing started well before Hunger Games, but that series definitely made it clear that the kids are into perfect societies that are built on the suffering of their people, especially the young and attractive ones. Being an avowed fan of the genre for many years myself (I still insist that Orwell, Bradbury, and Huxley are required reading for just about everybody), I find myself surprisingly wary of this trend. The more dystopia tales that crowd the shelves, the less power they have, especially when it comes to doing their job by pointing out the parallels to events in real life. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t quite summon the excitement that this book probably warrants; it’s a solid YA sci-fi drama, but it didn’t really offer me anything I hadn’t seen before, and didn’t seem all that subtle or clever compared to its forebearers.

The book’s protagonist, Neva, lives in a country simply called Homeland that exists under a giant electrified dome known as the Protectosphere, which isolates them from the supposed aftermath of a widespread cataclysm. Hers is a country of stagnation; everybody looks the same due to generations of inbreeding. Homeland’s goods and technologies are slowly decaying, and even their population is on the decline, with young adults being desperately urged to pair off and procreate. Most disturbing are the disappearances, with more and more people (including Neva’s grandmother) simply vanishing and everyone else acting as if they never existed at all. Neva and her friends chafe underneath the increasingly draconian government, fearing that there will be no future for them, and resolve to do... something. That part isn’t really that clear, to the characters or to the reader, but it definitely involves civil disobedience of some sort. Neva’s first stab at defiance brings the full attention of Homeland on her, and she risks the safety of both her well-connected family and her loyal friends as she attempts to discover what has become of the missing.

The thing is, all of the Neva’s mysteries are crystal clear to the reader, for the most part. Isolated society. Rebellious grandmother suddenly disappearing. Big Brother attempting to manufacture happiness and patriotism. It becomes clear pretty early on that the Homeland government is up to something, so most of the book has the reader waiting for Neva to discover and catch on to what’s happening. There are some grim, exciting twists on the way, most notably when Neva explores the Women’s Empowerment Center, but for the most part the reader knows what’s going on well before Neva does.

On the other hand, I found the interpersonal aspect of the novel to be surprisingly believable, considering the book’s audience. The book gets its title from a gathering in the first chapter: a makeout party in a dark room that Neva and her best friend Sanna use as a cover to incite their fledging revolt. Neva shares a sudden, passionate kiss in the dark with Sanna’s boyfriend, Braydon, who she never really liked or trusted before. After the dark party, though, she can’t stop thinking about him, to the point of risking both her friendship with Sanna and her success in foiling her pursuers and striking against the government. Some may find that romance shallow and carnal, and, well, that’s because it is. Sanna’s deteriorating relationship with a longtime boyfriend she no longer loves, and her sudden lust for a boy she doesn’t know but loves to kiss, sounds like an authentic teenage experience to me. Moreover, the consequences from those decisions ripple out to affect the plot in meaningful ways.

As for the rest, though... eh. Again, I couldn’t really get worked up about this one, for some reason. I think my problem is that, other than the relationship aspect, nothing really has any subtlety. Grant drops some anvil-sized hints about the nature of Homeland and the Protectosphere throughout the story, which takes the edge off of the suspense. And though there’s nothing wrong with using familiar dystopia themes and tropes, they are used rather clumsily here. For example, one of the overriding themes in Dark Parties is the physical similarity of Homeland's citizens, and how it is a small act of rebellion to use “identity marks” (temporary or permanent tattoos) to establish oneself as an individual. Neva, whose name means “snow” in Latin, has a tattoo on her hip of a snowflake. That’s because her beloved grandma named her, and always called her that, and gave her a snowflake pendant that she always wears. Which is why there’s a big neon snowflake on the cover, you see. So naturally, it’s a huge revelation when someone actually tells Neva near the end of the book that she is unique and special like a snowflake. OMG I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW.

Which is not to say that this is a bad book. It’s actually a pretty decent book. The characters are good, the action is tightly plotted, and there’s a nice mix of sinister ennui and defiant hope sprinkled throughout. I think I’m just spoiled by my own expectations. This ends on a cliffhanger, so there’s obviously a sequel coming; I’m curious as to what happens next, but not really drawn in enough to be anxious about it. I’d label this a good primer for YA dystopias. There are better out there, but this is a good introduction to the genre, and worth reading for dedicated dystopia fans or for readers looking for a tale about emotion fighting against oppression.

Verdict: 2.5 / 5

Book Review - The Name of the Star, by Maureen Johnson

2011-07-15T08:46:00.000-07:00

I came from the 2011 ALA Annual Conference in New Orleans with literally dozens of advance reader copies, and had the nice problem of trying to figure out which one to read first. I had a chance to meet Maureen Johnson while I was there, and she was one of the friendliest authors I had the privilege of talking to. So, I started following her Twitter feed, and if you don’t follow her, you really should. She’s manic and adorable, and I couldn't help but decide to read Name of the Star first. I’m glad I did, because even with a few hiccups, this is a great start to what looks to be a fantastic YA series.

This first entry in Johnson’s new Shades of London series introduces Rory Deveaux, a Louisiana teenager who comes to England with her parents and enters a boarding school in London. Coinciding with her arrival is a spree of murders that are eerily reminiscent of those committed by London’s most famous serial killer: Jack the Ripper. Rory tries to adjust to her new surroundings, but London has become a surreal carnival of glee and fear, with “Ripper mania” spawning macabre parties, thronging vigils, and 24/7 news coverage. The grim mystery gets deeper when Rory realizes that she spoke to a sinister man at the scene of one the murders that nobody else could see, even when he was in plain sight. Still trying to make sense of being an American in England, Rory quickly finds herself overwhelmed by the discovery of a rare ability, which draws a whole lot of attention. Attention from those who want to help her, but also from the Ripper himself.

It must be said at the beginning that the general setting doesn't really fall outside of what readers might have seen before. It’s a British boarding school, with quirky roommates, mean girls, and a cute boy with a hot British accent. That almost qualifies as a subgenre, by now. Also, a few early twists are apparent a mile away to anyone who has seen the Sixth Sense (but, let’s be honest, that group is mostly comprised of people like me: thirty-somethings who are increasingly panicked about no longer being the arbiters of pop culture). And Ripper stories are always fascinating... seriously, always... but they are also prolific.

So it speaks highly of Johnson’s talent that this well-trodden path is so fun to walk down. The opening chapter grabs you immediately, and the beginning exposition is suffused with atmospheric tension. It also helps that Rory is such a likeable character; she has just the right mix of humor, awkwardness, and angst. Perfectly believable, and wholly sympathetic. Rory’s snark and self-effacing humility is a fantastic counterpoint to the rising tension and bloody attacks as the Ripper re-enacts the famous 19th-century rampage, ensuring that the story never falls too far on one side or the other of the drama/comedy spectrum. The setting is evocative and immersive; both the interiors and exteriors of this book's London resonate in the imagination, because they are written with an easy realism and an effortless eye for important detail.

The book heads in a different direction around halfway through, when Rory finally begins to understand what she can do and what that really means. This is where the story steps away from being a Jack the Ripper story, and determinedly sets up the larger Shades of London series premise. It’s a delicate moment, being the place most likely to lose readers who have been glued to the story so far, but I felt that Johnson handled it masterfully. The brooding tension that permeates the first half isn't lost, and Rory seamlessly moves from the boarding school into the wider, scarier world. Most importantly, though, Johnson keeps hot on the main mystery's heels while setting up the series, ensuring that this remains a strong standalone novel.

There are two minor quibbles I had with the book. At one point, the villain gets excessively monologue-y, which is a pet peeve of mine that I can never get over. The rest of the exposition was so good that it made that one "now I shall reveal my plan!" moment excessively grating. Also, for as much as Rory is smart, resourceful, and brave, she never really moves past being a perpetual damsel-in-distress until the very last moment. She spends the book being guarded, hunted, manipulated, herded, and being forced into uncomfortable situations, and even though there are plenty of moments that exemplify her innate strength, she spends too much time being at the mercy of her environment. To be fair, this could be attributed to overall tone of the book: unfamiliar school, unfamiliar city, unfamiliar culture, and, uh, unfamiliar ghosts. Still, I kind of waited for a definitive "Rory starts to kick ass" part of the story that never really came.

Both of these little issues are redeemed by a fantastic ending that wraps up the mystery nicely, but still leaves the reader with a tantalizing cliffhanger that sets up Rory's future exploits. It actually reminded me of the ending format that most Doctor Who episodes use (coincidence, considering the Amy Pond reference in the book? I THINK NOT). The Name of the Star pulls double duty as a gripping novel and as a series introduction with aplomb.

A word of warning: this is dark YA! *dramatic music* You know, because there's murders, and darkness, and making out, and everything is really foggy and whatnot! So, steer clear if you don't want your precious angel reading about subjects they might discover in other things you presumably don't let them read, like history books, or the newspaper. Otherwise, this is definitely one to check out once it hits shelves. The first Shades of London book is a great read, and I'm excited to see where the series goes from here.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Cordelia's Honor, by Lois McMaster Bujold

2011-07-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

Let’s all agree on this right up front: the covers of the Vorkosigan Saga books are horrible. Just plain awful. The cover art for anything published by Baen is pretty bad, enough to make even the proud nerds of today cringe and place the book face-down whenever possible to avoid being snickered at. But these covers in particular, with their dramatic poses and odd retro fonts, seem to house a strange breed of quasi-historical space pulp that embodies everything that “serious readers” should avoid. And that’s a damned shame, because Bujold writes fantastic, accessible science fiction. Were I to browse this by cover instead of trying out a no-frills ebook version, I may well have never discovered it.

I’ll try to stick to well-known details, but there are a few mild spoilers here if you want to fly completely blind. Cordelia’s Honor is an omnibus, comprising two separately published novels: Shards of Honor and Barrayar. These two books represent the first chronological stories in the sprawling Vorkosigan Saga, and begin a generation before the introduction of that saga’s hero, Miles. Shards of Honor begins with Betan explorer Captain Cordelia Naismith, attempting to chart a new, unclaimed world. Her party is surprised and attacked by a squad of the warlike Barryarans, and she barely escapes with her life. She finds herself lost on an unfamiliar planet, and thanks to a mutiny within the Barryaran ranks, she is forced to rely on a gruff Barrayaran outcast named Aral Vorkosigan, better known to her people as the Butcher of Komarr. She comes to know him better than she would ever have guessed during their ordeal in the wild, and their understanding of one another becomes crucial when they meet again, once the reason for the Barrayarans' presence on the untouched world becomes clear and their respective peoples stand on the brink of a brutal war.

The second book, Barrayar, picks up on the titular planet. Having forsaken her homeworld of Beta Colony after her unpleasant homecoming, Cordelia attempts to build a peaceful life with her new husband and the eventual birth of their son. However, after the Barrayaran emperor dies, Aral Vorkosigan finds himself manipulated into being the regent for the child heir, and thus a prime target for those lusting after the child heir’s power. An attempted assassination has dire consequences for Cordelia’s unborn child, and before she and Aral can gain their balance, a Barrayaran noble launches an insurrection and attempts to seize control of the empire through force. Cordelia, loath to accept the responsibilities placed on her by political momentum, must decide how far she is willing to go to rescue her fledgling family, and how much she should compromise her personal ethics in order to do so.

This is the second collected omnibus of sequential novels that I’ve read in the past year (third if you count graphic novels), and I’m starting to notice a distinct feeling that the novels contained within such volumes work a lot better together than they do apart. I can’t decide whether that’s a psychosomatic thing that’s brought on by there being so many pages left after getting through one book; I finished Shards of Honor feeling like more should have happened, and glad that I had a second half to move on to. In retrospect, I think that has everything to do with Bujold’s writing style, and I’m pretty sure I would have liked each book on its own, had I approached them that way. These books are referred to as a “saga,” and that’s an appropriate label. This is the first entry in a space opera that spans great distances, unravels intricate political intrigues, and narrates epic battles, but it’s immediately clear that the books are first and foremost about the characters. The saga follows the rise and fall of its players, and the landmark events in the plot provide the catalyst and backdrop for the landmark changes in the character arcs. This is what makes these books transcend pulp sci-fi and confirms them as a great choice for anyone who wants to read a good story.

There are a couple of snags, though. The characters are pitch-perfect, but their dialogue can get a little awkward from time to time. The narration is also a little odd, as well, especially in Shards of Honor. Bujold tends to get a little informal with the narrative voice, occasionally letting Cordelia’s sardonic humor bleed into the exposition and narration. Compounding this problem is the lack of italics or any other device to differentiate character thoughts in the first book, making the whole story feel a little slapdash. There was apparently a fair amount of time between the publication of the first book of this story arc and the second, and it definitely shows; Barrayar is much more tightly plotted, better paced, and efficiently narrated than Shards of Honor, displaying Bujold’s evolution as an author between the two stories. Standing as a testament to her talent, however, the joining of the actual story is seamless and natural.

I am to understand that the Vorkosigan books don’t really get going until we get into the exploits of Miles Vorkosigan, but as a newcomer to the series, I found this book to be a wonderful introduction to this particular world(s) and set of characters. It gives insight into the politics and technology of two distinct planets without seeming either contrived or confusing, leaving plenty of room to get to know wonderfully nuanced characters like Cordelia, Aral, Droushnakovi, and my favorite, Bothari. This gets a solid recommendation to any science fiction reader that puts a premium on good characters.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Penny Arcade Volume 6: The Halls Below, by Jerry Holkins and Mike Krahulik

2011-07-05T14:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been a dedicated Penny Arcade reader since before they were Internet rock stars with their own convention, children’s charity, webseries, and video games. As such, it’s not so odd that I’ve only picked up a print version of the comic at the publication of book six, seeing as how I’ve already read every single strip. Should I feel the urge to go back and reread, these strips are still all available for free online. The value of this book is in the added features, just as it would be for a DVD: new commentaries on each comic, slick packaging (though not as slick as previous editions, I am told), and extra content at the end. I’m an enthusiastic fan, so I’m pretty easy to please, but these added features should be enough to sway any fan of the series.

This is not a graphic novel, but a more traditional collection of comic strips with occasional spurts of continuity. For the uninitiated, Penny Arcade is a hilariously crass webcomic that revolves around two gamer protagonists, Gabe and Tycho, along with a revolving misfit cast of recurring characters. Gabe and Tycho are rough analogs of the two personalities behind the comic: artist Mike Krahulik and writer Jerry Holkins, respectively. The humor is a little inside; working knowledge of gaming culture and at least a passing familiarity with current gaming news is usually necessary to get the jokes, though there are occasional exceptions. However, the often obscene strips have a lot to offer for anybody who has an appreciation for the absurd, especially if you enjoy dark sarcasm, snappy dialogue (Holkins/Tycho is an unabashed logophile that uses a symphonic vocabulary both in the strip and in the accompanying commentary), or, well, poop jokes.

This volume collects all the strips published in 2005, and although I think 2004’s bouquet might be a little more piquant, this was a pretty good year for Penny Arcade and its readers. I’m especially fond of Krahulik’s art in this period, although I think that might just be nostalgia talking. Penny Arcade has existed for over a decade now, and the artwork has evolved along with Krahulik over that period. The latest change has occurred in the past year or so, with the characters beginning to look increasingly like they were drawn by John Kricfalusi. Now, I will concede that it is a fascinating exercise to watch an artist try new things and incorporate their various influences into their work as they mature. But I’ve never liked John Kricfalusi's artwork, and so I’m feeling a little sullen about the new look. This book covers the heyday of the clean, angular art that drew so many people to Penny Arcade in the first place, and I really enjoy the novelty of having prints from that time period, if not for entirely objective reasons.

The actual content from this year included more hits than misses, and introduced more than one long-standing character or meme. The Merch is a notable exception, but I’m heartened by Holkins’ commentaries on these strips, which seem to indicate that he was as skeptical of that particular angle as I was. Balancing that out in this volume are two classic, fantastic subplots: Annarchy, and the Elemenstor Saga. The first involves a rare bit of story continuity revolving around Tycho’s eleven-year-old niece Ann, providing a surprisingly funny and poignant take on both Tycho and on Penny Arcade’s general content. Annarchy is living proof that a warm, fuzzy teddy bear lives deep inside a lot of cynical, foul-mouthed gamers like me. The second started as an obscure one-off comic and sparse wiki, and through the machinations of the Penny Arcade fanbase became a sprawling faux-franchise, allegedly covering over a dozen novels, two animated series, and a collectible card game. This meta-narrative is admittedly a little hard to appreciate, being that it lives mostly outside of the actual comic and is purposefully obtuse and ridiculous. However, anybody that has ever read a licensed fantasy novel or attempted to immerse themselves in the lore of an RPG or CCG will find this absolutely hilarious. The premium content at the back of the book is devoted to the Elemenstor Saga, consisting of an introduction to the joke’s concept and some excerpts of the vast fan-authored wiki page. My only disappointment is that The Halls Below doesn’t really cover the second half of this enormous in-joke: the rival “franchise” Song of the Sorcelator, and its flamboyant mastermind, L. H. Franzibald. Yes, it's as funny as it sounds.

It’s kind of hard to recommend this to curious readers who aren’t already familiar with Penny Arcade, since the actual website is the best place for that. But speaking as a longtime fan of the strip, this is a nice little curio, and worth buying just for the additional commentary on each strip.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - His Majesty's Dragon, by Naomi Novik

2011-06-18T11:01:00.000-07:00

I think that most of the fantasy I’ve been reading lately has been taking itself quite seriously. Lots of death, sex, political intrigue, and bleak futures. The first book in Novik’s Temeraire series is exactly what I needed: a fresh take on a well-worn fantasy trope that doesn’t need high-minded literary aspirations due to it being so fun to read. Not to say that it isn’t literary either; His Majesty’s Dragon is a pretty great work of fantasy fiction.

This first book introduces the reader to William Lawrence, a sea captain in the Royal Navy. The books take place in an alternate version of Europe during the Napoleonic Wars, where dragons not only exist but are fairly common, and a key element of most nations’ military forces. After a quick battle with a weakened French ship, Lawrence recovers a prize of great value: a dragon egg, ready to hatch. The intelligent animal unexpectedly picks Lawrence to bond with; duty compels Lawrence to leave his beloved ship and become an aviator, simply for the sake of putting another British dragon in the skies. However, his initial reluctance to leave his sheltered life as an officer and gentleman to become a social pariah (as most aviators usually are in this England) quickly fades, as he begins to form his own bond with the unique black dragon, who he has named Temeraire after the famous Royal ship of the line. Lawrence and Temeraire’s training progresses quickly due to the dragon’s extraordinary intelligence and unique flying abilities, but a clever plan by Napoleon to invade England forces them into action, and unveils some startling truths about what Temeraire is and where he came from.

The entire book rests on the relationship between Lawrence and Temeraire, and it does so comfortably. Both are excellent, sympathetic characters. Lawrence’s stilted manners and fish-out-of-water naiveté contrasts perfectly with Temeraire’s wide-eyed innocence and occasional childish enthusiasm, making them an easy pair to like and root for. Admittedly, though, their relationship does take some getting used to. Between the histrionics each goes into at any perceived threat towards the other and Lawrence’s baffling tendency to refer to Temeraire as “my dear,” there are some initial overtones of gay man-dragon love. But as the book progresses, Novik does a fantastic job of defining the strong, unique relationships between the captains and their sentient dragons. I perceived it as a mix of the feelings a person would have towards a child and a particularly loved pet. In any event, once the initial “wtf?” feeling wears off, it is written well enough to make some of the scenes between the dragons and their respective people heart-wrenching, if occasionally too sentimental.

