The Hunt for Red October
… it took me a long, long time to realise where the “The” goes in this title, and I still usually say “Hunt for THE Red October.”
Me:
- Sean’s eyes as the opening scene… tells you a lot about his status.
- And then the long pull out to show them in the sub conning tower – magnificent
- Also the MUSIC. So epic.
- Everything about this cast makes me happy.
- The credit scene with Jack’s desk etc: it’s surely the inspiration for the credits in Sahara, as an intro to the main character.
- Aw, Jack as the family man. And married to Dr Crusher – which will never not be weird.
- Starting on a plane! Just like Die Hard! And the man doesn’t like flying! Wait, is this a theme? (No: Arnie has no problem with the helicopter.)
- Slow pan up to the Central Intelligence sign – it’s a nice touch.
- There is no movie that is not improved by the presence of James Earl Jones.
- … and also the addition of Courtney B. Vance. “Sea-man Beau-mont.” I love me a human who’s better than the technology.
- Everything about the Paganini / Pavarotti story makes me laugh. Every time. (“including one WAAAAY out at Pearl”).
- Scott Glenn! Underrated, right? He does laconic beautifully.
- I like the close-ups inside the sub – makes it feel appropriately claustrophobic.
- For those of us who watched a lot of Spooks, seeing Peter Firth as the political officer and speaking Russian is super weird.
- … still, Firth didn’t quite deserve such a death.
- (Although: Putin! His characters’ name is Putin!)
- The switch from Russian to English is really nicely done.
- The reaction of my siblings when I told them what I was watching:
- Chekhov’s mini-sub and its universal docking clamp!
- Again for those of us with rather different experiences of Tim Curry: seeing him as a very serious medical officer! Is very weird!
- They really do clever things with the cinematography in the tight confines of the sub: camera in the printer looking up, etc.
- I thought it was only Welsh working men who were likely to break out into song like that?
- Imagine having a boss like the Admiral. Just drops you into a briefing for the Joint Chiefs and the President’s security advisor. When five minutes before you were happily researching in the stacks!
- Look at that man think! In a room full of hawks, he thinks! I know, I know, he turns into an action man, but at heart Jack is a nerd.
- I’ve only just noticed Admiral Greer putting his hand on Jack’s wrist to calm him down. Hilarious.
- And THEN Stellan Skarsgård turns up! This cast!
- Smoking on a submarine. What a world.
- This film can’t really figure out what it thinks of how the elite in a USSR sub would act. The officers are eating well; the doctor is a snob, discussing good food and going to the ballet; the officers are eating nice food and there’s fancy drinkware etc on the table. So… the USSR is kidding itself about being egalitarian? or something? We don’t see Bart Mancuso eating…
- Jonesy is just all about competence. No wonder I like this film so much. Most of it is just people being clever!
- And a nice bit of background for Jack, having been a marine and his terrible accident that explains his fear of flying.
- Capt Ramius is a steely-eyed missile man.
- Alec Baldwin is a walking carpet.
- And another incongruous actor: Daniel Davis, for those of us who grew up on The Nanny, as an American naval officer? Very weird.
- Capt Borodin’s desire to live in Montana, to breed rabbits, is adorable. (So of course he has to die.)
- Just enough background for us to appreciate Ramius’ history; not too much, just enough to make him real.
- Getting off a chopper to a submarine: may be one of the stupidest stunts ever.
- The Crazy Ivan guess is truly ridiculous. It’s probably the weakest moment in the film.
- Oh no! Not a reactor leak!!
- There’s Chekhov’s DSRV (and don’t tell me there’s a 40-something Australian woman who doesn’t think of Seaquest DSV when you hear that, I won’t believe you).
- Why does Jonesy join the American boarding party? Who knows!
- And Skarsgård comes screaming in back in for a dramatic dummy spit.
- I adore the interplay between the two captains. They’re so cute. Both ordering Jack around.
- When Jack exclaims “A goddamn cook??” all I can think in response is: “I also cook.”
- The final conversation on the river is very sweet.