As with any good alternate history that takes place in wartime, the battles are the highlights of this book. Novik eschews the “dragon-rider” approach, and instead puts forth the notion that dragons can support actual crews of various sizes, who operate much like naval crews of the time would. Thus, each battle scene mixes the tense, orderly progression of a naval clash with the chaos of aerial warfare. Also, we’re talking about dragons that can do cool dragon things like spit acid and claw things apart. It really doesn’t get much cooler than that.

The story is probably the weakest element of the book, in that it’s understated and doesn’t take a whole lot of surprising turns. This book has a distinct “introductory” feel, meaning that the establishment of the characters takes precedence over the actual plot. This doesn’t actually cause any problems for the majority of the book, since the world and characters are so interesting that the story shines in a bit of their reflected light. However, the ending retains that simplicity; once the final twist is revealed, everything resolves itself with simplicity that strains credulity. Considering the buildup to the climactic scenes, I simply don’t buy how things turned out.

The ending was almost unsatisfying enough for me to knock a point off, but I had so much fun reading this book that I decided to let it go. This is good, solid fantasy. I’ve never been a dragon guy; I’ll admit to never having read a Pern book despite being a longtime sci-fi and fantasy reader. So, I can’t really speak to how His Majesty’s Dragon holds up to other books in the dragon genre, assuming that there is such a thing as a “dragon genre.” But I can overwhelmingly recommend this book for fantasy readers, alternate history readers, and those with a penchant for wartime or historical fiction that don’t mind some flights of fancy. I’ve already bought the next two; I’m sold.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: Kill Shakespeare Vol. 1, by Conor McCreery, Andy Belanger, and Anthony Del Col

2011-06-15T18:34:00.001-07:00

I heard about this graphic novel on NPR, which made my responsible adult side feel better about reading graphic novels, and my inner child feel better about listening to NPR. Being what I’d call a casual fan of Shakespeare, it sounded like something that would be right up my alley. After reading through the first volume, I can say that I like it, but it’s not as good as I was hoping it would be.

The story picks up somewhere around the third act of Hamlet, with the Danish prince sailing off into exile rather than being sung to his rest by flights of angels. After being haunted by some familiar witches, he is cast overboard and finds himself on a strange, faraway shore, where he is greeted by everyone’s favorite gruff king with a withered hand. Richard III proclaims Hamlet to be the “Shadow King,” a figure spoken of in legend that is destined to kill a mysterious demigod known as “Shakespeare” and claim the power of his magical quill. Richard promises to bring Hamlet’s father back to him if he fulfills his destiny, but Hamlet eventually finds himself lost and alone in the countryside. A loose band of commoners opposed to Richard’s tyranny (including Falstaff, Othello, and Juliet) try to persuade Hamlet to join them, as Richard conspires with the seductive Lady Macbeth to bring the Shadow King back into his grasp.

So, the riot of Shakespeare characters assuming new personas and taking sides is enough by itself to make this volume worth checking out. I suppose that you could find yourself annoyed by the liberties taken with the Bard’s stories if you were a diehard Shakespeare nut, but I thought the reimagined relationships and alliances were deliciously fun to read. Furthermore, the proper Shakespearean tone has been set; gratuitous violence, sexual innuendo, and bad puns are all firmly in evidence.

Once the initial awesome factor wore off, though, a few things began to bother me. The story moves so quickly that there isn’t a whole lot of time to take anything in. There is a lot of reliance on the numerous cameos to move the story along (I'm not even sure why the scene with Puck was even remotely necessary), and so the plot feels a little clunky and contrived. Not to the point of being bad, but there’s definitely a “serial” feel to the volume.

The biggest problem I had, though, is with the artwork. I don’t usually get hung up on art, being the forgiving guy that I am. But honestly, I had trouble trying to puzzle out exactly what was going on at some points. The flow of the panels will often change unexpectedly, without any particular narrative reason or clearly defined map of the proceedings, forcing me to occasionally reread a few panels after getting lost. Also, abrupt shifts in setting are frequent in each chapter (especially after Hamlet takes up with the Prodigals and the narrative splits off into two branches), making it occasionally hard to figure out what’s happening even when the panel flow stays consistent. Finally, and maybe this is just me: there’s something off about the faces. The expressions are not quite real. The characters are gorgeous, and standard dialogue looks just fine, but every single reaction shot looks waaaaay overdone. As in, giant eyes, gaping mouth, parody-of-an-actual-facial-expression overdone. I feel like I’m being a touch unfair, here, because the art is very good from a technical standpoint; Belanger is no slouch. But something about the expressions just didn’t resonate for me. The characters came off as a little cartoonish, somehow. That normally wouldn’t bother me, but in this instance it just contrasted too much with the Shakespearean motif.

So, chalk this one up as a solid "acceptable," for me. Maybe not fantastic, but still pretty good.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review - Zombies vs. Unicorns, ed. by Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier

2011-06-09T14:51:00.000-07:00

Zombies or unicorns: which is superior?!

It’s the…

…the eternal question… ?

The title and premise of the collection was enough to attract my interest. Of course, zombies are better. I mean, seriously, unicorns? Does that even need to be explained? I had to get more on the particulars of that debate. Also, I was goaded into action after reading about somebody somewhere that tried to get this book off of a library shelf, because it allegedly features a gay zombie and unicorn bestiality. Awesome, right? Turns out, there is indeed a gay zombie (who stars in one of the best stories in the collection), and unicorn-boning is marginally more creepy than zombie-boning, which if not technically present is at least heavily implied. With that established, I can wholeheartedly vouch for this entire collection. Even the unicorn-boning.

The collection is edited by two YA authors, Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier. The stories are introduced with their respective commentaries on the debate, with Black establishing herself as a unicorn enthusiast contrasted to Larbalestier’s steadfast support for the undead. Each has enlisted a team of like-minded YA authors to support their cause, which include rock stars like Garth Nix, Scott Westerfeld, Meg Cabot, and Libba Bray, among others. Each team’s stories are then presented in alternating order, with little icons at the top to denote their respective content/allegiances. Furthermore, the editors preface each story with a mix of folkloric background and hilarious snarking at each other.

So, obviously, zombies win, but the unicorn stories are fantastic. Between zombies being the paranormal flavor of the week and the existence of an exhaustive back-catalog of zombie fare, the edgy takes on unicorns were fresh and interesting by comparison. In fact, my favorite story in the collection was Kathleen Duey’s tale of an amoral beast searching for release from its instincts.

Generally speaking, though, the zombie stories are just as original and interesting. Libba Bray’s entry, the final story in the collection, is fantastic enough to demand its own full-length novel. And while I may have my issues with Carrie Ryan’s sulky, mascara-running zombie poutfests, she’s in fantastic form here. Maybe it has something to do with time of exposure, for me; what came off as unnecessary angst in her otherwise great novels seemed to enhance the grim, bittersweet mood in her short story.

The collection has the same peaks and valleys in consistency that all short-story compilations have to deal with, but while there were one or two stories here that didn’t really do anything for me, there’s nothing that I would categorize as weak or not pulling its weight, even when comparing to the ones I liked. Both teams perform admirably, and are likely to make unexpected fans of readers that venture in with their preconceived notions firmly entrenched. Furthermore, this is definitely a book that is meant for older teens, as it deals with some pretty mature themes. By extension, it’s a perfect choice for adult readers who enjoy plot-centric teen lit, if the cast of contributing authors isn’t enough to convince you.

It must be said that, as a thirty-year-old man, carrying around a book called Zombies vs. Unicorns isn’t something I’d normally be proud of, and the instinct to proclaim its virtues would usually be curbed in place of quietly admitting it as a guilty pleasure. Further, it must be said that this isn’t anything that’s going to blow a reader’s mind. But this collection is too much fun. I couldn’t even bring myself to search for nits to pick like I usually do, because I was too busy enjoying tales about killer unicorns and the zombie apocalypse. I guess I could complain about this weird obsession that paranormal and urban fantasy authors have with interspecies romance, but honestly, that’s barely even surprising at this point. This collection is obviously not for readers who take themselves or their books too seriously, but I’d recommend it to anybody who likes zombies, teen lit, fantasy, or just has a taste for something offbeat. It’s hilarious and genuinely creepy by turns, and it's crewed by a seriously talented group of authors.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Teen Booklist - Mysteries

2011-06-07T12:29:00.000-07:00

I spent May getting ready for Summer Reading, and was out of bright ideas for teen displays, so I settled on a time-tested genre display. I've never been much of a mystery reader, but inheriting a mystery book club has expanded my horizons a bit, and this list reflects that. I tried to include a little from different mystery subtypes: whodunits, thrillers, paranormal mysteries, fiction with mystery overtones, and of course, the ever-popular "problem novels" that happen to include a mystery as a central plot point.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, by Agatha Christie
The Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle
Shine, by Lauren Myracle
The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin, by Josh Berk
Pretty Little Liars, by Sara Shepard
Lily Dale: Awakening, by Wendy Corsi Staub
The Christopher Killer, by Alane Ferguson
Hoot, by Carl Hiaasen
All Unquiet Things, by Anna Jarzab
Acceleration, by Graham MacNamee
Eye of the Crow, by Shane Peacock
The Uninvited, by Tim Wynne-Jones
Kill Game, by Francine Pascal
The Big Splash, by Jack D. Ferraiolo
Last Shot: A Final Four Mystery, by John Feinstein
I, Q: Independence Hall, by Roland Smith
Finding Lubchenko, by Michael Simmons
Kiki Strike: Inside the Shadow City, by Kirsten Miller
The Agency: A Spy in the House, by Y. S. Lee
The Falconer's Knot, by Mary Hoffman
Rosebush, by Michele Jaffe
Searching for Yesterday, by Valerie Sherrard
The Bone Magician, by F. E. Higgins
Kiss Me Kill Me, by Lauren Henderson
Canned, by Alex Shearer
The Death Collector, by Justin Richards
The Chaos Code, by Justin Richards
Paper Daughter, by Jeanette Ingold
Dream Girl, by Lauren Mechling
Agnes Quill: An Anthology of Mystery, edited
The Mystery of the Third Lucretia, by Susan Runholt
Torchwood: Another Life, by Peter Anghelides
Endymion Spring, by Matthew Skelton
Jack: Secret Histories, by F. Paul Wilson
Res Judicata, by Vicki Grant
Beautiful Dead: Jonas, by Eden Maguire
The Hanging Woods, by Scott Loring Sanders
Getting the Girl: A Guide to Private Investigation, Surveillance, and Cookery, by Susan Juby

Book Review - Artemis Fowl, by Eoin Colfer

2011-05-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

It’s been kind of amazing seeing the scramble to find the next Harry Potter. The Artemis Fowl series is one of the contenders I’ve heard bandied about, especially since there’s been talk of a movie being made. I was hesitant to pick up another pretender to the throne, especially considering the bile that rises in my throat every time someone compares Twilight to Harry Potter, or the fun-but-not-quite-my-speed experience that was the first Septimus Heap book. I finally read Artemis Fowl after snapping up an electronic version for free, and while I definitely liked it, I don’t know if I loved it.

The premise of the book, generally speaking, is fantastic. Artemis Fowl is the archetypical precocious boy genius, yes. But he also happens to be a criminal mastermind. With his father missing and his mother caught in a rapidly degenerating mental fugue, Fowl is in a state of desperation. He hatches an outlandish plan to return his fallen family to their former glory, and it involves the People (who humans have always known as fairies, trolls, leprechauns, and other figments of tall tales and dreams). Through trickery and bribery, Fowl manages to get his hands on a copy of The Book, which outlines the rules of fairy magic down to the smallest detail. Armed with forbidden knowledge, Fowl sets upon achieving something that no human has ever done before: to kidnap a fairy, and successfully walk away with a fortune in fairy gold as ransom.

The fact that the story’s protagonist is also the villain excites me to levels that I can’t quite put words to, as I’ve always been partial to villains. A good villain is good because they have motives and rationales that justify their heinous acts, and Fowl is no exception. Ostensibly, Fowl is attempting to replenish his family’s fortune, and re-establish the notoriety of its name. However, he is also a 12-year-old boy who misses his dad and wants his mom to be well, and that lies at the heart of everything he does. It makes for a great character, especially for teen lit. The fact that Fowl is the antagonist splits up the narrative in a strange way, but the multiple “heroes” in the book complement each other quite nicely. In fact, the characters are the best thing about this book, with each being distinct and likeable in their own way, even when they occasionally seem somewhat two-dimensional.

And that’s the crux of the book’s weak point: everything feels a little gimmicky. From the improbable grandiosity of the power and history of Artemis Fowl’s family to the complex dei ex machina of fairy magic/technology, everything in the book veers a little too much towards the witty and clever to be taken very seriously. Consistency takes a back seat to “isn’t that cool,” for the most part. Which is not to say that anything egregiously bad is going on; Artemis Fowl is highly readable, and I was especially taken by the first half of the book. But the story and its mythology, for all of the loving detail, is not very deep.

In fact, this is very much a book for teens and older kids, and is likely to lose older readers that are hunting for that magic YA Crossover effect. Poop humor abounds. Between that, the melodramatic dialogue, and a liberal sprinkling of James Bond-style action and gadgetry, I began to sense a very definite audience that I think might not include me. The last half of the story is much slower than the first half, too; the fairies use a “time-stop” at the beginning of the book’s third act, and I think it might have worked on me, too, because the pace seemed to slow to a crawl as I approached the book’s climax.

As a quick aside, I’ve seen more than one reader review that lambastes the book (in all seriousness!) for its “anti-human agenda” and its “environmentalist propaganda.” Really? I mean... honestly? Huh. Well, I don’t know if those reviewers intended to give such a revealing peek into their own psyches, but it sure goes a long way to explain why trying to discuss politics with anybody these days feels to me like repeatedly punching myself in the eye socket. Suffice it to say that, as with any story that involves nature-attuned spirits who live in the earth, Artemis Fowl has an undercurrent of environmentalism. However, Colfer handles this deftly, with no unnecessary moralizing other than the expressed prejudices of the fairies, and no hint of “teaching a lesson” to be found anywhere. Action is the name of the game in this book, and some of the characters (Holly Short and Butler, specifically) are quite fun to read in this regard.

So, no, not the next Harry Potter. In a rare reversal of how things usually go for me, I loved this one in the beginning, and then the magic started to wear off a little as I approached the end. But I’d still give this one a solid recommendation for fantasy fans who aren't picky about reading something meant for younger readers, and it’s a definite must-read for teens who like action, magic, and series books. It has its problems, but Artemis Fowl is definitely a fun read, and I liked it just enough to try out the next book when I get a chance.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: The Guild, by Felicia Day and Jim Rugg

2011-05-20T15:15:00.001-07:00

After a protracted spell of buying any and all graphic novels I could get my hands on for the past seven months, I’ve finally come to my senses a little bit. I now try to stick to large collections and long one-off stories, and refrain from investing in graphic novels that are under 150 pages or so unless I know I want to own it. This one falls into that latter category. I’m enough of a fan of the web series that I ordered this graphic novel simply out of loyalty. I figured it would be an extra goodie for existing fans of the Guild (and it definitely is), but this svelte three-chapter story has a fair amount of mainstream appeal, as well.

This is essentially a prequel to the first season of The Guild. It’s Cyd Sherman’s backstory; the few throwaway lines that hint at her pre-Codex days in the show are explored in full detail, here. The first chapter covers her somewhat labored relationship with her then-boyfriend and her job as a professional symphonic musician. When she discovers “The Game,” the story veers towards a surprisingly deep exploration of the balance between confronting your problems and using escapism to hide from them. Finally, the third chapter sets the stage for the characters we know and love from the web series.

Felicia Day, the creator and star of the series, also wrote this book, and it definitely shows. The graphic novel has all of the humor and charm of the series, and I could practically hear the familiar voices of the characters. In fact, I’d argue that the graphic novel is the perfect introduction to the series, and not just because it is a chronological prequel. There is plenty of video game stuff in the story, but it’s all rudimentary; the reader is learning about The Game at the same time Cyd is. Thus, the story offers a gentle learning curve into the lingo-heavy world of playing MMORPGs, and since the jokes are more centered on the real world than the game world, the less-nerdy readers have a chance to develop an appreciation for Codex and The Guild without getting buried by inside jokes.

The only problem I have with the book is with the art. The art isn’t bad, but it isn’t particularly consistent. This is especially apparent due to the different art styles for in-game and real life. When Syd takes on her Codex persona, the story switches to a slick, soft-lit fantasy look, and then returns to hand-drawn normalcy when the computer is off. The game art is actually fantastic, which calls attention to the occasional weird panel in the real-life scenes, usually due to oddly-proportioned bodies or faces. To be fair to Jim Rugg, I’d imagine that doing comic versions of real-life actors contributes to the problem. I’m normally somewhat forgiving of characters looking a little different from panel to panel, but I have a certain expectation of what Felicia Day looks like, so I can’t help but have a split-second “WHAT HAPPENED TO HER FACE?!” reaction if something is a little off on any given page.

Like I said, though, inconsistent doesn’t necessarily mean bad, especially considering that most of the art is great. In any event, the excellent writing makes it easy to forgive and forget. Overall, this is a great graphic novel, and not just for people who are already fans of the show. Comic readers who like video games and/or quirky, realistic characters should give this one a try.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - Reality is Broken, by Jane McGonigal

2011-05-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

This book floated at the periphery of my awareness for a while, before a television interview finally motivated me to seek it out. McGonigal has an impressive resume: game design lead, TED presenter, admitted gamer, and inexhaustible optimist. It honestly wouldn’t take much to get me to read a book about video games, but McGonigal’s mission to make gaming a socially meaningful exercise (or, at least, to achieve more recognition for its inherent social impact) made me intensely curious. While I’m not quite sure what to think about it now that I’ve finished it, I’m glad I took the time to read it.

McGonigal begins this book on familiar ground: the staggering numbers of hours that a typical gamer spends planted in front of a screen, and the usual wailing and gnashing of teeth that accompanies such figures. Rather than play the same sensationalistic game that many play with that information, though, she springboards into some rather bold assertions. First, she claims that these numbers exist because games are ultimately more rewarding than real life. Further, she insists that the mental energy being expended in game worlds is ripe and waiting to be harnessed to improve society as a whole. At this point, gaming Luddites are cued to scoff, unbelieving. Meanwhile, I and other gamers immediately shudder at the thought of engaging the sociopathic mutants that comprise a wide swath of our fellow players any more than we must. McGonigal’s hypothesis is carefully crafted, though; what follows is an illuminating look into the psychological mechanisms of contentment and happiness, and how close we already are to merging games and social action.

I found the first third of the book to be particularly fascinating, and ironically enough, it only tangentially involved video games. McGonigal cites numerous studies that point to a profound fallacy perpetrated upon us: the notion that we are wired to work only in order to amass the things we need to survive, and that “happiness” as we understand it is found in the rewards we accrue from our work. These studies suggest that it’s the work itself which actually defines our happiness, but with some very specific caveats; namely, the work must be entirely voluntary, the obstacle must be unnecessary to some degree, and the reward must be both explicitly apparent and customized to our particular needs. In short, we are wired to be the most energized and content when we work hard at a task we choose to undertake of our own volition, and can see the direct results of that work. This idea is the backbone of the book's thesis, which is that we spend so much time playing video games because the games are magnitudes better at delivering this kind of happiness than our real lives. Life is too often filled with work we are compelled to do in order to fulfill someone else’s goals, with no appreciable reward or positive impact other than the ability to pay our bills (and, of course, buy a new video game).

That’s a weighty and interesting notion, and it carries the whole book through some rather high-minded suggestions and improbable scenarios. McGonigal is an avowed futurist who works in the business of alternate reality games, and thus has a lot to say about how games can be leveraged to do things like promote happiness, collaboration, and social action. She gives plenty of concrete examples, many of which are interesting in their own right, and is careful to acknowledge that games like these are still on the fringe of gaming consciousness and highly experimental in nature. But she uses their various successes to weave together a path to what she believes to be the destiny of gaming: the application of the contentment and flow of gaming to fixing problems in the real world.

Thankfully, she has no illusions about how improbable such a thing is; in fact, it’s quite clear that the skepticism she gets in response to her goal of a game designer winning a Nobel Prize only goads her on further. McGonigal is endlessly upbeat about the positive power of gaming, which is initially compelling, and makes it hard to dismiss the optimistic visions she describes (especially considering the evidence she provides along with them). But I have to say, all of that optimism started to grate on me after a while. Part of that may be that I am a longtime gamer and this book is geared towards those who aren’t gamers at all, necessarily, so I got fed up with the novelty of gaming terms like “epic win” rather quickly.

But a larger problem I had was that the optimism wasn’t balanced out by the healthy dose of realism it needs. I have no doubt that McGonigal is realistic about the work she does, considering that she is a gamer herself and is immersed in it within her professional life, so I’m forced to wonder at the odd omissions in this book. No mention of gaming addiction, for instance, or of professional gaming. There's a cursory mention of how "playing games" is typically used as a derogatory phrase, but no acknowledgement of how game theory is behind zero-sum mayhem in everything from relationships to international politics. She mentions Xbox Live in passing and I assume she’s used the service before, but I wonder at how her experience can differ so radically with mine. I have my online friends, and enjoy myself online, but the shining moments of collaboration, bridging the geographical gap between me and my erstwhile companions, applying our natural talents to overcome obstacles in a brilliant starburst of pride and goodwill? That is not my normal experience. My normal experience is having someone go on a headset tirade and/or send me a message that consists largely of the word “fag,” followed by a ragequit if I happen to be winning. I’m willing to bet that is the normal experience for most other players, too.

But again, this is probably due to the book being meant for an audience that is as inclusive as possible, and focusing on the stereotype that many people have about gamers (which is not entirely without merit) would only get in the way of McGonigal’s message. I was initially confused about the lack of any mention of I Love Bees, an alternate reality game that McGonigal helped design for the release of Halo 2, since it is arguably the most mainstream example of a collaborative ARG. There is an entire chapter on the gargantuan reach and mighty gaming achievements of the Halo community; was it not socially conscious enough, I wondered, to mention the vast storytelling effort that was related to that community but was first and foremost a marketing tool? Then I did some research and found that she had written an academic paper solely on I Love Bees, at a level far beyond what the casual reader or nongamer would have any interest in absorbing. Meanwhile, the Olympics ARG makes the cut for the book, since everyone knows about the Olympics.

There were moments when I started to tune out a little, but the overarching idea of this book is fascinating. Like many, I can’t help but be somewhat skeptical, especially at the end when we start looking at global “games” and the line between game-playing and scenario analysis becomes so blurred as to be nonexistent. But the force of McGonigal’s enthusiasm is hard to ignore, and I can’t help but be a little excited at the prospect of her best-case scenario. I would recommend this book to anyone who wants a fresh perspective on gaming, or anyone who wants to get to the root of “gamer guilt” and reconcile their hobby with their desire to do something meaningful with their time. Video games aside, though, this is worth reading just for the interesting stuff at the beginning about how we react to immediate feedback and the difference between working for external and intrinsic rewards. There’s some stuff to nitpick at, and I actually didn’t love it as much as I thought I would, but this is an interesting read by a smart, dedicated author.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Teen Booklist - Music in the Pages

2011-05-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

Teen Read Week takes place in October, and last year's theme was "Books with Beat." Being a musician myself, I love the idea of creating a list of books that feature music as the main element and unifying theme. I found myself unable to participate, however; it turned out that my son was born on the first day of that week, so I was understandably doing other things at the time.

I resurrected the idea for April, which is National Poetry Month. I firmly believe that music, be it melodic or lyrical, perfectly fits the criteria of poetry, despite whatever a pedantic literature major might tell you. Due to the eclectic nature of teen lit and musical tastes, this list has a little bit of everything.

The Spoken Word Revolution, by Mark Eleveld
Everybody Hurts: An Essential Guide to Emo Culture, by Leslie Simon and Trevor Kelley
Audrey, Wait! by Robin Benway
Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist, by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan
Tempo Change, by Barbara Hall
Harmonic Feedback, by Tara Kelly
Heavy Metal and You, by Christopher Krovatin
I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone, by Stephanie Kuehnert
Ballads of Suburbia, by Stephanie Kuehnert
Four Seasons, by Jane Breskin Zalben
Beat the Band, by Don Calame
Freaked, by J. T. Dutton
Troll Bridge, by Jane Yolen and Adam Stemple
My Life: The Musical, by Maryrose Wood
Born Blue, by Han Nolan
Angels on Sunset Boulevard, by Melissa de la Cruz
Born to Rock, by Gordan Korman
Beige, by Cecil Castellucci
Unsigned Hype, by Booker T. Mattison
Five Flavors of Dumb, by Antony John
Garage Band, by Gipi
Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life, by Bryan Lee O'Malley
Roadsong, by Allan Gross and Joanna Estep
So Punk Rock (And Other Ways to Disappoint Your Mother), by Micol and David Ostow
A Little Wanting Song, by Cath Crowley
Battle of the Bands, by K. L. Denman
Hurricane Song, by Paul Volponi
Heartsinger, by Karlijn Stoffels
Somebody Everybody Listens To, by Suzanne Supplee
La Corda d'Oro, by Yuki Kure
Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception, by Maggie Stiefvater
Somebody Scream!: Rap Music's Rise to Prominence in the Aftershock of Black Power, by Marcus Reeves

Graphic Novel Review - Batman: The Killing Joke, by Alan Moore and Brian Bolland

2011-05-04T09:57:00.000-07:00

Despite the long years of my misspent youth lined with comic books, I've never been a Batman reader. I was an avowed Marvel kid, so the Tim Burton movie was, sadly, my first introduction to the Dark Knight. I wish I had discovered The Killing Joke back then, because after reading the recently released hardcover edition of this graphic novel, I kind of want to get into the series.

This is the quintessential Joker tale; in fact, I had read that Heath Ledger was given a copy of this story to prepare for his brilliant turn as the Joker in "The Dark Knight," and that movie has this story's "One Bad Day" theme written all over it as a result. The story opens with Batman paying the Joker a call at Arkham, intent on talking things through with him and ending their rivalry once and for all, before one of them is forced to kill the other. Too late, he realizes that Joker has already escaped. Meanwhile, Joker unexpectedly shows up at the home of Commissioner Gordon, abducting him and critically wounding his daughter in the process. Joker then sets his plan into motion: he attempts to drive Gordon insane, for no discernible reason other than that he can. He's also sent Batman an invitation to his impromptu carnival, intent on having a talk of his own.

In the deluxe version, the story has been recolored with artist Brian Bolland's original intended colors, and the effect is striking. The muted colors are perfect for the tone of the story. The black-and-white flashbacks are particularly good, especially considering the deepening notes of crimson that thread through them and lead towards the Joker's destiny (or one version of it, anyway). Colors aside, the artwork is spectacular. The two panels of the Joker with a gun (particularly the second) will stay with me for a while.

The story is as dark and brilliant as you would expect something of Alan Moore's to be. This is a fantastically creepy Joker: sadistic, dangerously insane, and weirdly tragic. The ending is deliciously ambiguous, and haunting on a number of levels, including the various interpretations of the actual joke itself. The only weakness I can see springs from Moore's strength as a storyteller. The Killing Joke could easily be twice as long. We could get so much deeper into this story, and still not lose any of its power. It felt too short. Thankfully, the deluxe edition includes an interesting but somewhat disturbing original story by Bolland that doesn't really stand on its own, but does offer a nice coda to Moore's story.

This is comic book canon. Anybody interested in comics or graphic novels should read this, and it's a shame I waited so long to do it. Also, anybody who likes the new Batman movies, particularly Ledger's Joker, should read this and see where that character came from.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review - The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss

2011-04-27T19:35:00.000-07:00

Kvothe Kingkiller: Awesome? Or the most awesome?

That appears to be the important question in Rothfuss’s first book, which came to me highly recommended. The book makes no secret of being a paean to the overall badassery of its hero, either; the blurb is largely a list of Kvothe’s many accomplishments, accompanied with a cocksure “you may have heard of me.” If you think this all sounds like a tome of author wish-fulfillment that is centered on an annoyingly unbelievable protagonist... well, you wouldn’t be too far off the mark. But Rothfuss achieves the highly improbable, here. This is an extremely readable fantasy epic, with writing so genuinely good that I was forced to forgive its more egregious faults, no matter how much I may not have wanted to.

The book is actually a story within a story, and opens with a somber introduction to the owner of a lonely village inn. We soon learn that the unassuming innkeeper is living in hiding for some reason, and is the Kvothe we have apparently heard so much about. Strange tidings are afoot around the inn, however; demon-like creatures are attacking the travelers on the nearby roads, and Kvothe seems to be the only person around (along with his strange, otherworldly “employee” at the inn) who understands what they are and how to fight them off. Eventually, the famous Chronicler (who, appropriately enough, makes his living by chronicling things) travels to the inn after nearly being killed by the creatures on the roads, drawn to the area by rumors that the legendary Kvothe Kingkiller was hiding somewhere nearby. After some careful prodding, Kvothe agrees to tell his story, provided that he can tell it his way, immediately, without interruption. Thus, the book continues with his own story told in his own words, beginning with his childhood years as a traveling performer, and the circumstances that saw him admitted to the prestigious University on his way to becoming the youngest and most powerful Arcanist in centuries.

The story has a purposeful, palpable epic feel to it. This is a story about Kvothe, told by Kvothe. There are a number of interludes that pull back to the “present day,” including a particularly tense and action-packed chapter near the end, but they don’t yet connect directly to the main narrative. The Name of the Wind is mostly about Kvothe’s past, and the beginning steps of the journey that apparently leads to infamous adventures and deeds of great renown. The story is heavy with foreshadowing, some of which is fulfilled and some of which leads unmistakably to events in future books. I have seen multiple references to “Harry Potter for adults” in discussions about this book, and I’m inclined to agree: boy who is old for his age and seemingly good at anything he tries goes through some hard knocks, and then gets accepted to a school of magic and mystery, where he’s immediately the star of the show and suddenly vulnerable to dangers he hadn’t even considered.

Considering how up front Rothfuss is about what sort of story we can expect, the book is executed masterfully. Rothfuss can really turn a phrase. The writing is crisp and descriptive, and Kvothe’s tale flows like it really is being told by a minstrel, exaggerated at all the right parts and rife with beats and asides calculated for maximum dramatic effect. This is a pretty massive novel, but I couldn’t put it down. Moreover, you can see how carefully a lot of the story's main themes are crafted. The rampant Mary Sue-ishness of Kvothe and the plot convention of the skeptical Chronicler taking down his story intertwine to create a parable about the ephemeral nature of history, and how the line between fact and myth is often blurred in order to create a legend.

But, come on, you can’t write a book like this without taking some flak. If you tell me your hero is the most radical cool guy EVER, then I’m naturally going to be skeptical. Make no mistake, Kvothe is really supposed to be that good at everything he does. He had a photographic memory as a child. Was a master musician by the onset of puberty. An unrivaled actor. So good at learning rhetoric and chemistry that he was a graduate-level scientist at 12 years old. Naturally, he’s the most gifted wizard that anybody has ever seen. Fit and strong enough to physically face down a pack of ravenous demons, and still be chipper enough to crack a complicated text cipher a few hours later, after reading a single encoded paragraph. Oh, and let’s not forget how every remotely attractive woman in the vicinity is immediately primed for some naked time with him, despite the fact that he’s a teenager. PERHAPS YOU’VE HEARD OF HIM!

This somewhat ill-advised assuredness actually bleeds through into Rothfuss’s writing, which I think is where the faint whiffs of wish-fulfillment are coming from. Rothfuss is a fantastic writer, and excels at both telling the story and penning attractive, flowing prose. He’s so good, in fact, that he loses focus in a few places. He sometimes gets so wrapped up in a clever turn of phrase that he misplaces a pronoun or two. And he’s often guilty of letting his adept grasp on vocabulary and grammar get in the way, which is kind of a greenhorn mistake. For example, while I’ll admit that “a sea of susurrus murmurings” is an aesthetically beautiful phrase, it’s not only irritatingly redundant, but probably the most pretentious goddamned thing I’ve ever read in a fantasy novel. So, yeah. Between the grandiose descriptions of Kvothe and the bombastic tack that Rothfuss takes with the narrative, it can be occasionally difficult to take this whole thing seriously.

Here’s the amazing part, though: The Name of the Wind skirts the line between ridiculous and awesome so nicely that all of these issues can be apologized for through the story itself. Kvothe’s superhuman attributes all have a verifiable origin in his characterization, dubious though they may be, and they are nicely balanced by the multiple scenes in which his cocky naïvete lands him in hot water. The self-aggrandizing feel of the story fits perfectly within the framework of a scribe attempting to chronicle the true story of someone whose past is as much legend as actual history. Even the fact that this book doesn’t really have an ending (because it doesn’t; this planned trilogy began as one very long manuscript, and that fact becomes apparent when the book dumps you off into nowhere after 700 or so pages) is softened a little by the nice way in which Rothfuss bookends the story with a parallel prologue and epilogue, and bolsters it with interludes that hint at a greater story arc. For all that I wanted to cast aspersions on the weak elements of this book, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. This is a great fantasy work, almost despite itself.

I heartily recommend this to any fantasy lover. It’s pompous in just the right way, and tells a fun and resonating story. Rothfuss deserves the credit he’s getting as a talented contemporary fantasy author. However, I’m recommending this with a caveat: Rothfuss is building quite a bit of momentum with this eminently readable first book, and he’s already used up much of his credit in terms of how totally super badical tubular awesome I’m supposed to believe Kvothe is. I’m waiting to see where this story goes, mostly eagerly but with a healthy dose of skepticism. I liked this book enough to drop thirty bones on a hardcover edition of the second book, but from what I’ve already heard about the second book, I’m more than a little wary.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, by Bryan Lee O'Malley

2011-04-10T17:15:00.000-07:00

The Scott Pilgrim series continues in this volume, which I think can be confusing to those new to the series; while the movie takes its name from this book, we're still barely getting into the overall story by this point. This book has all the humor and charm of the first volume, but contains a shift in narrative style that makes it unique. If the reader can come to terms with the languid slacker motif and gimmicky video game shoutouts, they will find a fun and readable story underneath.

This book picks up with Scott forced to decide between his comfortable, platonic relationship with Knives Chau, and his growing infatuation with American hipster ninja delivery girl Ramona Flowers. Meanwhile, the League of Evil Ex-Boyfriends continues their vendetta; Scott seeks out the second ex, movie star Lucas Lee, who imparts some disturbing information about Ramona. And Knives finally puts the pieces together concerning her precious Scott and his connection to Ramona, and is dedicated to protect what's hers. Finally, a destructive force from Scott's past makes an abrupt reappearance...

This one has a little less of the poor man's magical realism from the first one, though the video game boss battle is still in full effect. There's a lot more interpersonal stuff here, as the somewhat aimless relationship stuff gets more page time. There's a surprising bit of introspection, too, as the book starts with a flashback that gives a little history for Scott and Kim Pine. In fact, I was afraid this volume was going to end up somewhat boring and anticlimactic, until the first meeting of Ramona and Knives redeemed things. Meanwhile, the injokes and Gen-X retro-hipster crap is front and center, but for me, it transcends the level of gimmick and is almost a thematic or stylistic element. Weird asides like the recipe for vegan shepherd's pie or the shameless Secret of Monkey Island reference that are seamlessly entwined with the story made me genuinely laugh, rather than annoy me.

The artwork follows the same formula as the first volume: somewhat sloppy manga homage that brings to mind something like an ironic webcomic. There's still plenty of bold text and two-page panels with exaggerated dramatic poses, but both are used more judiciously this time, making the effect much less jarring.

Make no mistake, though, Scott Pilgrim is an acquired taste. If I were to be caught in the wrong mood, the disjointed story, mile-a-minute sarcasm, and somewhat nihilistic characters would probably give me a headache. But sometimes I think that people expect more out of this series than what it is: a love letter to 90s video game culture, and an oddball mix of Singles-esque grunge romantic comedy and Kill Bill-ish martial arts/vendetta fable. Does that sound confusing and kind of ridiculous? It is. But if you can roll with it, this series is hilarious and rewarding. This is one of the best graphic novel series I've read in a while, and it's even better if you try to enjoy it on its own and not compare it to the movie.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - Shine, by Lauren Myracle

2011-04-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

This is the first of Myracle’s books that I’ve read, since her popular Internet Girls series is well outside the realm of my interest. However, after reading Shine, I may have to take a look at those books after all. I managed to secure an advance reader’s copy after hearing some other librarians rave about this book, and while initially skeptical, I was surprised at how quickly this book grabbed me. While it has its oddities and weak spots, Shine is a powerful, well-written book that does an excellent job of framing gritty, tough themes for a teen audience.

The story opens with a newspaper story out of a rural North Carolina town called Black Creek. A teenager named Patrick is known to all the residents of the backwoods town as both the amiable clerk at the local gas station and the village oddity for being openly gay. When Patrick is found severely beaten and tied to a gas pump with a homophobic slur scrawled on his chest, the town is awash with horrified, and almost gleeful, gossip. Cat, a withdrawn sixteen-year-old girl, is particular affected; Patrick was once her closest friend, though she had not been speaking with him at the time of his assault. In a small town where everyone knows everyone, Cat is convinced that she can succeed where the local sheriff is failing, and discover the truth behind what happened to Patrick. Her guilt over the way in which she had handled their friendship drives her to find Patrick’s attacker amidst the residents of Black Creek, and repeated advice from those around her to let sleeping dogs lie only stokes the flames of her anger. However, her quest to shine light on the crime raises the frightening possibility of her being the next target.

This is a rough story to read. It starts with a gut punch and doesn’t get much better. Homophobia, meth addiction, and sexual assault are all touched upon in this story. For all of its darkness, though, Shine never really dips into sensationalism or angst. Everything seems very real in this book. Black Creek is a rural town with rural problems and rural attitudes; while I didn’t grow up as poor as Cat did, I do have enough experience with small-town mindsets to have the setting and characters resonate in a very real way with me. And for all of the darkness in Black Creek, there is beauty, too. Myracle is obviously writing what she knows, and has a talent for presenting the South in a sublime, evocative way, warts and all.