- And finally: Jack can sleep, on the plane.
Him:
- Let’s take a moment to admire how good the bluray transfer is from the film. Colours are great but not overdone, suitably gritty with obvious film grain without being over sharpened or treated with hideous AI smoothing like so many 4k re-releases.
- And let’s mansplain turbulence to the air hostess who may have just flown one or two more times than Jack…
- We arrive at the US submarine building yard, obviously a fake set. The Americans don’t know how to make submarines.
- The whole helicopter ride out to the sub is genuinely stressful, and I’ve seen this film many many times.
- Morse code aint that fast! Especially if being decoded visually…. (Repeat from the American ship on the surface)
- Be careful what you shoot at, most things in here don’t react well to bullets….
Die Hard
I don’t remember the first time I watched this film. I don’t know how many time I’ve watched it, either. A lot. (Although not as many as my BIL who firmly believes in “Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
- Our introduction to John McClane is through his faults: not enjoying plane travel. Fear – but also carrying a gun.
- Middle of the airport and he lights a cigarette? What a time.
- The introduction of Holly is fantastic – dealing with Ellis the idiot coworker, clearly a boss, also a loving mother.
- I like Argyle a lot. He’s a stereotype of course – the young mouthy black guy, listening to his rap music – but I still believe that he rises above the stereotype. Could just be that I am accustomed to him.
- Touch screen! So fancy. Unlike McClane’s reaction to Holly using a different name…
- By golly I loathe Ellis. The epitome of 80s corporate douche.
- I really like the dynamic of John and Holly. They’re in a difficult position personally, maritally, emotionally. I like that we land in the middle of ongoing arguments, and what it shows about each of them. Also that John beats himself up over it a bit.
- Also? John is not ripped. He’s no slob, but he’s no Arnie either. I prefer this era.
- The misdirect of the villains entering the reception is magnificent.
- I adore Alan Rickman’s entrance.
- Gasp! Villains are not speaking English! (At least they’re not Arabic or Russian?)
- I will neither confirm nor deny that I have made fists with my toes after a plane trip.
- Hans is sublime. The little black book, the impeccable suit. And of course, the English accent when that was still a Hollywood trope for a villain.
- Was it a reasonable assumption, in 1988, that Hans et al were terrorists? Since that is what Mr Takagi assumes. I don’t feel like there’s been any real indications of that – but maybe that’s my having seen it very many times.
- John has an emotional reaction to the killing! and makes a noise! So, quite different from other action-man types. And his first instinct is to get help in the form of firefighters – rather that going it all alone – but that doesn’t work. AND his first fight is intended initially to disable, rather than kill.
- Karl has already been shown to be a brute and a bit out of control, what with the chainsaw and the electrical cables. But Hans? Hans can still control him.
- The introduction of Al is a nice play on stereotypes: the fat black cop buying snacks – “for my wife; she’s pregnant” – although of course we have no idea whether he really is just a plod or not.
- Shows like this always make me think about the guts of buildings and how much we don’t usually pay attention to that.
- I enjoy how John gets more and more dishevelled over the course of the film.
- “Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs… “
- Poor Al didn’t deserve to have a body land on his car.
- I am fascinated by the narrative choice to give us so much insight into Hans’ plans – that he expected, indeed needed, police intervention, and so on.
- The media interlude is… weird. Why do we suddenly have a rogue reporter arguing with his network? Seems like an unnecessary addition to the narrative.
- “Enough plastic explosives to orbit Arnold Schwarzenegger” – it’s only 1988 and Arnie is already being referenced.
- Holly’s early interaction with Hans is perfection.
- 1988 is such a different time in terms of dealing with suspected terrorism. The response of the police boss on-site is wild – the fact that he’s allowed to be making that decision! And Al and John both know it’s terrible, showing that they are the smart ones.
- Ellis’ cocaine-fuelled greed-is-good attempt at negotiation always makes me want to punch something.
- … I have just realised that Al is the Sam Gamgee of the film.
- The way Hans manipulates the police expectations of terrorists… so clever.