I figured out the mystery early on, but that’s only because I’m fairly familiar with how stories like these play out, unfortunately. But the main plot was extremely well done, with enough tension to keep astute readers strung along but without being too obtuse or boring for teens. The characters are layered, and many are both sympathetic and menacing by turns. Cat, the narrator, is particularly well-written, and her story is visceral and heartbreaking. While the plot itself is something that we have seen before, the mystery in Shine is made compelling by how ambiguous it is, and how there are things left mysterious and unexplained even as the story takes familiar turns.

There are a few things that bothered me, at least momentarily. The introduction of Cat’s love interest (and another potential suspect) is so abrupt that at first I wondered what their first scene together was even doing in the book. The explanation of the tension between Cat and her brother near the end of the book is also somewhat confounding, and appears almost contrived at first glance. The ending, too, is somewhat of a letdown. This could be because I figured the mystery out early on and was hoping I was wrong (I was almost completely correct), but the book also ends abruptly and on a strangely positive note, considering how horrible Patrick’s ordeal was and how bleak things still are by the end of the story.

All of these problems spring from a single source, though, and that source is actually the book's biggest strength: the characters in Shine are not stereotypes, despite their corn-fed hillbilly slang, and they do not act in a predictable fashion. There are no easy answers, here, just as there aren’t any in real life. Sometimes relationships do start in strange, abrupt ways, and considering that Shine is a book for teens, it follows the romance formula in way that is refreshingly understated. While the actions of Cat’s brother in the face of her earliest childhood trauma initially ring false to me and, I imagine, every other big brother who reads this book, Christian’s odd reaction is still evocatively real, in that it proves that not everyone is as brave as they seem. And while the mystery played itself out in the way it was foreshadowed (brilliantly, I might add), I am convinced that another character was involved. I am absolutely sure of this, due to multiple hints in the writing, and despite the fact that the ending does not make any mention of it and wraps things up with a single climactic confrontation. Whether this is an intentional tease by Myracle or just my own interpretation of the reading, it’s still a byproduct of a gripping, tightly-plotted mystery, and lends credence to Black Creek’s gritty, bittersweet realism.

For all that I looked for things to criticize, Shine wouldn’t let me go. I tore through the book, and loved every part of it. This is a grim, unflinching take on the consequences of secrecy and self-loathing, and it also is a paean to the lonely beauty and restorative power of a small, tightly-knit community. It offers a hard glimpse into reality while still telling an oddly sweet story, and it provides a moral without preaching. While there are occasions that the themes could be explored a little deeper or with more detail, this is a perfect example of dramatic teen lit. Once it hit shelves, I imagine it will move quickly. I’d recommend this to anyone looking for a good mystery, regardless of age.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Teen Booklist: Dystopias

2011-04-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

Considering the huge upswing in teen dystopian fiction over the past few years, I decided to theme my March display around it. I tend to go militant when talking to people who like dystopias. Everybody who likes dark, dreary, futuristic fiction should immediately read the holy trinity: 1984, Brave New World, and Fahrenheit 451. No excuses, no arguments. No claiming to like dystopian fiction for you until you read those three. As for the rest, I fudged the list a little when it comes to series books, and am including the first of the series instead of the newest or whichever volume I had available.

1984, by George Orwell
Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
Uglies, by Scott Westerfeld
The Knife of Never Letting Go, by Patrick Ness
Mortal Engines, by Phillip Reeve
Incarceron, by Catherine Fisher
The Adoration of Jenna Fox, by Mary E. Pearson
Feed, by M.T. Anderson
The Carbon Diaries 2015, by Saci Lloyd
The Sky Inside, by Clare B. Dunkle
Skinned, by Robin Wasserman
Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow
The Giver, by Lois Lowry
The City of Ember, by Jeanne DuPrau
The Forest of Hands and Teeth, by Carrie Ryan
Girl in the Arena, by Lise Haines
Batman: Face the Face, by James Dale Robinson, Leonard Kirk, and Don Kramer
Akira, Vol. 1, by Katsuhiro Otomo
Inside Out, by Maria V. Snyder
Pod, by Stephen Wallenfels
Vulture's Wake, by Kirsty Murray
Exodus, by Julie Bertagna
Neptune's Children, by Bonnie Dobkin
Sharp North, by Patrick Cave
The Unidentified, by Rae Mariz

Graphic Novel Review - Astonishing X-Men Vol. 1: Gifted, by Joss Whedon and John Cassaday

2011-03-31T16:59:00.000-07:00

Oh, yes. Yes, this is definitely what I’ve been looking for. This is… yeah. This is X-Men like I remember from back in the days when I was running around my backyard pretending to be Iceman.

The X-books were my comic of choice for many years, so I’ve been itching to get back to them ever since I rediscovered the joy of graphic novels. Trouble is, the mutant books are particularly intimidating for newcomers, or for anyone who hasn’t been paying attention for the past decade or two. Soap operas have nothing on X-Men. Huge crossovers. Complicated backstories, rife with retconning. Hordes of new characters, and plenty of old characters that died somewhere along the way. Tangled plots that involve asteroids, giant robots, genocide, aliens, love triangles, mutant viruses… it’s all quite a lot. Not to mention the mangled version from the movies that has also taken its place in pop culture. I was afraid that I would be hopelessly lost when I stepped back in.

I should have put my trust in Whedon. This first story arc, Gifted, is a slick and straightforward story that does away with all the franchise weirdness, and gives just enough backstory to make sure that we are up to speed. Professor Xavier is away from his school; the X-Men are led by an uncharacteristically hesitant Scott Summers, who is leaning heavily on his new paramour, Emma Frost. The ever-lovable Beast continues to teach at the school despite his seemingly worsening mutation, and two familiar faces are called back to the grounds: Wolverine and Shadowcat (with, of course, the dragon Lockheed in tow). Amidst an ever-worsening climate of anti-mutant fear and loathing, Cyclops plans to bring the X-Men back into the public consciousness as the heroes and protectors they have always been. Their mission to astonish the world comes at an unfortunate time, however, as a company named Benetech announces the development of a mutant “cure,” sparking tension between those who see the mutant gene as something that should be cured and those that don’t. Meanwhile, a hulking figure calling himself Ord of the Breakworld suddenly appears, and his connection to both the X-Men and Benetech leads to surprising consequences and a warning of imminent danger.

I jumped back into X-Men with this volume because I saw Whedon’s name on it. I was hoping he would bring his talent for dialogue to bear, and I wasn’t disappointed. These versions of the X-Men are simply fantastic. The banter is hilarious (so much that I kept reading snatches of it aloud to my patient and somewhat annoyed wife), with Whedon’s trademark wit firmly in place. Even so, no character felt untrue. I’ve been familiar with the exploits of Wolverine, Cyclops, Shadowcat, Beast, and the White Queen for some time now, and even with a new sense of sarcasm and irony infused into the proceedings, these are all very much the characters they have always been. Whedon’s style does not detract from the history of these characters. Rather, it makes them much more sympathetic, and a joy to read.

The story itself is fantastic, too. My only quibble with it comes from the fact that this is a collection of individual comics, rather than a graphic novel in its own right, meaning that the action moves so fast that there are missed opportunities for deeper story development. However, considering the medium, the story is actually very well done, and tense enough to keep readers turning pages. The various twists are also nice in this arc, as well; the sudden return of a character that I loved when I was still reading X-Men and died some time ago made me, a 30-year-old man, bounce with glee. And Cassaday’s art is lovely. I left comic books around the time that Rob Liefeld’s bullshit heyday was peaking in titles like X-Force, so Cassaday’s intense, realistic artwork was a fantastic complement to the story. Every panel was flawless, and every character as nuanced and individual as if I were looking at photographs.

I really can’t say enough good things about this book. I hear the second story arc isn’t quite as polished, but I’m in, at least for the Whedon/Cassaday volumes. This graphic novel has me excited about X-Men again, and that’s saying a lot.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review - The Dead-Tossed Waves, by Carrie Ryan

2011-03-29T14:23:00.000-07:00

I remember coming away from this series’ previous volume, The Forest of Hands and Teeth, with a strong conviction that it should be sitting where the Twilight books are, in terms of paranormal romance for teens and young adults. I stand by that conviction after finishing this second volume, though I stand by it for good and for ill. Ryan does a great job of melding horror with teen romance and existential doom and gloom, and does it with no undercover moralizing, using characters that are actually sympathetic and believable. But the moping. For God’s sake, the moping. The second book confirms that Ryan is writing the most emo zombie story ever. Despite the fact that I’m not really getting into it, though, I can recognize this book’s strong points.

This is technically a sequel, but it actually takes place years after the end of the first book. Gabrielle lives in the walled-off village of Vista, a seaside bastion of humanity on the sea. Trapped between the nearby ruins of the larger city, the dreaded Forest of Hands and Teeth, and an ocean that regurgitates the undead (known in Vista as the Mudo) at every high tide, Gabry has only known the highly regulated safety of Vista, and the relative tranquility of living in Vista’s lighthouse with her odd, outsider mother. However, a playful expedition outside the wall changes everything; on the heels of her first kiss, Gabry and her friends are attacked by the Mudo, and she is the only one to escape being captured and detained by Vista’s militia for breaking the village’s strict rules. A second trip into the wild in order to discover the whereabouts of Gabry’s true love reveals the presence of Elias, a mysterious boy living alone in the ruins that may or may not be part of a strange and misunderstood cult. Fate conspires to push Gabry out of her secure shell in Vista, away from the sea and into the place where her mother came from years ago: The Forest of Hands and Teeth.

What follows is an orgy of sulking, scowling, pouting, crying, overly dramatic hand gestures, and sudden swings between elation and nihilism. Or at least, it seemed that way. The major conflicts in The Dead-Tossed Waves are surprisingly internal: Gabry’s reconciliation of her past, her relationship with her best friend, her relationship with her mother, her choice between the boy she knows and the boy she doesn’t. This is all meaty stuff, especially set against the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse, but it lends itself well to the woe-is-me approach, especially considering that relationship trouble really could coincide with the end of the world, in this case. So, yeah. Mope, mope, mope.

Meanwhile, as with the first book, the zombies are part of the setting rather than an imminent threat. They are always waiting in the wings, but a balance has been achieved that offers a modicum of safety. So, instead of being the stalking threat they usually are, the undead is a stemmed tide behind a dam that must always be vigilantly maintained. In fact, this plays into one of this book’s major themes: the choice between clinging to what you know as it crumbles around you, and being brave enough to risk creating something new. In this, Ryan succeeds beautifully, as nearly every facet of the story plays into this theme.

However, I was a little disappointed at the fact that, for such a character-driven story, there isn’t a lot character-wise in this book that we didn’t see in the last book. Before, we had a rebellious and free-spirited young girl, whose rash actions bring about catastrophe, forcing her into both a love triangle and a flight away from safety. This time, our hero is a shy, insecure, and scared young girl. So, it’s a little galling that her story is exactly the same, down to the hand-wringing love triangle. I suppose there’s an argument for there being an interesting parallel between the two books, considering who the main characters are in each. But again, I found myself wading through too much shoe-gazing ennui to really appreciate that fact.

But I didn’t hate this book. Really, I didn’t. The zombie attacks are actually quite frequent, for all the romance, and are genuinely scary. The mythology that Ryan builds is fascinating, actually; the structure of the post-apocalyptic world is made all the more interesting by the paucity of details. We get into some even more unexplained stuff, this time… Dark City? Immunity to the infection? Zombie hordes? Considering how nicely this book tied up some of the loose ends from the last book and explained some of the concepts that were hinted at, though, I’d expect that the third book would do the same. And the ending nearly made up for the tedium that comes before, capped off by a harrowing escape sequence that is both exciting and thematically brilliant.

So, my biggest problem is that the interesting mythology is only given enough page time to leave me wanting more, in between the long stretches of Gabry wandering around listlessly and feeling sorry for herself. I’d actually hesitate to recommend this as a zombie book, because it’s first and foremost a teen romance, armies of undead notwithstanding. I don’t think I’m quite the target reader for this one, but it is perfect for those that have a taste for horror and are fond of good old-fashioned teen angst.

Verdict: 2 / 5

Book Review - Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie

2011-03-23T15:04:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve resisted reading this book for so long because I’ve known for years about the twist ending. It didn’t seem particularly smart to be indignant about spoiler alerts for a 77-year-old book, so I just let it go. After finally rousing myself to read this classic, though, I feel better for the effort.

There isn’t too much plot to synopsize, between the singular focus on the murder mystery itself and what most readers already know about it. Hercule Poirot’s train ride was supposed to be an uneventful trip between two other cases, but the discovery of a murdered man complicates matters. After the train gets stuck in a snowdrift, Poirot can’t help but bend his considerable mind to the task.

The first few chapters drag a little bit, but that’s only because they exist solely to set up the famous parlor-room-on-rails. The rest of the book is entirely devoted to Poirot’s interviews of the other passengers, his examination of the evidence, and his eventual deductions. When this became clear to me, I began to take umbrage; no character arcs? No twisting subplots? What is this, some kind of stereotypical locked-room mystery, where I just look at the evidence and try to figure out who the killer is before the hero does?

Then I came to my senses. Yes, Justin, that’s exactly what it is. This is Agatha Christie. All of the other people writing this way are copying her. I had that same cognitive interrupt while I was reading Lord of the Rings, where it took me a little while to realize that things only look clichéd because I was reading the benchmark that spawned the clichés.

Knowing that, I can see why this book is a classic. It really is tightly woven, and unfolds with just the right amount of suspense. There were a few other small issues I had with it, such as the occasional convenient addition to the evidence at the eleventh hour, and the tendency for the American characters to sound like British people dressing up as cowboys (“Quite right, this is plumb crazy!”). But things never got boring, once I got past the setup. And even knowing how the murder played out ahead of time, I was still eager to get to the end and figure out the details of how everything went down. Maybe it was a little easier for me to puzzle it out, since I had a heads-up on what to look for, but it was still fun to read. The ending is as sparse as the rest of the book in terms of detail, but the story ends on such a genuinely satisfying note that I didn’t really want or need anything more.

In short, this is the perfect introduction to the mystery genre, and a slick and exciting read for fiction readers in general. Of course, I kind of feel like I can never read another locked-room mystery again, but the read was worth it.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review: Bruiser, by Neal Shusterman

2011-03-15T17:53:00.000-07:00

More YA! Seriously, I’m way behind on reading new teen titles, so I’ve entered a period of picking up and reading as many as I can. The blurb on this one caught my eye, and even though I don’t normally read books like this, I gave it a shot. I’m glad I did, because it engrossed me enough to start casting my net a little wider. While I had a few small issues with it, I found Bruiser to be profoundly interesting, and a very good read.

Brewster Rawlins is the creepy kid that we all knew about but didn’t actually know all that well. Hulking and reclusive, Brewster is known by most as “the Bruiser,” and was not-so-secretly voted by the general student body as Most Likely to Receive the Death Penalty. Tennyson Sternberger knows all this, but between his busy lacrosse schedule, his odd relationship with his girlfriend, and the slowly devolving situation between his parents, he doesn’t really give Bruiser a second thought. That is, until he discovers that his twin sister Brontë is dating the Bruiser. Tennyson, generally known as a bit of a snob and a bully, intends to confront the large boy and protect his sister, but instead discovers that Bruiser has a strange and unexplained ability: he can take pain away. This miracle is not without a price, though, and as Tennyson and Brontë get closer to Bruiser, they begin to see how high the cost is. Brewster, a secretly sensitive soul, has a chance to finally come out of his shell and seek the kinds of happiness that he has always denied himself, but only if Tennyson and Brontë can learn their own lessons about the nature of pain.

This book was all kinds of unexpected. While mostly an interpersonal “issues” story, it also has a definite twist of the supernatural. The reader is thrown into a multi-perspective narration; the story is told in turns by four main characters, some of which have drastically different voices (Brewster’s sections are in verse, for instance, while his kid brother is as naïve and childish as the Sternberger twins are snarky and over-educated), but despite the clashing voices, the story fits together perfectly and the pace is just right. The first half of the book is particularly good; I was hooked in the first few pages. The setup is brilliant, and the “discovery phase” of who Bruiser is and what he can do is pitch-perfect for all characters involved.

The second half of the book drags a little, but not through any major fault of the writing. I think it might be because there are aspects of Bruiser’s gift that are very clear to the reader early on, but that the other characters don’t really seem to catch on to until the very end. Also, this book has a bad case of Parents Are So Dumb, like many other YA books. I don’t actually have a problem with this in and of itself; good teen books should have strong teen characters, which by default relegates adult characters to the background for the most part. But because Tennyson and Brontë are so articulate and witty for their age, and because their parents are so childish for theirs, the main characters all have a level of control and moral authority that edges just over the line of believable. Not that the situation that unfolds at the Sternberger household isn’t completely realistic, because it is. It also adds the perfect amount of tension and drama at just the right part of the story. I think it’s just a characterization issue for me; Tennyson and Brontë’s parents sound too much like less mature versions of Tennyson and Brontë, which is a common stylistic choice for this kind of book, but still bothers me a little. If you must, blame Stephenie Meyer for my intolerance when it comes to this, because as far as I’m concerned, she ruined it for everyone. It didn’t help when Dad misspelled “Vaya con Dios” during a decidedly juvenile outburst, but considering that Tennyson mixes up “silicon” and “silicone” later, I’m willing to chalk that up to simple author error.

Small annoyances aside, though, this is a tightly written and genuinely gripping book. It has wide appeal, considering how well it blends realistic teen lit and romance with a pinch of the paranormal. This is the first book by Neal Shusterman that I’ve read, but it definitely won’t be the last.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Teen Booklist: They Love Me, They Love Me Not

2011-03-15T13:16:00.000-07:00

Being a teen librarian, I try to keep an interesting display up in my teen area all the time, and refresh it on a regular basis. The themes of those displays are often tied to whatever holiday or special event is going on that month, but often times I just decide to feature a specific genre, format, or type of book. Though I read a lot, I feel like I’ve never read enough for putting these thematic displays up, and often scour places like YALSA-BK and librarian blogs for booklist and display ideas. Because I’ve found them so helpful, I figure I’d share my own booklists, in case someone else stumbles upon them and finds them helpful, as well. It’s important to note, though, that my booklists are not meant to be definitive; they are composed of whatever books I had on my shelf at the time the display was running. Thus, they often omit the popular books that are always checked out, but might include more obscure stuff that someone might not initially think of.

They Love Me…
For February, I ran a two shelf display on love and romance. The first shelf was a list of romance as we traditionally think of it, geared towards teen readers: tumultuous tales of passion, meet-cutes, getting the girl, and other stories that end with some kind of warm fuzzy, tingly thrill, or maybe even some cathartic weepiness.

Flavor of the Week, by Tucker Shaw
Scarlett Fever, by Maureen Johnson
Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour, by Morgan Matson
Something Like Fate, by Susane Colasanti
A Love Story Starring My Dead Best Friend, by Emily Horner
The Princess and the Snowbird, by Mette Ivie Harrison
Accidental Love, by Gary Soto
My Most Excellent Year, by Steve Kluger
Evermore, by Alyson Noël
Saving Juliet, by Suzanne Selfors
The Sky is Everywhere, by Jandy Nelson
Vibes, by Amy Kathleen Ryan
Flipped, by Wendelin Van Draanen
Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems About Love, by Pat Mora
Kissing the Bee, by Kathe Koja
View from the Top, by Hillary Frank
Jane Eyre: The Graphic Novel, by Charlotte Brontë, adapted by Amy Corzine
Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
Something, Maybe, by Elizabeth Scott

…They Love Me Not
The second shelf was the Anti-Valentine shelf, which is quickly becoming a tradition, it seems. These books are about relationships gone wrong, from light-hearted mix-ups and sober parables about growing up and finding oneself to sad tales of self-destruction and fearful, sinister examinations of where bad love can lead. Unsurprisingly, these books moved as quickly as the happy endings did. This is a list to pay attention to, though, because hyping them as "love gone wrong" books can be kind of spoiler-y for some of them, depending on how sensitive you want to be to that sort of thing.

Girls for Breakfast, by David Yoo
No More Us for You, by David Hernandez
Blue Plate Special, by Michelle D. Kwasney
Playing with Matches, by Brian Katcher
The Breakup Bible, by Melissa Kantor
Heart’s Delight, by Per Nilsson
Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You, by Peter Cameron
Keep Sweet, by Michele Dominguez Greene
Leaving Paradise, by Simone Elkeles
The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks, by E. Lockhart
Addicted to Her, by Janet Nichols Lynch
I Know It's Over, by C.K. Kelly Martin
Anatomy of a Boyfriend, by Daria Snadowsky
I Now Pronounce You Someone Else, by Erin McCahan
Exposed, by Susan Vaught
Boy Minus Girl, by Richard Uhlig
Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend, by Carrie Jones
Hard Love, by Ellen Wittlinger
Twisted, by Laurie Halse Anderson
Breaking Up is Hard to Do, by Niki Burnham, Lynda Sandoval, and Terri Clark
Dark Secrets, by Anne E. Schraff
He's Just Not That Into You, by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo
Story of a Girl, by Sara Zarr
How It's Done, by Christine Kole MacLean

Graphic Novel Review - Serenity: The Shepherd's Tale, by Joss and Zack Whedon

2011-03-12T15:48:00.000-08:00

I've been jonesing to rewatch my Firefly box set, and I decided to whet my appetite by buying and reading this graphic novel, a long-awaited backstory for the mysterious Shepherd Book. I was so excited that I even let it mellow on my shelf for a while, building a nice head of anticipation. I think that might have been a mistake, because I finished this ultra-short story with a distinct sense of feeling underwhelmed.

The approach is actually quite interesting. The story begins with Book's final moments as we remember them: going down fighting on the planet Haven. After an introductory internal monologue, the tale uses key phrases to jump back in time, visiting crucial moments in Book's life that explain who he is, where he came from, and how he came to be the man he is.

And there's the rub; we learn just about everything there is to know about him. Alliance connection? Check. Decidedly un-Christian fighting skill? Check. We even get a few tantalizing glimpses at deeper mysteries we didn't know about, only to have them summarily explained, as well. This seems to be an odd thing to complain about, but at under 60 pages, Shepherd's Tale is a lightning quick read. To have that much about Firefly's most enigmatic character explained so rapidly... well, the whole thing feels a bit hurried and impersonal. Like, hey, remember all those questions we had about Book? Here are the answers. The end!

There's still a lot to like about it, especially for Firefly fans. I get the feeling that this graphic novel is much too perfunctory for the non-Browncoat crowd, though. There's a lot of meat, but it's definitely information overload if you aren't already familiar with the Firefly setting, and the gist of the story is fairly standard: redemption of a man circling the drain. I liked this book, but I think it's more of a supplementary volume than an actual standalone story.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review: Magyk (Septimus Heap #1), by Angie Sage

2011-03-10T17:31:00.001-08:00

I see the Septimus Heap books often mentioned in lists of must-read YA series, and considering what a hit the Harry Potter series was with me, I figured I couldn’t go wrong with another boy wizard. Magyk is strong in some respects, and fails in others; most notably, it doesn’t really have the kind of crossover appeal that adult readers are coming to expect from books that are ostensibly for “young adults.” However, that’s not at all a bad thing, and not even that surprising, considering that the book is definitely aimed at children rather than at teens. Magyk’s lighthearted charm makes it a fun read, and a perfect book for young readers.

Magyk is the first book in the Septimus Heap series, but Septimus himself doesn’t really play much of a role. Well, he does, but the reader doesn’t find out how until the last few pages. Instead, the book focuses on the travails of the Heap family, a large and somewhat goofy clan of wizards that live in the cozy warrens of a sprawling castle complex. A violent upheaval in the ExtraOrdinary Wizard’s tower reveals the true heritage of the Heaps’ adopted daughter, Jenna, and they are forced to flee to the nearby marshes, pursued by the necromancer DomDaniel. Accompanied by the usurped ExtraOrdinary Wizard Marcia Overstrand, along with a hapless hostage from DomDaniel’s Young Army, the Heaps hide out on a pastoral marsh island while considering their next move. But as Marcia fights to return to the tower, Jenna and the boy from the Young Army discover the beginnings of their own destinies hidden beneath the marsh.

The story is straightforward and unpretentious. This is an irreverent adventure tale that revels in its own sense of humor, and while it builds a framework for the future books’ larger mythology, it doesn’t have much in the way of grand story arcs or tangled plot threads. Magyk is more about humor and wonder than anything else, and in this respect, it succeeds wonderfully.

However, this is unmistakably a children’s book. The twists and reveals are not difficult to puzzle out, and the moments of conflict (internal and external) are rudimentary and predictable. Oddly enough, this stands in stark contrast to a number of moments in the book that are genuinely grim and intense. The jarring shifts in tone struck me as odd, but would definitely make for a scary read for children, and maybe even younger teens. My biggest complaint is with the characters; none of them are particularly true to themselves. Magyk has a lot of characters to deal with, including a host of talking animals and magical objects, and we don’t get to spend a lot of time learning about and sympathizing with any of them. Thus, most of them are relegated to their appointed stereotypes, where they pause from the role much too often for the occasional cheap laugh. There is a lot of slapstick in this book, even from the important and powerful characters, and most of it occurs for no good reason. Again, it was irritating to me, but probably would be delightful to most young readers. Jenna and Boy 412 are exceptions, but even they don’t seem quite fleshed out enough.

Oh, yes, and the random capitalization and creative spelling of every other word. That got annoying very quickly. Yes, they’re doing magic. I mean, uh, Magyk. With their Wandes or their Poshyns or whatever. We understand, Angie. Thanks.

With all of that being said, there really are flashes of brilliance in Magyk. The whimsical surface of the story Sage builds sits atop a very interesting mythology that begs to be explored further. The plot, while simplistic, is tightly written and paced beautifully. The occasional moments of tension and actual violence imply that the dog-slobber jokes could unexpectedly go away and that shit could get real at any moment, which was actually somewhat refreshing. And even the characters, who I didn’t care all that much for, occasionally transcend their shallow presentation and show the promise of interesting development as the books go on.

All of my annoyances with the book have everything to do with my unrealistic expectations. This is clearly a book meant particularly for young readers, and in that respect, it’s a fantastic book. I liked this one enough to check out the next few, in any event. So, even though I found Magyk uneven from a technical standpoint, I’d definitely recommend it to those looking for a good adventure story for children, or just for a quaint, funny fantasy read.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review: The Dark Elf Trilogy, by R. A. Salvatore

2011-03-08T19:24:00.000-08:00

This is another volume that I’ve owned for more than a decade, but never cracked open until now. I bought it back when I was hip-deep in the fantasy genre, after hearing more than once that Drizzt Do’Urden is super badass sweet and I needed to read about him right away. I probably would have been a convert if I read it back then, too, and joined the swollen ranks of greasy teenagers who played EverQuest with dual-wielding dark elves that were, like, really tormented, but still totally radical. Reading this collection as a slightly more cynical adult left an impression that wasn’t quite as glowing. However, the combination of stock fantasy melodrama, powerful world-building, and that comforting musty smell of an aging book created a pleasantly nostalgic and fun read all the same.

This book actually encompasses a trilogy of novels, which tell the origin story of the drow ranger Drizzt Do’Urden. The first book, Homeland, chronicles Drizzt’s birth and upbringing in the chaotic drow city Menzoberranzan, a citadel of intrigue and violence within the vast caverns of the Underdark. Born a noble of a drow house that is quickly rising in power and influence, Drizzt is groomed for a life as a proper drow warrior, with hatred and base cunning being drilled into him at every opportunity. However, Drizzt’s odd lavender eyes (don't ask why- they're just purple. Roll with it.) betray the fact that he was born different than most drow; Drizzt is compassionate and just, and cannot reconcile his internal principles with the evil ways of his people. He has only the shared philosophies of his tutor, famed swordmaster Zaknafein Do’Urden, to help him navigate the twisted wishes of his family and the sinister demands of his society.

The second book, Exile, follows Drizzt as he leaves Menzoberranzan, hunted by his kin and desperate to find a purpose beyond the manipulative and violent wishes of the spider goddess Lolth. His principles have led him away from the drow city, but the savage wilderness of the Underdark threatens to do what Menzoberranzan could not: obliterate any semblance of compassion within Drizzt. Fighting for survival and dogged by a horrific servant of his deranged mother, Drizzt must seek the mercy of those his people have wronged in order to escape the vast Underdark.

The trilogy is capped off by Sojourn, which sees Drizzt taking his first hesitant steps as a resident of the surface world. Underneath the open sky, he faces an entirely different danger: the fearsome reputation that the drow carry among the other races of the Forgotten Realms. Despite his shy demeanor and noble intentions, a series of unfortunate coincidences and violent misunderstandings ensures he is just as reviled and hunted above the ground as he was below. Despairing of ever finding a place to rest and call home, Drizzt suddenly finds kindred spirits in the most unlikely of places.

The Dark Elf trilogy is billed as an origin story, and that’s exactly what it is: lore for a popular character. The story is rich and interesting, but not particular deep, and not connected across the three books by any significant plot arc other than Drizzt’s ongoing quest for inner peace and acceptance. Accordingly, the trilogy reads less like a trilogy, and more like an extended series of encounters. Kind of like an extended D&D campaign, fittingly enough. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that the books actually read like someone’s writeup of a tabletop campaign. This shows itself in a number of ways. The frequent mention of characters' innate racial (and, yes, class) powers add little to the narrative, but offer a way for all of those imaginative magical attacks that a player would use in a game to be mentioned. Each book is marked by at least two major battles, each of which has all the hallmarks of turn-based strategy. With the clanking of this familiar machinery in the background, some of the narrative follows a well-trodden and somewhat tired course. For instance, the first book is rife with the trope of people monologuing to empty rooms. Zaknafein in particular is bad about this; at one point, he delivers an entire philosophical soliloquy in an empty garden, and then I think he goes home and continues his musings to his bedroom chair. That business flies all right when I'm reading Shakespeare, but come on. Even elves don't talk that way, I'm sure. The latter two books are a little better about this, but there is plenty of ham-handed exposition delivery there, too. Between that and the occasional poor handling of shifts between different characters' viewpoints, the writing can seem a little inept from time to time.

In short, the books have everything you’d expect from a pulp fantasy with a cool-guy elf protagonist. If I were to read these books separately, I might have been irked by this, but reading them all as a unified story helped a lot. In particular, it showcased Salvatore’s biggest strength: world-building. The Forgotten Realms is a rich enough mine for setting lore, but Salvatore really goes the extra mile; the familiar-yet-alien Menzoberranzan itself is by far the best part of the first book, and everywhere Drizzt wanders afterward is seething with detail and sensory input. I think this is what saves the trilogy, for me, because I can forgive fantasy stereotypes if I can still get lost in the world they inhabit.

If taken strictly as a lore piece, the Dark Elf Trilogy delivers nicely. I suppose I’d be more excited about all this had I read the Icewind Dale trilogy, but I like Drizzt a lot even with a cold introduction. Some discerning readers might not care for the cheetos-and-soda D&D feel that the whole endeavor leaves you with, but the Dark Elf Trilogy is a decent character study if you can forgive the melodrama of it all, and a superb example of an epic, fleshed-out fantasy world. I wasn't completely blown away, but I liked it enough that I think I'll be seeking out other Drizzt books.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review - The Walking Dead Vol. 4: The Heart's Desire, by Robert Kirkman, Charlie Adlard, and Cliff Rathburn

2011-02-23T12:37:00.001-08:00

So, I took a short break from this series, after finishing the third volume. I was finding that I was unconsciously comparing the graphic novels to the AMC series, and whether that's a fair comparison or not, I was a little surprised to find out that the graphic novels were suffering a little by comparison. Coming back to it fresh helped me to get away from that and focus on the characters and story more. That being said, I'm not really sure how I feel about this one.

The survivors are facing an ultimatum to leave the prison, but the showdown is cut short by a sudden emergence of the prison's earlier (and considerably more flesh-hungry) denizens. In the melee that ensues, Rick decides to take some executive action, and our heroes scrounge up some more borrowed time in their new, locked-down safe haven. The seams are going ragged, though; the constant pressure of leadership is starting to wear Rick down, especially when yet another character we know and love has an unexpected run-in with zombie teeth. A mysterious new arrival pushes some tensions past their breaking point, and the survivors are forced to reassess the society they are trying to build in the wake of the zombie apocalypse.

In other words, lots of human-on-human action. This one is all about the characters, and their attempt to formulate their next steps, now that they have had a little time to hunker down in one place. In theory, this volume should have been great. In practice, it was... shall we say, uneven.

Rick is getting a lot more realistic and interesting, so that’s a plus. All of his bluster and bravado led him down the route I was hoping Kirkman would go: he’s starting to lose it, and maybe had lost it from the beginning, which is why he needed to play cowboy in the first place. Since Rick is the closest we have to a main character, this is doubly interesting, and seems to be on its way to fulfilling the promise of creating a strong dramatic epic that happens to have zombies in it.

As for the rest, though, I’m starting to get a little bothered by the thematic misogyny. Yeah, I know, that seems rather ridiculous coming from a young man who is actively reading horror comic books, but I’m serious. Lori’s "I’M A HORMONAL SHREW BECAUSE I’M ON THE NEST!!11!" routine is thankfully dialed back this time around, but consider the following:

Andrea, a certified badass with proven shooting skills and now a wicked scar from her brush with a serial killer, is undeniably the strongest female character in the series up to this point. So, naturally, she has decided to become the group seamstress.

Okay, there’s nothing wrong with that, I guess. Maybe she likes to sew.

Another, even stronger female character shows up. She's omninously quiet, skilled in combat, enough of a hardcase to be dragging the zombified forms of the people she loved in chains, and obviously more than a little crazy. And the first things she does when she is integrated into the group? Make some catty comments about a few of the other women, and give a surprise blowjob to one the men that seems like a group leader.

Uh... hmm.

This development throws Carol into a tailspin. This woman, who has survived more than most and has been a calm and steady guardian of her only daughter, promptly turns into a teenager. After a mostly fake suicide attempt, she suddenly and inexplicably begins throwing herself at Rick, for no reason other than that he "stood up for her."

Okay.

This all culminates in a decision by the group to create a leadership committee, and Rick immediately comments on how it’s made up of solely men. Apparently, the women wanted it that way, because even Lori and Andrea specifically told everyone that they just want to be "protected."

You see where I am going with this.

Granted, I’m mostly convinced that Kirkman is purposefully making patriarchy a theme in this story, considering the earlier references to it, and the continuing character arc of Rick (specifically, him trying to decide whether “justice for all” or “might makes right” is the right course of action for keeping them all alive). Also, it's not like any of these developments are unrealistic or hard to believe; in fact, they are very believable. Likely, even. These ideas are actually given more examination than they usually get in similar works. Still, it’s all just bad enough for me to feel uncomfortable being an apologist for it. The misogyny is definitely, unmistakably there. I guess it’s up to the reader to decide whether Kirkman is making it a deliberate part of the story or not, and whether that is palatable or not.

Other than that continuing issue, this series is still a good read, as far as I'm concerned. The narrative twist at the end of this volume was handled rather nicely, too. I’m still not blown away yet, though... I like the story and characters enough to keep reading, but I’m not an unabashed convert yet, I don’t think. I like it, but I still have my reservations.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review: The Matchmaker of Kenmare, by Frank Delaney

2011-02-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

This book took me by surprise, in a number of ways. I hadn’t known about its impending publication, mostly because I still had Venetia Kelly's Traveling Show on my to-read list. When I was fortunate enough to get my hands on an advance reader’s copy, I figured it would be another languid, bucolic yarn in the tradition of Delaney’s other books. Which it sort of was, in that it has the same undeniable Irish storyteller feel to it. However, Delaney has outdone himself this time, as I finally enjoyed the myth of the characters as much as the myth of the setting this time around.

This book is, more or less, a direct sequel to Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show. It picks up with Ben MacCarthy traveling Ireland, gathering stories for the Folklore Commission and dodging painful memories of his missing wife. As part of his travels, he visits Kate Begley, the titular matchmaker, thinking only to collect some observations on rural matchmaking traditions. He discovers Kate to be a force of nature, and is immediately drawn into a close friendship with her. Their odd platonic companionship becomes even more tightly wound as Kate suddenly meets the great love of her life, American soldier Charles Miller. Kate finagles a way to catch him that drags Ben off into the WWII battlefields of France, where their only protection is the professed wartime neutrality of Ireland. When Miller inexplicably disappears, Kate’s determination to find him has far-reaching consequences, not the least of which is the effect on Ben. Trapped by grief for his wife and unsure of his feelings for Kate, he nonetheless continues to escort Kate on her foolhardy quest, and has ample opportunity to reflect on what "neutrality" really means, both physically and emotionally.

So, in the beginning, I felt like I should have read Venetia Kelly’s Traveling Show first. Ben serves as the story’s narrator, and thus his backstory from the previous book is referred to rather than explained, creating a few moments of disorientation in the beginning. However, once I became familiar with Ben, I appreciated the symmetry that came with him being as mysterious to me as Kate- especially later in the book, when their analogous searches for the possibly-dead become entwined. Despite my initial wariness, I found this novel to work quite well as a standalone.

And what a standalone it is. Delaney, always a favorite author of mine, finally got it completely right this time around. This book has all of the strengths of his signature style. The settings are rich and easily visualized. The characters fit into archetypes that are very familiar to those who have read Delaney before, but are still delightfully quirky and real. I also found myself enjoying the bits of absurdity that should, by all rights, be bugging the hell out of me. Kate Begley is an infuriating character most of the time, but a blend of the odd (homilies at inappropriate times) and the profound (unshakeable conviction masking insecurity and naiveté) in her characterization make it impossible not to be invested in her. The same can be said for the story in general. For example, the book begins with a factoid about giraffes, which proves important later, when Ben and Kate end up meeting one. Seriously. Most readers would wonder how something like that could possibly work in a story that is already a mishmash of meet-cute, family memoir, and war story, but somehow, it does work. These bizarre asides just enriched the tale for me; they imparted a sense of the epic, like the unlikely details slipped into a genuine folk tale. Considering the author’s usual pattern, and the distinctly Irish bittersweetness of the book's ending, I’m sure this was Delaney’s intent.