- Ah, Agents Johnson. More fabulous stereotypes.
- I love the melodrama of Hans pretending not to be Hans. And his accent is hilarious.
- It’s hard to express how much I loathe the reporter and his approach to the McClane household. The reporter is more loathsome than Hans.
- Even when I recognise a trope like “the hero is wounded and we’re not sure if he can continue,” I still enjoy and appreciate it, especially here: pulling glass out of your foot, being exhausted – Willis plays it so well.
- Al’s tragic background… I mean, I get its copaganda, but it’s still touching.
- The irony of “Ode to Joy” as the vault opens – for the villains – is magnificent.
- This film does not love the FBI.
- Jumping off the roof, attached to the fire hose? Iconic.
- It’s such a great use of Argyle and his limo.
- This is 5 years after Wrath of Khan. Do we think “HAAAANS” is modelled after “KHAAAAAN”?
- The watch!
- Hans’ face, as he falls, is truly THE scene.
- Naw, the bromance of John and Al. Adorable.
- … and the resurrection of Karl is so unexpected. Does Al need this sort of violent redemption? I personally don’t think so, but then I’m not an American living in the 1980s.
- Holly punching the reporter, though, is basically justified.
His only contribution: hey. the villains’ theme is “Ode to Joy”!
Predator
This is only the second time I’ve seen the film – and the first time was last year. I don’t even remember how it came up, then, that I had never seen it – and my darling was horrified and I think we were watching it 60 seconds later. Thus I am still having some early reactions to the film!
My near-stream of consciousness notes:
- America in Central America, 1987: what a time.
- I didn’t recognise Arnie for a moment; he’s so small!
- I’m way more interested in Carl Weathers.
- I really enjoy the way these 1980s action films set up the caricatures within the team. Dutch is the leader, refuses jobs that don’t fit his remit (we’re a rescue team); there’s a Latino, a geek (white, obvs), a scary black guy, a Native American (I assume; after all, they use him as a tracker, and it’s the 1980s – and he’s played by a actor descending from Cherokee and Seminole nations), a tough white guy – and those really are their characters.
- Also, the “jokes” very much … of their time.
- I like the way the cinematography emphasises the claustrophobic nature of the jungle, with plants right in the fore of early shots.
- The skinned bodies are probably more graphic than a run-of-the-mill action film would include today.
- The introduction of the Predator’s IR vision is magnificent. Using first-person is inspired.
- It’s a more clever narrative than I initially expected: the rescue mission – which itself isn’t at all straightforward – and then the Predator as a completely seperate issue.
- It’s very violent. Honestly, the extended fire fight against the guerrillas is quite boring.
- Random woman as a hostage… doesn’t really serve much purpose except to slow them down. She seems like a mostly pointless inclusion, except that she gets to witness Geek Boy’s death. (And probably providing an inspiration for Prey.)
- The (non)-appearance of the Predator is also fantastic; and then the first time we actually see the Predator, he’s fixing a wound.
- Scary Black Guy Mack’s sudden emotional reaction to the Tough White Guy’s death feels weirdly out of place – for the character, and for the film.
- “If it bleeds, we can kill it.”
- OK, Anna isn’t so pointless after all. She’s cool.
- Scary Black Guy becomes Loony Black Guy. Yay terrible caricatures.
- Why does Carl Weathers have his shirt off? It’s really not clear.
- Last Stand of the Brave but Loony Native American. Yeesh.
- I do like the Smart Action Hero Arnie gets to play here: using Anna rather than seeing her as useless; realising the Predator comes through the trees, and that the Clever hides him; setting traps.
- Although setting a fire in the evening does rather defeat the “it hunts using IR” realisation. Atmospheric, though.
- The film would have been better to be about 10 minutes shorter. The extended fight scenes are just too much.
- The removal of the Predator’s helmet? Amazing. It is truly an exceptionally designed creature.
- Ah, the final fight, hand to hand, like true warriors.
- There’s no reason for the Predator to understand, let alone use, evil laughter.
- “Arnie in the mist.”
- I really like that no explanation is given for the Predator.
His notes:
- Opening sequence, spaceship on a stick… worse than Star Wars … but 10 years later.
- The arm wrestle… the making of many a meme.
- Choppers into the jungle, what could go wrong…
- Those ‘jokes’!
- Nothing says 80s action like underslung grenade launchers and shooting from the hip, despite this being 100% unrealistic.
- We start with war paint, we end with war paint (mud)
My thoughts overall: I really like this film. It’s completely of its time, it’s clearly one of the inspirations for The Expendables, it’s mostly a vehicle for Arnie but basically rises above that. Worth watching!
Considering The Female Man by Joanna Russ (Farah Mendlesohn)
First, (re-)read The Female Man. I think that really is necessary. Then you’ll be fresh and able to really get into the points that Mendlesohn is making in this compact and insightful book.
While I’ve read a bit of Russ criticism – including some of Mendlesohn’s previous work – I’m not claiming to be an expert. So one of the things I appreciated about this book was Mendlesohn touching on some of the previous work done on Russ in general and The Female Man in particular, to give context to this particular book. I was interested to see some of the ways that attitudes have changed, and some of the aspects that haven’t previously been explored in much depth: in particular, here, how Russ’ Jewish identity impacted on the structure of the novel, as well as the story.
It really is a wee book: 169 pages, and a tiny package. But Mendlesohn packs a lot in! There’s an introduction to both Russ and the novel – historical context, cultural and literary context, feminist context – which doesn’t shy away from the fact that Russ in the 1970s was decidedly TERF (acknowledging that she did change her views, which is the only reason I can still come at reading the book – but YMMV!). Then, three chapters going deep in literary analysis: Character; Structure; Argument. How “the Js” work as individual characters as well as aspects of, perhaps, one whole; how what feels initially like a convoluted maybe-not-really-a-narrative-at-all actually works, and why Russ wrote it that way; and how the novel presents Jewishness, anger, and humour. And an epilogue about the epilogue, which is so meta I think Russ would have approved.
I’ve read The Female Man a few times, and I always get more out of it. There are definitely things I had never noticed before – because my cultural, historical, and literary context are very different from Russ’s, there are things that just did not click for me, but which Mendlesohn has pointed out. In particular, I think, there’s the discussion about how the characters function across the story, with and against one another – their attitudes have always been what I found most fascinating, and that’s just been deepened.
One thing I will note: there are a few typos in the copy I read (eg Jael is Jane once, and Joel another time).
Highly recommended to those looking to further appreciate Joanna Russ and her work. You can get it here.
The Brilliant Boy, Gideon Haigh
Doc Evatt and the Great Australian Dissent
Ok. So. Firstly, this is not the book I thought it was going to be. Partly that’s on me – I didn’t read the blurb carefully. So that’s a lesson. It’s also on the person who recommended it to me, because he led me to believe it was a proper – that is, complete – biography of Doc Evatt. And it’s not.
So, actually, possibly firstly: did you know that Gideon Haigh wrote full-on proper history, and not just cricket?? Me neither, until I was recommended this book.
Maybe this is first: until last year, I really didn’t read modern biographies, and I certainly didn’t read modern Australian biographies, let alone modern Australian political biographies. And now I’ve read two, arguably three, and I am having a minor (very, very minor) identity crisis.
All of that out of the way:
I know of Doc Evatt for having been instrumental in setting up the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, doing other important work at the UN, and then being shuffled off and ignored by the Labor Party and Australian politics more broadly. I had absolutely no idea about his early life, how he got into politics, or what he was like as a human – except that he’s generally regarded as “brilliant and/but mad.” This book is almost entirely about Evatt’s early life, focused on his career as a lawyer and then as an exceptionally young High Court judge.
Do I care much about the law, the legal profession, or even much about how the Constitution is interpreted? No I really do not. Were there bits – large chunks excerpted from lawyers’ speeches, and bits from judgements – where my eyes glazed over? What do you think. Did I nonetheless find this a fascinating biography? I am almost embarrassed to admit that I really did. And that’s partly because Haigh is a really great writer, and partly because of the actual point of the book. Yes, it’s about Evatt. But it’s also about the idea that someone should be recompensed for the suffering they experience – not just physical injury – when someone has done them wrong.