Notably, none of the mild annoyances I found in Delaney’s other books are present this time around. I don’t know if this is the case with the previous book, but The Matchmaker of Kenmare definitely has the tightest storytelling of Delaney’s books that I’ve read, and I’ve uniformly loved his other books. Nowhere in sight is the odd, padded pace of Ireland, the awkward and stilted romance of Tipperary, or the unnecessary characters of Shannon. The pace is perfect here, with none of the jarring I’d expect as the story moved from picturesque Ireland to the war-torn Ardennes. Delaney’s tendency towards odd tangents dovetails perfectly (and is even explicitly explained, at one point) by Ben MacCarthy’s narration, as the character’s affinity for tangents is his indirect way of dealing with painful memories. The romantic elements were genuinely affecting and passionate, and were often heartbreaking in their tragic realism.

If I have any gripe with the book, oddly enough, it’s with the cover. As I noted above, I was offered and greedily consumed a prepub galley, so I had only the text and Delaney’s reputation to guide me. When I saw the actual cover, it reminded me a lot of the other Delaney covers: a charming, idyllic, homespun image of a beautiful, dreamlike Ireland, whereupon distracted characters pace the countryside and ruminate on the country’s rich, mythic history. There’s a little of that in the Matchmaker of Kenmare, but to me, the story jumps out of that particular box. There’s something here for all readers, including romance, folklore, war, adventure, and humor. However, the lion’s share of the story is fairly intense, gritty, and emotionally charged. Speaking as a librarian, I honestly think the cover could turn away some readers who would otherwise very much enjoy the book, and likewise dupe other readers who aren’t prepared for Ben and Kate’s march through perdition.

Cover-judging aside, though, this is a truly a phenomenal book. It’s definitely my favorite of Delaney’s, and one of the better fiction books I’ve read in the past few years. The characters will stay with me for some time, I think.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review: The Sounds of Star Wars, by Jonathan Rinzler

2011-02-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

This book is awesome. The "kiddy" press-and-play interface and sheer bulkiness might turn some readers off, but don't let the buttons fool you; this is a serious book, and it's fascinating.

The Sounds of Star Wars chronicles the work of sound designer Ben Burtt, along with other talented and hardworking people, on the Star Wars films (including the prequels, and the animated Clone Wars series). Each movie gets is own introduction, which gives a basic timetable for how the sound was produced, the circumstances surrounding each film, and how everything came together in the final product. Then, a rich representation of sound effects is presented in an order that roughly corresponds to the timeline of the movie. Each sound is marked with a number, which allows the reader to track down and play a sample of the sound through the book's audio interface (which includes a headphone jack... nicely done, Rinzler). Most of the numbers also mark passages of text that range in size from blurbs to multiple pages, explaining how the sound was conceived, recorded, and mixed.

It's a simple book, and it occasionally veers into the overly technical. But honestly, how much fun is this? Did you know that the Rancor's roar came in part from a dachshund? Or that the Ewok language is a variant of indigenous Mongolian? Even if you aren't impressed by party trivia like that, the simple ability to press a button and have a Jawa scream "Utinni!" at your wife at unexpected moments is worth the price, alone.

Seriously, this is a must-own for Star Wars fans or people interested in the art of sound effects, and definitely worth a look for anyone who has the sound of a lightsaber igniting and swinging etched into their cultural memory.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: Marvel 1602, by Neil Gaiman, Andy Kubert, and Richard Isanove

2011-01-30T14:17:00.000-08:00

So, now that my newfound love of graphic novels has really taken hold, I figure it's about time to take a few cautious steps back into the Marvel Universe, in which I more or less lived from the ages of 9 to 13. What better place to start than an alternate history tale by Neil Gaiman?

This collected volume of eight comics posits the existence of Marvel superheroes in Elizabethan England. The world appears to be coming apart at the seams; strange storms and unexplained phenomena rip across the countryside. The queen is old and ailing, and insidious plots surround her. Her spymaster, Sir Nicholas Fury, works with his agents to shield (ha ha!) her life, and to bring a mysterious treasure from the Holy Land that the court magician, Doctor Stephen Strange, promises will aid England. However, her successor plots with mysterious Latverian counts and Spanish Inquisitors, working to bring about a new, more merciless rule. Meanwhile, Doctor Strange discovers that the strange storms are connected to the legends of the age- the lost crew of the Fantastick, the powerful Witchbreed of Carlos Javier's school and sanctuary, and even the agents of the crown. Moreover, if the storms are not stopped, the overthrow of the English monarchy will be the least of their worries.

Honestly, at first I was convinced that I wouldn't like this one. I think I was the victim of my own expectations. The engraving-style illustrations and Gaiman's name in giant letters led me to believe that I'd be reading a subtle, dense tale of intrigue. What I got was... not that, exactly. The dialogue was straightforward (and riddled with punny Marvel references), and the story was slick and moved quickly. This is, all told, a solid historical comic book, and meets (but not necessarily exceeds) the general expectations a reader would have of something like that.

My problem was that I approached 1602 in the same way I do most graphic novels: I started reading it in bite-sized chunks, in order to savor it. The first third of this story does not lend itself to this kind of reading, and I think it would take a while to get going even if I read it all in one sitting. There are just so many characters to introduce, so much Marvel fan service, that it approaches the level of gimmick. The constant scene-shifting makes things hard to follow, and seems to happen solely to allow Elizabethan Daredevil or Elizabethan Scarlet Witch to elicit a squee or two from the true believers. I initially thought I was being a little unkind, but I was vindicated by Gaiman's own admission in the afterword that he was plagued by second thoughts about writing a story with so many main characters.

Once I got through the first three or so issues, though, the story finally started to get going. I started reading it issue by issue (as it was meant to be read) at that point, and the pace obviously felt much better. There were still some story oddities that bothered me; there were so many subplots that some of them meandered into conclusions without any real relevance to the main story arc. Also, I liked the ending twist that connected things to the Marvel Universe we know and love, but I honestly would have been just as happy without it. But once I got on board with what this volume is— a homage-laden look into how the Marvel Golden Age characters might have got their start four centuries ago— I ended up enjoying it a great deal. The artwork was fantastic, too. The scratchboard covers and the mix of enhanced pencil work and digital color (with very minimal inking) offered just the right balance of old-timey flair and streamlined, consumable comic art. Not a confusing or wonky panel in sight, either.

I didn't know this graphic novel had any extras with it, and they proved to be a pleasant surprise that knocked this one up a notch for me. I recently woke up one morning with a fledgling idea for comic characters, and I've been wondering what I could do with those character notes, seeing as how I can barely draw a stick-figure. And then I turn a page in 1602 and see a reproduction of the script Gaiman gave to artist Andy Kubert for the first issue. Sweet. Thanks, Neil.

I wonder how this one might play out for readers who aren't intimately familiar with Marvel heroes; the fan service might not get in the way as much as it did with me in the beginning. Eventually, though, I was won over. The intriguing historical setting is a great fit for the classic heroics of the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, Daredevil, etc. Taken as a whole, this is a fun superhero yarn by a great author and talented artists.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review: Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne, by David Gaider

2011-01-16T13:09:00.000-08:00

Well... hmm. I'm glad I played Dragon Age: Origins before discovering and reading this prequel book. In fact, I kind of wish I could just write a review about Dragon Age: Origins. That game took me by surprise; even though it sold itself as yet another medieval fantasy derivative, the story and characters exerted a surprisingly strong grip on me. One of the standout elements of the game was its writing, which is why I was excited to find this book. Unfortunately, it looks like talent with lore-writing and world-building does not automatically translate into talent with writing books.

The book takes place a few decades before the start of Dragon Age: Origins. The cruel Orlesian usurper, Meghren, sits on the throne of Ferelden. Moira Thierin, the rightful ruler, has been slain in an act of base treachery, and her son Maric finds himself separated from the rebel army and on the run. By chance, he finds himself at the mercy of Loghain Mac Tir, a commoner outlaw who is also on the run from the usurper's soldiers, but has no reason to love Maric, either. With Loghain's reluctant help, Maric must decide whether he is capable of rising past his reputation as a lazy, incompetent layabout and becoming the beacon of hope that his people desperately need.

Honestly, there isn't a whole lot in the story itself that most medieval fantasy readers haven't seen before. Naive princeling that must learn how to be a true king? Check. Dangerous turncoat that can't help but fall for our hero with a heart of gold? Check. We even have a Guinevere facsimile, for crying out loud. That isn't to say that the story is bad, necessarily. In fact, it's pretty good. It just plays second fiddle to the settings, names, and monsters, which are meant to advertise the video game for those that haven't played it, and be fan service to those that have.

Loghain is the star of the book, and is the reason I picked this one up. He is such an interesting character in the game, a villain with noble intentions that I sometimes liked more than some of the heroes. He doesn't disappoint in this book, either; he is the best kind of protagonist, with glaring flaws but a consistent moral compass. He's even better for those that have played the game, offering a lot of sobering insight into who Loghain is and why he makes the decisions that he does.

Okay, so, all of that is well and good, but someone needs to inform Gaider that he shouldn't publish a book without an editor, even if Bioware says that it's cool. Or, if there was an editor at Tor that looked at this manuscript and let it go to print, someone needs to slap them across the face a few times to sober them up. Either one or the other has to be the reason for the preponderance of unnecessary sentences, confused metaphors, and frankly bad writing that constantly gets in the way of the story. I'm not talking about typos and mangled grammar, although there is plenty of both. I'm talking about things like using "mind you" in the omniscient narration. I'm talking about boneheaded writing mistakes that should have been caught in even a cursory readthrough.

For example, I'm pretty sure the Rebel Queen isn't "her grandfather's daughter," unless the bloodline of Calenhad is more messed up than I thought it was. Also, Mr. Gaider, the word "decapitate" means to separate the head from the body. Therefore, I don't think one of the sentences on page 208, "the creature's head was instantly decapitated," is saying what you're intending to say. I like to imagine that the spider's head had a smaller, cigar-chomping head on top, and Rowan severed it for making one too many Brooklyn-accented wisecracks.

I chuckled my way through this book because of these unintentionally hilarious tidbits, which is a shame because there's plenty to like, here. Gaider has a real gift for creating gritty, dark, plot-centric fantasy. Kind of like George R. R. Martin at his best, before he said "fuck it" and dove balls-first into the deep end of the misogyny pool. If anybody had actually read this book through a couple of times and offered some useful suggestions (like, for example, that Gaider should actually write about the River Dane battle, an iconic part of Loghain's character, instead of fobbing it off on the epilogue), it actually could have worked well as a standalone novel.

As it is, this is worth reading if you are already a fan of Dragon Age, like me. For all its comedy and tragedy, I liked it. In fact, I'm itching to play the game again, which is the best measure of success a book like this can have. For newcomers, though, it's much too unpolished and amateurish to take seriously. Try the game, first.

Verdict: 2 / 5

Book Review: Spirit Fox, by Mickey Zucker Reichert and Jennifer Wingert

2011-01-05T13:17:00.000-08:00

Mild spoilers ahead.

I bought this book over ten years ago, back when I unabashedly consumed all things fantasy. I finally picked it up this month while moving bookshelves around, after I noticed it sitting patiently on a shelf, cover still pristine, waiting to be read. This one is a challenge to review. By most objective standards, this is a pretty bad book. And yet, I couldn't help but like it, due to its specific standout elements and to a sense of nostalgia.

Kiarda is a noblewoman among the people of the rural Marchlands, who live under a strict religious code of pacifism. Unbeknownst to her and everyone around her, she was destined at birth to be spirit-linked to a fox, a rare and revered condition that bestows longer life and an inseparable animal companion. However, the circumstances of her birth cause this link to be damaged, causing the link to manifest in a new way: shapeshifting. Meanwhile, a conquering army lands in the reclusive Marchlands, intent on wiping out the spirit-linked, who they see as a dangerous and contagious profanity.

I could probably write a more cohesive synopsis, but honestly, the plot of this one ranges all over the place, and isn't all that strong. There is a story, but it grows organically out of the characters. Which can make for the best kind of story in competent hands, but I'd hesitate to call the execution here competent. The book falls prey to both the cliches of the genre and the foibles of the greenhorn author. For example, Tell Not Show is in full effect, here. I can tell the world is lovingly crafted, but its particulars are introduced with awkward dialogue that the characters wouldn't ever actually speak.

"Good weather today, huh?"
"Yes, well, due to the unique cosmology of our world and the intrinsic nature of our magic, we always have good weather."
"Oh, naturally, everyone knows that. Well, I'm off to offer prayers to Archibald."
"You mean, the god of snack cakes and high-heeled shoes, who also has red hair?"
"Yup, that's the one!"

I exaggerate, of course, but you get the idea. This is mostly in the beginning and it gets better, but it also contributes to a distinct feeling of other world details being made up on the spot and churned out for color. As a result. I couldn't quite immerse myself in the book's world as much as I wanted to.

The narrative voice is also lacking. It wasn't outright bad, but there were places that could have used some polish. For example, I counted four uses of the word "agony" in three paragraphs on one page, which is a particular pet peeve of mine. The thesaurus is our friend.

But the characters themselves are another matter altogether. In another book review, I used a comparison to roleplaying game writing in a negative light; this is a more thorough and positive example of that sort of writing. These characters are lived in. The author(s) love them, and have put a lot of thought into them. The book doesn't read like a story played out by characters, but like a long transcription of characters interacting with one another, if that makes sense. This brought me back to my own experiences with collaborative writing (usually through games like the Realm, EverQuest, etc.), where a long, carefully maintained story arc would grow out of characters colliding with each other and evolving. This is why I happily kept reading this, despite the meandering story and questionable writing; it reminded me of those kinds of stories, which I contributed to and loved despite their own flaws.

Also of particular note are the unexpected twists that Reichert and Wingert put on the two conflicting societies. The Marchlanders, for example, are bound by superstitious taboos and appalling ignorance, for all of their medieval charm. And Imperial bad guys are, in fact, wise and benevolent (especially their monotheistic religious representative, a favorite villain in most other fantasy treatments), and are operating underneath a well-intentioned misunderstanding- and yet are still willing to slaughter innocents without a moment of regret. Though these interesting concepts are not explored very deeply, they move past the level of gimmick, and did most of the heavy lifting when it came to pulling me as a reader into the world.

Unfortunately, a lot of this is undone by a rushed ending that sidesteps a lot of foreshadowed ugliness (including the unconscionable: skipping whole chunks of the climax and having it delivered as exposition in the epilogue) and gives everybody everything they want. Blech. Setting aside for the moment that it wasn't really explained how an invading commander had the authority to negotiate peace with a regional lord, the happy funtime ending didn't seem to fit very well with the moral ambiguity that suffused the rest of the book. Or with the characters' behavior in the previous chapters, for that matter.

I'm ambivalent, here. There is a lot wrong with this book, but I honestly liked it. There is no logical reason to like it, but I do. I'm reluctant to recommend it, except on the basis of its thorough characterizations and interesting take on morality. It's not a great book, but I definitely enjoyed it for what it was.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Life, by Bryan Lee O'Malley

2011-01-04T15:19:00.001-08:00

I am one of the people who came to this series through the movie. Despite coming away from the first volume with the same sense of feeling too old that the movie gave me, I loved this one in spite of myself.

Scott Pilgrim is a twenty-something in Toronto that walks a fine line between being charmingly indolent and a being a complete waste of space. He spends his time either playing bass with his band, Sex Bob-omb, or going on somewhat uncomfortable outings with his teenage girlfriend, Knives Chau, and listening to her play-by-plays of Yearbook Club drama. (This is not as creepy as it sounds, due to Scott's crippling emotional immaturity, and the decidedly non-physical nature of their relationship.) His lazy, self-absorbed routine is interrupted by the appearance of a rollerblading American girl named Ramona Flowers, who begins appearing in his dreams and then suddenly shows up at the library. As Scott tries to find out more about this quirky temptress, he finds himself in the crosshairs of Ramona's Evil Ex-Boyfriends, who apparently have promised violence (of the video game variety) against anyone who dares to try and get close to her.

This graphic novel is full of references to things from my own teen years, which is awesome. Unfortunately, these references are put into a context where they are celebrated as retro-chic by people a lot younger than me. I simultaneously feel like I get it and that I am so not cool enough to be reading this, which is weird. But I've learned to deal with it, I think.

The book is a fantastic example of magical realism for people that need shiny things and can't handle staid books by Marquez or Allende. It begins as a relatively mundane portrait of hipsters doing whatever it is that hipsters do, with a few touches of video-game aesthetic and breaking of the fourth wall. By the time the first Evil Ex shows up, though, the book suddenly explodes in a mad fit of musical fight scenes, mystical summoning powers, subspace highways, and bad guys dissolving into coins. It can occasionally be hard on those of us without short attention spans, but the blending of the disaffected young people story with the kung-fu fight quest story is actually pretty awesome.

I definitely like the art here, too. Most people seem to classify it as a manga homage, which is accurate, but my mind tends to associate it more with the kind of casual/messy webcomic art that is popular online right now. There are no elaborate panels that can be thrown off track by an odd perspective or wonkily-drawn arm, and the big-eyed exaggeration of the facial expressions is often hilarious, in my opinion. Again, there is a lot of huge bold type that slaps the reader across the face here and there, but once you get used to the feel of the book, it works just fine.

Most of the bad things I've read about this book have boiled down either to backlash from its new popularity or to simple personal opinion. Which is all fine. Personally, I ate this one up. It's trendy without being pretentious, sarcastic without being insulting, and cute without being saccharine. It's also consistently funny, especially if you grew up in the 90s. And yes, I was actually a teen in the 90s, just like the author. So get off my lawn, you damned kids.

Anyway, definitely worth checking out. I'll be picking up the next volumes at the next opportunity.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review: Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, by Mary Roach

2010-12-28T14:11:00.001-08:00

I've been meaning to read Mary Roach ever since her first book starting garnering acclaim. Now that she's got an entire lineup, I figured I'd start with Bonk, because as far as I'm concerned, it's pretty hard to miss with a humorous book about sex. For the most part, I was right; this book was consistently hilarious and more informative than I thought it would be.

As others have pointed out, though, calling this a book about sex would be slightly misleading. This is a book about sex researchers, and it sketches out a quirky history of how we have tried to chart, catalog, and understand how sex works. The book covers the usual suspects (Masters and Johnson, Alfred Kinsey, etc.), but also includes more than you'd ever thought you'd learn about pig insemination, rhesus monkey courting rituals, and uterine contractions in hamsters, among other things. Each chapter focuses on a particular aspect of modern sexuality- male impotence, for instance, or female orgasmic ability- and unravels an eclectic and often bizarre mix of interview, citation, and the occasional personal anecdote that sets out to explain how science has attempted to catch up to them.

Roach's footnotes play a starring role, too. Most pages are peppered with footnotes that lead to somewhat random asides. These tidbits often have only a tangential relationship to the material, but are so weird and interesting that I began looking forward to them.