The book opens not with Evatt, but with the death of a young boy – “the brilliant boy” – a child of Polish Jewish migrants who drowned in water collected in a hole in a road thanks to roadworks, in the early 1930s. The council hadn’t put up much in the way of protection. The mother suffered enormously from what was then termed “nervous shock” in the months and years after his body was found. And that was the focus of many court cases. Were the council liable for the mother’s suffering?
Warning: there’s a lot of callous and misogynist language in the judgements handed down.
I did, indeed, learn a lot about Evatt. I have much greater respect for his intellect and achievements – as well as some appreciation for why he was and is regarded as a bit mad. There have been two full biographies written of the man, but they’re both quite old and I don’t feel like I can go read them now. Along with all of that, I also learned a great deal about the development of how pain and suffering are viewed in the law, and – knowing that our current system is very, very far from perfect – feel very thankful that I live now, rather than a century ago.
Notes from a Regicide, Issac Fellman
This is a complicated and complex, beautiful, fierce, glorious novel. There are so many things going on. The short version is: if you want a beautifully written novel involving a political story (I mean, look at the title), trans stories, a love of art, dealing with families, and a hint of science fiction – just read this. Don’t bother reading this review, just go find it.
If you need some convincing, well:
I feel like the only way I can talk about this book is to identify some of the strands, but also begin by saying all of the strands work together perfectly.
In part this is a son editing and presenting his father’s memoirs, particularly from when the father was in prison. The son, Griffon, includes notes at the start of those chapters – just a little William Goldman-esque, noting that he’s done some pruning. Those sections are where most of the politics are. The father, Etoine, lived for many years in Stephensport, an island that has completely turned its back on the wider world, ruled by a prince chosen by electors – who otherwise sleep in “the stone yard” and for whom citizens pray. Etoine is an artist, and gets drawn into revolutionary activity mostly against his will. It’s here Etoine meets fellow artist Zaffre (which really is a beautiful colour); she is a much more willing revolutionary. As someone who taught kids about revolutions for many years – well, the political bits here ring true, in the most devastating and fierce and poignant ways.
It’s also a memoir of Griffon, finding his family with Etoine and Zaffre, and also finding himself: he is trans, and it’s only on meeting Etoine and Zaffre that the possibility of living as himself starts to seem feasible. As an adult, looking back on his adolescence, Griffon is both harsh on his younger self for being self-centred and arrogant, and also forgiving for not knowing any better. It feels right.
So there is a lot about family here – having one, ignoring them, the frustrations and embarrassments and comfort, the impossibility of ever knowing people fully and the joy of being known and loved despite that. All of that alongside the politics.
And then there’s the art. Etoine and Zaffre are artists: for both of them, although in different ways, art is at the core of their identity. Fellman captures the obsession and drive of some artists, not romanticising the despair but also not ignoring the difficulties; for both, art is about life and life is about art – and it’s inextricably connected to politics, too.
I haven’t finished yet. There’s also mental illness – Etoine is an alcoholic, Zaffre has schizophrenia (maybe; her diagnosis is unclear), which they manage to varying degrees across their lives, to different effect on themselves and those around them. Again, not romanticised, but it also doesn’t make either of them a villain – and nor is it necessary to their art. It just is.
And, finally, this is a science fiction novel. Honestly it would be easy to ignore that part. It’s not quite blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but it’s not far off. It is completely necessary to the world of the story, but it’s also not at the heart of the narrative. It’s supremely well done. I feel like there will be a lot of people who go into this expecting A Science Fiction Novel who may be disappointed by the way it uses the genre; that would be sad, but I would get it. I also think there will be a lot of readers who would love this book – for all the reasons listed above – who will avoid it because it’s called science fiction. That, my friends, would be a great tragedy. But if the foregoing words don’t convince you of that, there’s not much I can say.