I tore through this book, and had only one minor qualm with it, which I've only now been able to elucidate now that I've read some other people's thoughts on it. At first I thought it might be that the concept wasn't unified, but it really was; the material is organized decently and reads very well. Then I thought I was bothered by the pages where Roach suddenly gets coy, ostensibly because she doesn't want to embarrass her children. Bonk presents a readable mixture of the clinical and the explicit, but every now and again Roach suddenly becomes a little demure; the chapter on sex machines comes to mind, for example. Honestly, though, I find it difficult to keep my dignity intact while arguing that I want to be more titillated.

I've realized what it is now, though. As fearless and thorough as this book is, its scope is weirdly limited. For all its humor, it sticks to the clinical mood set by the studies it documents. Heterosexual vaginal intercourse is the star player, and anything else... say, oral or anal sex... is only given its due at the periphery. There are entire chapters on orgasms, and they are often presented in the context of fertility rather than recreation. Now, don't get me wrong... I was actually fascinated by the studies that tried to link female orgasmic response with conception, and the implications that had for human sexuality. I just thought that the book could have gone in more directions with the material. Especially considering the end, where Roach discussed Masters and Johnson's findings that committed homosexual couples have, qualitatively, the most satisfying sex... and then the book ends. Wait, what? Let's talk about that a little more!

That doesn't make this book any less fun to read, though. Roach is a deliciously funny author, and her take on this subject is provocative and educational without being raunchy or offensive. I'd definitely recommend this to readers with low inhibitions.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Book Review: Talk to the Hand, by Lynne Truss

2010-12-19T21:38:00.000-08:00

This was a quick read that elicited a lot of sympathetic head-nodding and a few wry grins, but didn't really ignite a whole lot of deep thought. I mean, that wasn't really the point of the book, I guess. It follows the same curmudgeonly formula as Truss's previous book, this time tackling our society's ubiquitous rudeness instead of the misuse of punctuation. This one doesn't quite hit the same right notes, though.

Truss admits right off the bat that she is writing a "moral homily" that doesn't have any real point other than to bemoan the obvious. So, I suppose that it isn't much surprise when that's exactly what I got. The book is divided into six separate chapters, each of which covers a distinct form of self-entitled rudeness that forms the current social status quo. The chapters are really mini-essays that are a mix of personal anecdotes, muddled citations from other books, and funny asides. The effect is essentially like reading an exceptionally long blog rant.

Truss certainly isn't off the mark here, but ranting about rude people is a little less satisfying than ranting about comma abuse. I think we can all agree that class divisions are Bad and politeness for politeness's sake is Good, so what we're left with is: rude people suck, and we should treat people like we want to be treated. Okay. The book is short, though, so the point isn't overly belabored.

The most interesting part, to me, is one of the random asides where Truss contrasts British and American society. Her observations of rudeness are presented through the lens of traditional English restraint and passive-aggression, and she has an amusing love-hate relationship with American directness that would both stop rudeness in its tracks and is uniquely rude, itself.

Other than that, though, this was just a short, idle read for me. It was amusing, but didn't really go anywhere... I'd recommend Eats, Shoots, and Leaves as a more effective example of Truss's wit.

Verdict: 2 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: The Walking Dead, Vol. 3: Safety Behind Bars, by Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard

2010-12-14T12:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how I feel about this one. As a whole, I liked it more than the previous Walking Dead volumes; the story is tighter, and it does the "we're our own worst enemy" motif a lot better. But the formula repetition and the ridiculous characterizations and dialogue make it hard for me to acknowledge its strengths.

Safety Behind Bars picks up right where the last volume leaves off: the survivors cautiously begin exploring the prison to see if it might serve as the sanctuary they have desperately been looking for. As they begin clearing the place of its undead residents, they discover to their surprise a few living residents, as well. Despite being relatively safe from the dead for the first time, it quickly becomes clear that the wolves are still within the walls; it's just a question of whether they were let in or were already there.

This volume is, in some respects, exactly what I was waiting for. Kirkman professes that he is writing the long-game zombie story, so it eventually must move to the place where the immediate zombie threat fades into the background and the vileness of plain old human beings becomes the problem. This is a great start, with questionable motives and actions on all sides, and a balance of power that is shaky from the start and degenerates fast. The main arc revolves around a serial killer that begins preying on the newly secure survivors, and the culprit is so eye-rollingly obvious through the art choices in some panels that the eventual reveal doesn't offer much in the way of surprise. Afterward, however, the story is deliciously tense as the reader waits to find out what the death toll will be. There is also some nice development of the larger story, including a fairly surprising resolution to the heavily foreshadowed subplot with Tyrese's daughter and her boyfriend (which has profound implications for all of them). There are also some scenes with Allen, Dale, and Andrea that promise some interesting developments in the future.

But Rick and Lori. Jesus, those two. They've been the king and queen of cliched, awkward dialogue up to this point, which is remarkable given the fact that most of the dialogue in the book is fairly awkward. But man, these two are fucking irritating in this volume. I ultimately enjoyed reading this volume, but these two deserve being called out for their shenanigans.

Rick's character has gone completely off the map, and I honestly can't tell whether this is supposed to show the character's fraying mental state or the writer's indecision as to what to do with him. He swings from moralistic white-hat to authoritarian cyborg to remorseless thug and back to Howdy Doody again, all in the space of a couple pages. The most egregious side-effect of this is shows up near the end of the volume, where he delivers a ridiculous monologue on how he's a cop, and therefore has authority, and that's why everyone looks up to him, damn it, so can't you just do this for Jack Bauer... I mean, can't you just do this for Rick Grimes? It's literally cringe-worthy, and the reactions from the other characters are convenient to the point of phony.

Meanwhile, Lori suffers from a bad case of Written By a Man Syndrome. "WHY ARE YOU SO MEEEEAN, RICK? WHAT ARE YOU, MY DAD? I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL MEN! Oh, sorry, I'm pregnant, you know, and I have all these crazy girly hormones. Silly me. Do what you think is best! You're always right!" Feh. We get it, Kirkman. Men are in charge, here. This is already apparent by how the other female characters act (including the strong ones), so you really don't have to turn your female lead into a crazy shrew to reinforce the point.

If you can get past the horrible things that come out of the noiseholes of these two, however, this is a solid volume. It goes a long way in carrying forward Kirkman's promise of a deeper, character-focused zombie story. Especially poignant is the survivors' reactions to the inmates, and the possible consequences thereafter. The volume ends on a cliffhanger that made me hungry for the next volume.

I'm finding as these go on, though, that I'm being less charitable with them, and I think it's because I watched the first season of the AMC show at the same time. The show has excised the sloppy characterizations and weak dialogue of the books. The characters are truly sympathetic and believable in the series. Heaven help me: it's better than the book. But from a general perspective, I like the direction that the first three volumes have set up, and I have high hopes for the story as it continues. My only hesitation is that the same formula has been more or less repeated through each of these three story arcs, and I don't know if my excitement about the series will last if it isn't switched up soon.

Verdict: 3.5 / 5

Book Review: Billy Boyle, by James R. Benn

2010-12-13T15:13:00.000-08:00

I've never been a mystery reader, and only started exploring the genre this year, when I began working as a librarian and inherited the helm of a mystery book club. I decided to give this one a try, since I've always liked stories with WWII settings. I expected a somewhat pulpy noir book, considering the setting. That's largely what I got, but I ended up being surprised; I loved this book a lot more than I thought I would.

This book introduces Billy Boyle, a cop from South Boston that has heretofore made do on the largess of his family and community connections. We learn early on that he is the nephew of a famous general, and thus he finds himself on his way to what he believes is a cushy desk job in the military. Instead, he is shipped off to England, and told that he is to put his detective skills to work under the personal supervision of the English and American military brass. A German spy threatens to reveal the secret plans being hatched to liberate Norway from the Nazis, and Boyle has been enlisted to ferret him out. As the investigation gets underway, though, a prominent Norwegian minister (and a possible suspect) commits suicide, and Boyle has reason to believe that foul play was involved. Along the way, Boyle unexpectedly earns two new companions who treat him like a bonafide detective instead of a jumped-up beat cop who knows the right people: an English Second Officer named Daphne Seaton, and Piotr Augustus Kazimierz, a mousy Polish baron that goes by "Kaz." As Boyle works to prove himself up to the task given to him, he realizes how entwined the various crosses and double-crosses really are, and how dangerous his new job really is, to both himself and to those involved with him.

The cover art and plot synopsis lead me to believe that I would find a lightweight, setting-focused read. I was fine with that, because that's exactly what I was in the mood for. Benn handles the premise just right; the first few pages transported me back to the 40s pretty effortlessly. The history is well-researched, but never dry or self-important, offering just the right balance of authenticity and readability. And the slang made me happy. I keep trying to bring back phrases like "say, Mac, what's the big idea" with varying levels of success, so I was wholeheartedly content with Boyle's "gee whiz" vernacular (although, the running joke of Kaz and Daphne trying to decode it got old pretty quickly).

So, I didn't expect the Great American Novel, and I didn't get it. But I finished this book a much bigger fan than I thought I'd be. The story's execution was somewhat predictable, and the pace gets muddied by various adventures that only serve to give Boyle cool, sexy stuff to do. But this book is just so damned readable. Boyle fits the archetype of the charming, serendipitous detective, but he is also full of self-doubt, and morally ambiguous enough to make him unpredictable. The supporting characters, while somewhat inconsistent in their development (for example, Kaz is layered and interesting, while Daphne is... not), are all uniformly likeable. Benn improbably creates an intimate "Scooby Gang," including the mucky-mucks at the top, in the middle of a vast and dehumanizing wartime setting.

The only reason I didn't give this five stars is because of the afore-mentioned Gumpish pace breaks. Also, the ending stretches credibility just a little bit more than the rest of the already improbable story, and I can't let go of the fact that Boyle solves the mystery based on a time-tested medical cliche that is flat-out incorrect. Honestly, though? I still liked the book.

I guess I am revealing myself to be a bit of a biased reviewer; I am willing to forgive a lot in books like this simply because I enjoyed reading them, whereas you get less leeway if I don't get my bread and circuses. There's a lot here at which to turn up your nose if you are a bonafide literati. And by that, I mean the smug, wispy buttholes in horn-rimmed glasses and ill-fitting sweaters, hanging around used bookstores in the hope of finding a Pynchon first edition. If you don't like WWII stories or light mysteries with plenty of noir homage, this one might not do it for you. However, I found this book to be a lot of fun. While it wasn't perfect, it has a lot of potential. I am definitely checking out the next in the series.

Verdict: 4 / 5

Graphic Novel Review: Dr. Horrible and Other Horrible Stories, by Zack Whedon

2010-12-08T13:23:00.000-08:00

This is a slim volume of super-short vignettes that offer some origin and foundation stories for the characters from Dr's Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. The graphic novel is lean and mean, but it's a highly amusing read. I'm an unabashed fan of the the original web video, so I loved every bit of it.

The stories here are very short, with five separate stories fit into 78 pages. Even so, everybody gets a turn. Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible get introductions that dovetail nicely into the canon. Penny gets a questionably relevant but undeniably sweet examination, as well. Best of all, there are closer looks at bit players like the Evil League of Evil, Moist, and even Johnny Snow.

The beauty here is in the small touches. The vignettes are not entirely standalone; they connect in subtle ways that bring the whole volume together and make it feel like a coherent "origin story," or at least a genuine prequel to the official story. New bit players like James Flames and the hilariously crass newscasters fit perfectly. Even the introduction is deliciously funny.

My main complaints with this are a few wonky panels in the art, and the bite-sized portion. But this was exactly what I was hoping it would be: a pitch-perfect extension of the original's tone and lore, and hopefully an appetizer for future installments. Even if you aren't a fan of Dr. Horrible, this is a good pick for those who like their superheroes and supervillains a little quirky.

Verdict: 5 / 5

Book Review: Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Omnibus, Vol. 1

2010-12-01T12:18:00.000-08:00

So, it appears my sudden, random fascination with graphic novels and my rediscovery of Buffy have collided. I originally meant to buy and read the Season 8 books that Joss Whedon actually worked on, but since I'm in the middle of rewatching the entire series, I decided to wait until I was done with that and go through this hefty volume of early Dark Horse comics instead. I liked it, but I didn't love it.

This volume covers two seminal moments in the Buffy canon: her showdown with Lothos in Los Angeles, and her subsequent stay in a mental asylum (which, by the way, is referenced in possibly my favorite episode of the television series, and made that story a particularly satisfying read). It also contains a Las Vegas adventure that explains what happened to Pike, a vignette of Spike and Drusilla, and a lighthearted story featuring a young Dawn.

A canonical, non-Hollywood version of Whedon's original script was enough to hook me, but the whole package actually looked good. And it was good. Different, but good. There are a few confusing moments: some of the vampires in The Origin inexplicably look like Man-Bat, and it took me a few pages to figure out what the deal was with the conjoined twins in the Vegas story, due to the artwork being somewhat questionable. Overall, though, the stories were great reads.

Something was just a little off the mark, though, and I can't put my finger on what it is. It seems a little fanboyish to declaim that this suffers from a pronounced lack of Whedon, but maybe that really is the issue. My favorite part of the Buffy television series is the character arcs and dialogue, and neither feels quite true in these comics. It's as if everyone is doing an impression of the Buffy characters, instead of being an extension of them. The inclusion of Dawn is interesting, too; the explanation for it makes sense academically (everyone has memories of her being there, including Dawn herself), and the resulting story really is cute and fun to read. However, it still feels a little like a convenient excuse to make filler stories.

Honestly, though, I really did like reading this. The sheer amount of material justifies the price, and even the worst of it is still great for Buffy fans. I don't think I'm quite enamored enough to buy another Buffy Omnibus, as I understand there's quite a few. But I'd definitely recommend this to anyone who wants a better version of the movie, and has an interest in pre-Sunnydale Buffy.

Verdict: 3 / 5

Book Review: The Girl who Played with Fire, by Stieg Larsson

2010-11-23T13:05:00.000-08:00

The second entry in the Millennium trilogy had the same impression on me as the first: an interesting mystery with fascinating characters that somehow never seems to work itself up past a low hum.

Lisbeth Salander, the brilliant, distant young hacker with a horrifying past, was put through the paces as a sidekick in the first book; this time, she takes center stage. Redeemed journalist Mikael Blomvkvist is working with two freelancing friends on an expose of sex trafficking in Sweden. When his friends end up dead, however, Salander's prints are found on the murder weapon. Suddenly, the intensely private Salander finds herself on the front page of every newspaper in Sweden, with multiple organizations tracking her down and most of the country convinced that she is a retarded psychopath. As Blomkvist attempts to find her and help her, he uncovers not only her surprising connections to the case, but begins to gain insight on how she became the surly loner she is. Meanwhile, Salander has to evade the tightening noose of journalists and police officers as she attempts to finish what the murder victims started.

Here's the main problem I have with this book: the events above, which are advertised on the book jacket, don't actually happen until hundreds of pages in. As with the first book, Larsson takes the scenic route to the actual mystery, and in the meantime, we get a completely unrelated vignette of Salander's Caribbean adventures, a subplot with Erika Berger that ends up going nowhere, and about a third or so of the actual IKEA catalog, as far as I can tell. Once things actually start happening, they don't actually get interesting until around page 400 or so. And even the intense action sequences are rendered in Larsson's usual laconic, Prozac-laden drone, so that the most suspenseful scenes still feel clinical. Also, everyone in Sweden apparently buys dinner at 7-11. Weird.

Oddly enough, all of that doesn't make for a bad read. Once again, I was invested in the story the whole way through, because I'm a fan of character work and these books are basically proving to be a series of detailed character sketches. I felt that the second book was actually more tightly plotted than the first. Even though the pacing still feels completely broken, the mystery is definitely less scattered and clumsy than the one in the first book.

There's another annoyance that set in for me partway through this book, though. For all that Larsson's characters are interesting, I don't really buy the way in which he portrays female characters. I mean, being male, I could be completely off-base here, but each time I was presented with a female character, I couldn't get past the image of a male author trying to approximate a female voice. Salander's crass treatment in the first book gets a little more dimension in this one, and new insights into her psychological profile explain her voice a bit, but Mimmi? Modig? Johannson? Every last one of them reads like a middle-aged male fantasy of what a strong, sexual woman should sound like (which, by the way, is exactly how Salander and Berger came off in the first book, I'm realizing). Again, just my impression; I didn't buy them, and I'm beginning to understand why some readers classify the books as mildly misogynistic.

Don't get me wrong, these books are good. I mean, they're... I don't know, competent. But I can't really wrap my head around the wild praise I keep hearing. The characterizations are largely great, but the writing is uneven, the pace is completely boned, and the narrative forgoes descriptive prose in favor of mountains of technical details. Also, I think maybe something is lost in translation, as some of the dialogue is painfully awkward and sometimes even nonsensical, which seems out of place amidst the painstaking prose in the rest of the book.

Yeah, I'm picking on it a little. But even if I didn't get very excited about this book, I never lost interest, either. In fact, the focus on Salander is incredibly satisfying. I'd have even been pleasantly surprised by some of her backstory, if the director who made the Swedish movie out of the first book didn't decide to spoil this book in that movie. Goddamned jerk. Anyway, even though I'm whinging a little about this book, it's not bad at all. It's a decent thriller, and it definitely benefits from a comparison to the first in the trilogy.

Verdict: 3 out of 5

Book Review: The Walking Dead Vol. 2: Miles Behind Us, by Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard

2010-11-16T20:43:00.000-08:00

Yeah, this one is a little bit more like it.

With the drama at the Atlanta campsite having reached its head, Grimes assumes leadership of the refugees and they hit the road. They meet a few new people along the way, and land upon an abandoned suburb and a pastoral farmstead in their search for a home safe from the restless dead.

With the introductory issues out of the way, it feels like the second volume gets a little deeper into Kirkman's "all about the characters" mission. The characters are a little less stereotypical in this one, and though we're still basically in a zombie soap opera, the interactions are considerably more believable (and, in a few instances, genuinely scary and affecting). The pace is a little better, too, with the traveling lending a bit more urgency to the proceedings. The places they land along the way have a bit more going on than the campsite in the first volume, as well.

The only tradeoff was the predictability, though that shouldn't be too surprising from a zombie story. There is never really any doubt about how each mini-story in the volume will turn out, especially considering that any suspense that does exist is neutralized with some pretty ham-handed foreshadowing. That leaves the surprises for the characters that end up leaving or getting killed, some of which I found surprising to the point of jarring (again, that's a little bit more like it).

The direction of this series looks good. Whatever flaws it has, it's so damned readable that I had to force myself not to breeze through it in twenty minutes. I'm in for the next few volumes, for sure.

Verdict: 4 out of 5

Book Review: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larrson

2010-11-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

Hmm. Well, considering the word-of-mouth this one has been getting for quite some time, I was expecting either the best mystery book I've ever read, or the usual crushing disappointment that comes from reading hyped books. I got something in between: a competent, enjoyable read, but not anything that hasn't been done better elsewhere.

This book begins with a very long, very detailed backstory for Mikael Blomkvist, a financial journalist facing a libel trial for an investigative piece on a less-than-upright CEO. Blomkvist's travails attract the attention of Henrik Vanger, an aging industrialist who has been mourning the disappearance (and, as he believes, murder) of a favored niece for years. Vanger offers Blomkvist a huge salary if he will work for a year writing a family chronicle and, in the process, see if he can uncover anything new about Harriet Vanger's disappearance. As the investigation takes on new life, Blomkvist enlists the help of a brilliant, damaged young hacker named Lisbeth Salander. Between the two of them, they discover that the historical murder mystery may be something altogether more immediate, and dangerous.

Over and over again, I have seen this book described as gripping. I'm going to come right out and say it: if not for the fact that Larsson was a good writer that could depict interesting characters, this book would be utterly boring.

Larsson loves his details. Like, really loves them. We get thorough breakdowns of our character's afternoons: what sort of meal they ate at what time, before the detailed route they took to the store, etc. Technical specs abound, as well. Any scene that includes a computer reads like a catalog, and I swear, there is even a helpful website URL in parentheses at one point.

This obsessive-compulsive description extends to the characters through backstories, side-plots, exposition, and even wardrobe. This is a saving grace, as far as I'm concerned; even with Larsson's spartan, Nordic prose, the characters are fascinating in their flaws and idiosyncrasies. By extension, the situations in which they find themselves keep the reader's attention. Despite the too-even keel, I never lost interest at any point; I kept reading because I perpetually wanted to find out what happens next.

The big problem this book has is the completely broken pace of the story. The main mystery doesn't pick up steam until literally 300 pages in. In the meantime, after getting a novella on Blomkvist's journalistic troubles, we are treated to strangely flat chronicle of Salander's difficult life, punctuated by a buffet of rape that is curiously absent of any psychological consequences. It must be said that this smacks of being explored more fully in a future book, but for now, the treatment of Salander's character development comes off as almost crass. Furthermore, it's unclear what any of it has to do with the main narrative. All of the subplots in this book are completely orphaned from the big story; while the book is nicely bookended by the libel stuff, it has almost nothing to do with the Vanger business. And Salander's introductory adventures are as aloof and unconnected with the rest of the book as her character is.

Again, none of this ever put me off enough to stop wondering how everything was going to turn out, but I really don't understand all of the praise heaped on the narrative. It's clumsy. At best. All of the seams show. The stories being told about Blomkvist and Salander are fantastic, but the big mystery nearly drowns in them.

This is a good, solid mystery that is definitely worth reading, though, even if its brilliance is a bit exaggerated, in my opinion.

Verdict: 3 out of 5

Book Review: The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

2010-11-09T00:05:00.000-08:00

Had I read this back in high school, I would be extolling it as the best book ever written, between the creepy premise, the poetic justice, and Wilde's trademark way with words. I'm hesitant to declare a flawless victory now that my tastes have evolved a little, but this is a classic worth the time of anyone who likes irony, and loves dialogue.

For those that aren't familiar with the plot, Dorian Gray is a young British aristocrat who serves as the unrequited love and prime inspiration for an artist named Basil Hallward. Basil becomes so enamored that he pours all of his talent and effort into a portrait of Dorian, finding what he feels to be the pinnacle of his art. In the meantime, Dorian is reluctantly introduced to a friend of Basil's: Lord Henry Wotton, a hedonistic dandy that lives only to indulge idle whims and explore new sensations. After only a single day, Lord Henry's philosophy so affects Dorian that, for the first time, he becomes aware of the ephemeral nature of his youth and afraid of the day in which it begins to wane. As he gazes upon Basil's unveiled portrait, he idly wishes that he could keep his youth forever, and that the beautiful painting would age in his place. As time goes by, he realizes to his astonishment that he might have got his wish; as Lord Henry's influence takes greater hold, the portrait begins to reveal what an unnaturally long youth can do to one's soul.

The narrative is straightforward compared to similar books from the same time period. And, as one would expect from Oscar Wilde, the prose is delectable. The dialogue is pitch-perfect, and the descriptive passages are tight when they need to be and luxurious when they have the opportunity. Which, believe it or not, is at the root of the minor issues I had with the book.

I have to be frank and say that there really isn't a whole lot more in terms of plot than the synopsis above. Wilde seems much more interested in sharing his themes and social critiques than in spinning a yarn. The character of Lord Henry Wotton is a prime example; most of the time, he seems to be simply a delivery vessel for Wilde's sarcasm and humor. He's got witty repartee at the ready for every situation, and chews up the scenery with his caustic remarks and introspective musings on every page that includes him. Which amused me more than irritated me, actually, because Wotton is an interesting character in spite of himself. He serves as a poisonous influence that precipitates Dorian's downfall in the beginning, and offers a stark contrast to the depths of Dorian's corruption at the end.

The only trouble I have is that, at one point, the story takes the same sort of languid detour that Wotton's dialogue does. Once Dorian's course is established, the narrative suddenly drops into an exhaustive list of the fabrics he likes, the gems he is interested in, the music he listens to, etc. This is described in the sort of detail that suggests Wilde was indulging his own knowledge and interest. Once I made it through the middle and the story picked up again, I looked back on it as a sort of literary montage to explain Dorian's hedonistic comings and goings, but honestly, I began to lose interest at this point after tearing through the beginning. Not long after the main story picks up again, it suddenly ends with a Poe-like twist. It was a satisfying ending, but didn't seem to do justice to the rich prose that led up to it.

So, even though I loved most of the book, my eyes begain to glaze over in a few places. A bit of Oscar Wilde Overload, maybe. But those were only momentary lapses, as far as I'm concerned; this is a classic worth owning, especially if one has an interest in classic horror. It is also required reading for anybody who espouses hedonism, or likes to argue themes in literature.

Verdict: 4 out of 5

Book Review: The Walking Dead Vol. 1: Days Gone Bye, by Robert Kirkman and Tony Moore

2010-11-02T16:14:00.000-07:00

As usual, my laziness puts me far behind the curve. I watched these graphic novels go on and off the shelves at my library, and put off reading them until AMC made a TV series out of it. Really, there's no earthly reason I shouldn't have read a comic about zombies by now, so I'm a little ashamed it took watching and loving the pilot of the filmed version to make me pick it up. And since I don't have the patience to follow a monthly comic anymore, I'm glad there are a pile of collected issue graphic novels for me to catch up on.

I tore through the first trade paper volume (issues #1-6) in record time. Police officer Rick Grimes is injured during a violent traffic stop, and wakes from a coma weeks later to a ravaged, deserted hospital. The zombie apocalypse has come while he slept, and through a combination of canniness and sheer luck, he crosses paths with a small group of other survivors on the outskirts of Atlanta, dodging the ravenous undead and trying to figure out what to do next.

This volume is generally focused on introducing the reader to the cast, the setting, and the interpersonal dramas to come. I happily lapped it all up, because come on, guys, it's fucking zombies. That being said, this isn't quite the tour de force I've been led to believe. Well, not yet, anyway. The characters are a bit stereotypical, in the way that the characters at the beginning of most zombie stories are. And the dialogue veers hard into melodramatic territory, as most comic book dialogue does. I think the only reason this bugs me is because I was hoping for an esoteric, literate type of graphic novel narrative, which isn't really in place yet. However, Kirkman's somewhat pompous introduction indicates that he wants the series to go past the typical zombie movie time frame, and really get into how the characters cope after getting through the initial crisis. That gives me hope, and puts the rather mediocre beginning in perspective. Plus, I don't know if I mentioned this, but it's fucking zombies. The Walking Dead certainly doesn't lack for action, so even if the story doesn't immediately improve, I'll be hooked for at least a few more volumes.

There is lot of homage to the zombie genre throughout the volume. The stark, black-and-white art is well done, and effectively puts the characters front and center instead of distracting with bright gore and detailed shock and awe... the horror here is more Romero then Roth. And yes, some of the homage tends toward the derivative, including a few scenes taken right out of other zombie tales. To read some other reviews, you'd think that was a SHOCKING AND APPALLING development. Hey, spoiler alert: this book has dead people that chase and eat the living! You can stop them by destroying the brain! Also, the survivors are so stressed and scared that their inability to work together is as big a threat as the zombies! I don't know, it seems to me that if you pick up a book called "The Walking Dead" and are surprised when you discover that it has familiar zombie tropes in it, the problem might be with you, not the book.

So, I'm intrigued. I haven't seriously read graphic novels for a bit, now, but The Walking Dead is good enough to drag me back in for a while. My only regret is that it's spoiling the equally awesome AMC series (so far, anyway) for me.

Verdict: 4 out of 5

Book Review: Brain Rules for Baby, by John Medina

2010-10-27T21:37:00.000-07:00

One of the more overwhelming aspects of impending parenthood, I’ve discovered, is the infinite amount of advice people would like to give you. Searching for a book on pregnancy and parenting leads one to vast, candy-colored landscapes of literature, with each book insistently tugging in a different direction. It’s nearly impossible to separate fact from opinion, largely because most parenting "facts" boil down to opinions, anyway. This book caught my eye because it offers parenting advice within a framework I find particularly interesting: brain development, neuroscience, and quirky scientific studies.

Which isn’t to say that this is dry, boring nonfiction. This is definitely science for the layperson, and it’s fascinating. I wasn’t really in the market for a parenting book until I flipped through this one and browsed through a couple of Medina's interesting summaries of studies on baby brains, and the accompanying anecdotes from his own experience.

This book offers a mountain of interesting facts and extremely useful advice, but Medina takes great care to warn readers about taking parenting advice with a grain of salt. He writes up front that the data coming back from this sort of science is dangerously seductive, and that it's all too easy for parents to jump to the wrong conclusions and freak themselves out because "that's what the scientists say." The esoteric factor that makes neuroscience so interesting tends to complicate things for frustrated, sleep-deprived parents that just want someone to tell them what to do. Ultimately, for all of the information this book gives, Medina's advice for creating a smart, happy baby boils down to simple stuff we should be doing anyway: love your spouse, and love your kid.

His full disclosure regarding the ambiguity of the data is comforting, considering how he can't quite keep a few of his own biases out of the mix, including a definite grudge against video games and television. But, hey, everyone's got an opinion on parenting, right?

I don't usually go in for this kind of book, but I will definitely recommend this to anyone who is expecting or has young children.

Verdict: 4 out of 5

Book Review: Black Thorn, White Rose, by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling

2010-10-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

This is one of what I gather to be a whole host of “alternative fairy tale” short story collections. It has sat on my shelf for years, forlornly waiting to be read. I recently started picking at it, a story at a time, while reading other things. It’s solidly average-to-decent, but I actually liked it more than I thought I would.

As with most genre short story anthologies, the entries in this book all revolve around the common theme of turning a classic fairy tale on its head. The stories approach this from a number of angles, resulting in everything from alternative viewpoints to entire transplants of the setting; I only knew that some of them were related to a classic tale because they were in this book to begin with. Even so, each tale does what it sets out to do, as the settings are suitably evocative and the morals (altered and revised though some may be) are crystal clear by the end of each.

This collection suffers from the hallmark lack of consistency that plagues most short story collections, but I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of duds in this one. Granted, only one or two stories struck me enough that I’m still thinking about them, but each and every one of them were fun to read. I liked some less than others, but there were none I outright disliked, which is rare in a collection like this.

Turns out, this collection is perfect for the use I had for it: fun, escapist, bite-sized reads. Most of the tales presented have a sensual, feminist bent, but there really is something for everyone, with altered fairy tales of all different moods and directions. I’m not exactly chomping at the bit for another in this series, but I will definitely pick one up once I’m in the mood for it again, and would definitely recommend this one to those who are fans of the adult fairy tale.

Verdict: 3 out of 5

Book Review: Shadow Bound, by Erin Kellison

2010-09-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

Hoo boy.

I saw this on my Nook store the first time I powered it up and messed around with it. It popped up as a free download, and after reading the little description it looked to me like an interesting urban fantasy. Not usually my cup of tea, but they’re sort of the new hotness, so why not give one a try?

I got about five pages in before one of the characters started making sweet, metaphor-laden love to the Grim Reaper and I realized my mistake. This is a paranormal romance, isn’t it? Sigh. I should have expected that, given how “urban fantasy” and “paranormal romance” are interchangeable terms, but in my defense, the cover didn't give it away, either. But hey, it’s free, right? Plus, I still hadn’t read anything like it in quite some time, so I gave it a shot anyway.

Talia O’Brien, a recent PhD in a vague, paranormal-type field of study, is searching for work and navigating the waters of post-academic life. Her plans, however, are violently interrupted by the appearance of soul-sucking creatures called wraiths. She is hunted for months by the beasts, and nearly killed one day before being rescued in the nick of time by one Adam Thorne, the independently wealthy head of the mysterious Segue Institute. Turns out, there are thousands of wraiths prowling the streets, and their numbers are growing. They have even organized under the name of The Collective, and the Segue Institute is dedicated to learning how to stop them from taking everything over. Adam has been searching for Talia ever since reading her dissertation on near-death experiences, convinced that she could help in the upcoming war. But she is more essential than even Adam realizes; born from a dalliance between Death and a mortal woman, her unique Faerie ancestry (and its associated power) may be the only thing that can stop the force behind the wraiths.

So, yeah. Pretty standard supernatural fare. I did like what Kellison did with the Faerie angle, and I particularly appreciated how the various supernatural parts come together (for example, the contrast between the lifeless ghosts and the deathless wraiths). All of that is kind of secondary to the contrived sexual tension between Talia and Adam, though. I don’t understand what’s so appealing about Adam. He’s a complete turd from beginning to end, exhibiting the most crass and overdone manly stereotypes and not evolving as a character in the slightest. He’s rich and handsome! Tall and smells “dark” and “spicy!” Brooding and angsty, with just enough of a dark side to be a bad boy without actually being bad in any real way! Overprotective of our heroine, and noble to the point of genuine stupidity! And let us not discount the virtues of his six-pack. And that’s what it’s written as, because apparently “abs,” “stomach muscles,” or “hot washboard of love” would be too clinical.

In short, everything likeable about this man is skin-deep at best, and yet Talia, an intellectual, independent, dangerous woman, falls in love with him after a week or so. Which passes for careful deliberation, here, since he declares her his soulmate after only a couple of days. I mean, I get it. I know how romances work, and this one works just fine. I’m just saying.

My biggest complaint is how abruptly the writing changes once we get into the steamy confines of this relationship. Despite the setting and story being somewhat run-of-the-mill, Kellison is a pretty good writer. The world-building she does is interesting, and Talia is a neat character, both in the mundane details and in the supernatural powers and legacy she possesses. But as soon as these two start hooking up, the storytelling goes all askew. Suddenly we aren’t dealing with two mysterious adults anymore, but with whiny teenagers in luuurve, both in style and substance. Things start to go downhill around the Ferrari vs. Lamborghini car chase, and bottom out about the time we get to the puzzlingly unnecessary “King and Queen of the Goths” party. And it’s not just the story that gets sidetracked, but the writing, as well. All of the neat stuff Kellison was doing in the beginning gives way to multiple passages on the direction of Adam’s blood flow any time Talia does anything.

If you see what she’s doing, there. Wink wink nudge nudge tee hee BONERS.

Sorry, I don’t know why I can’t take harlequin romance seriously, but it really does defy my attempts to read it with a straight face. Between my various experiences with erotica, pornography, and simple sex scenes in books and movies, I guess I’m just accustomed to a more serious, straightforward form of titillation, be it by what they are showing me or by what they are not showing me. So, when the florid, overblown romantic scenes in a book like this really start going, I find myself reacting in the manner which I imagine women do at male strippers: slight, incidental interest, tempered by a heaping serving of unintentional hilarity. Which is not a problem in itself, but once I got to the second half of the book, I couldn’t help but feel like everything, from story to characters, was really just a crude excuse for creating sexual tension between two ciphers and then having it consummated. And this is romance, so of course, that’s exactly what it was.

I don’t think this is a bad book. In fact, I kind of liked it. But I feel about it like I felt about Twilight: it’s a book that is surgically aimed at its target readers, among which I am most definitely not. This is a must-read for paranormal romance fans, as far as my limited experience with the genre can tell, because the world is interesting and the romance doesn’t lack for heat. If you’re just looking for a good supernatural fantasy, though? Meh. Find something with more meat to it than this one.

Verdict: 2 out of 5

Book Review: Nothing to Envy, by Barbara Demick

2010-09-23T11:46:00.000-07:00

I’m appalled and fascinated by North Korea. Given how closely they guard the details of their society, and how unsatisfying our general knowledge of their country is (with most of my impression of Kim Jong-il coming from the cartoonish propaganda posters in the history books, and of course, the Team America movie), I tend to snatch up any crumb of information about North Korea that looks remotely credible. I first heard about this book through a radio interview with the author, and have since noticed it in fairly high demand in my area. The book is fascinating if somewhat imperfect, and shines an illuminating, unforgiving light on the Hermit Kingdom.

Nothing to Envy chronicles the lives of six North Koreans, from the relative heyday of Kim Il-sung’s government through the famine of the 1990s, and describes in detail the hardships each had to endure until their eventual defections (a dangerous hardship in itself). The bombast of the infamously psychotic North Korean government serves both as antagonist and backdrop; the stories themselves focus on how these people, unfortunate enough to be born where and when they were, try to survive and find some semblance of normalcy. What we think of as mundane, everyday concerns- conversation topics, romance, travel, self-improvement- are all harrowing journeys with potentially deadly consequences. I was particularly struck by how the defectors have reacted to the “outside world,” as the realization of a life beyond the cocoon of Dear Leader’s whims seems to be both freeing and paralyzing to those who have never known that sort of self-determination. Moreover, the happy endings that one might expect from escaping are warped into surprising forms by the enormity of the culture shock involved.

Demick worked for years as a foreign correspondent in Seoul for the Los Angeles Times, and this book definitely has a journalistic flavor as a result, for good and for ill. The vignettes Demick presents for each of the six North Korean citizens offer intimate portraits of their struggles without being voyeuristic or sensationalist, and include only enough editorializing to draw out the sad facts within. That being said, I can see the seams between the news pieces that were stitched into a narrative, here. Demick follows the nonfiction convention of organizing her chapters thematically rather than sequentially, with each of the six stories blended into a constantly shifting perspective. On top of this, Demick has an unfortunate tendency towards redundancy, with the same factoids being repeated in separate chapters. I’m normally not too bothered by either issue, but together, they make for a book that can be somewhat hard to follow at times. Honestly, though, the content makes up for any stylistic quibbles I might have had, since I found the stories of daily life in North Korea so fascinating that I even consumed the chapter notes at the end of the book with fervor.

This is a fantastically interesting book, but it also instills a sense of disgust and sadness at what these people have to live through. Even if some of what is presented is exaggerated (which is a distinct possibility, since a lot of Demick’s information comes solely from the anecdotes of the disaffected), the existence of such a totalitarian regime on the basis of outright lies should be anathema to any person capable of independent thought. One particular passage from the book has stayed with me: one of the defectors discovered that 1984 was one of his favorite books, as he was amazed that George Orwell could understand so perfectly how the North Korean government could seize and maintain control over its people. I think there are people in our own country that should read this book and take note of the consequences of relentless animus, historical revisionism, and blind ideology. The horrifying social stagnation in North Korea says to me that 1984 is always the end result of such repression of contrary ideas, no matter which religious or economic creed drives the bus.

Verdict: 4 out of 5