Really. Just read it.
This is yet another book I have read by Ian Mond, and – intriguingly – he’s never steered me wrong. I’m not going to say we always agree, because there’s a lot he reads that I never will, but the circles of our reading Venn diagram do have some overlap.
Speculative Orientalism, by Sang-Keun Yoo
I read this courtesy of the publisher, Bloomsbury, who sent me the ebook. It’s out now.
It’s been a while since I read a book doing such serious literary analysis. And I don’t remember the last time I read one looking at such a range of science fiction authors, so that aspect alone was really awesome.
I believe that this book came from Yoo’s PhD thesis, and having read a few theses – and read a few books that have come out of theses – I can say that overall Yoo has done a good job translating what is necessary for a very specialised academic audience into what works for a slightly more general audience. There are a still a few bits – in particular, some repetitions – that I think are hold-overs from the thesis; they weren’t bad, as such, just not quite what I would expect from a book written first and foremost as a book.
I should note, though, that this is not a read-in-one-sitting, easy-going book. It requires you to actively pay attention, and think seriously about the words and ideas, because the ideas about ‘orientalism’ and Yoo’s points about how English and, in particular, American authors have used and changed orientalism, particularly as part of the New Wave – these aren’t entirely straightforward, and you want to follow the changes over time closely.
So, if you’re up for a serious read, this will suit you well!
I’ve been reading science fiction for a long time, but I am a child of the 80s, which means that “new wave” fiction was already ageing when I first became aware of it – and honestly I would still struggle to point out the real differences between pre-new wave, new wave, and post-new wave. Maybe I’m just not analytical enough? Whatever the case, one of the initial things that actually really worked for me was Yoo’s general introduction to what the new wave authors were doing, and why this was important, and what it looked like in both the UK and the USA. So that was one very useful result!
The meat of the book is looking at the – well, I hesitate to use ‘progression’ or ‘development,’ for their implications of positive change over time. I think Yoo does make a claim for progression, eventually, but it’s still a somewhat fraught term.
Let’s stick with ‘change.’ So, Yoo opens with looking at how William S Burroughs (whose work I have never read!) uses orientalism in his work: that is, references to “Asian” ideas, places, or things, whether that’s a generic “Asian” or a specific ethnicity like Chinese. Uh, spoiler? It reads as super racist. (Who am I kidding, it is super racist.) So that’s… fun.
The really serious analysis comes with next three chapters: Philip K. Dick (do I get kicked out of the club if I say I didn’t enjoy the few stories I’ve read); Samuel Delany (I’ve read a few! I refuse to read Dhalgren, though, on the grounds of too darned long), and Ursula K. Le Guin (I have read most). With these authors, Yoo traces the various influences on their writing – personal experiences, personal belief systems, and so on – and how this plays out across their fiction, and what this suggests about attitudes towards “Asian” ideas, in particular religiously and politically. Unsurprisingly, Le Guin’s use of Taoism is noted as the most nuanced and thoughtful use of those ideas, and as developing across her long career. I was also very interested to read about the African-American and Asian connections that were apparently being discussed in the 1960s, about which I knew nothing.
Overall? This is not a book for a casual reader. It is a book for someone who likes thinking about meaty issues, and who already has at least some familiarity with some of the works being discussed. I’m very pleased that I got to read it.
What the Bones Know
I am a wuss. I do not enjoy being frightened. As a consequence, I rarely read books that are explicitly marketed as horror, and don’t particularly love books that have horror elements.
Of course, there are exceptions to this rule; sometimes I have read a book without realising it had horror elements and I’ve really enjoyed it! But I am wary.
All of this is to say, I haven’t read much of Kirstyn’s work, despite her being a friend.
However. I should start a “books I read in one sitting” tag in Goodreads. This book would go on that shelf. Because, yes, I did. I started it in the afternoon, read through dinner, and finished it before bed. Note: I did not read this while alone in the house. Because I am not that silly.
There are three sets of horror / disturbing elements playing in this novel. One: it’s set in 2020, and it starts in Melbourne. The main character then goes back to her family farm, so she’s not in the city for the entire period of the world’s longest sets of lockdown, but nevertheless: the panic buying and the lack of certainty and… yes. Well. If you were there, you know. Kirstyn captures it beautifully. It all felt very real – the not knowing in March, the waiting for the Premier Dan pressers… no, I didn’t quite have flashbacks, but I could visualise it all very easily.
Two: Jude, the main character, goes back to the farm because she fears her mother’s mind is wandering. Hands up those of us in that situation or about to be? Yeh. I don’t like it. Again, Kirstyn writes it perfectly: the snapping in and out of focus, the tightrope-walking of whether to challenge a sentence here or there, the fear of whether she’s a danger or herself or others. Being bewildered at suddenly being the responsible one.
Three: there’s a ghost. Maybe? The gradual revelation of what’s going on with that is truly masterful. And I won’t say any more about that because it’s the unravelling that makes it worthwhile. Trust me, though, it is worthwhile.
Oh, there’s also a recently ex-husband who’s a complete arse, so that’s like point 3.5.
What the Bones Know has a tiny cast of characters, all of them excruciatingly well-observed – and being so tightly bound to just a few people (particularly when it’s daughter, mother, grandmother) really adds to a sense of claustrophobia – despite it being set on a farm. It has a spectacularly Australian tone (tits on a bull!) – and if you’ve driven around Myrtleford, in Victoria, you will instantly recognise the area. And, as witnessed by my need to read the damned thing so quickly, it’s very compelling.
Just read it.
She Who Tastes, Knows
I received this courtesy of the publisher. It’s out now.
I am very ambivalent about this memoir.
On the one hand, there are some parts I enjoyed a great deal. The history overview of Afghanistan’s place in history – central to several empires over centuries, key to the Silk Road, and then the later shitshow of the 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries – was very well done and gives a good sense of the country’s deep and important place in the world. And then the discussion of its botanical richness – that was incredible. I know about the importance of not having monocultures and the extreme risk the world faces regarding a loss of diversity; I had no idea that for a whole bunch of colliding reasons, Afghanistan is home to an astonishing range of wheat varieties and fruit varieties and so on. That was fascinating.
I also appreciated the author’s discussion of her own life as a very young refugee, moving to Australia and growing up right around the time most Australians first learned about Afghanistan for all the wrong reasons. Her graciousness in conceding why ‘ordinary’ Australians didn’t know better than what we were fed by the media and politicians is humbling, while also infuriating that such an attitude was even needed. Attached to this are two very different discussions: one, Ayubi’s discussion about the importance of keeping her culture alive within a broader Australian culture – particularly through food, unsurprisingly; and two, a broader critique of the way white Western cultures have bad-mouthed refugees and all of the implications of that.
Most of the content was engaging, and was the reason I kept reading.
However… much of the book is written in a style that really doesn’t work for me. I find it overly flowery, to the point where I struggled to grasp the author’s point because the language obscured it. As a sample:
“I sat quietly amid my grandmothers and ancestors. Till this point, I’d never felt such a depth of my own story. Through a life of exile that was shaped most by absence, my relationship to food had kept me tethered just enough – weaving into my body and consciousness the hints I would need to stay aligned as I undertook the necessary remakings of myself, to gradually bridge me here. I was within a verdant and layered sense of fullness that had ripened through time, each cycle of growth feeding on the decomposition of the last.”
I’m quite sure this style appeals to a lot of people, and I think that’s great. I hope the book finds its way to their hands! But 220-odd pages of this was too much for me. Which was a shame, because I really wanted to enjoy it more.
Object Lessons: Snack
I read this courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, Bloomsbury. It’s out now.
Like the other excellent Object Lessons books, this combines a deeply personal reflection on the topic along with some historical, cultural, and almost anthropological observations. It’s such a short book – barely over 100 pages – but it covers a lovely range of topics. Chapters include: Origin stories; Infantile Snacks; Fruits and Vegetables; Guilty Pleasures; and Chocolate and Dried Squid. One of those chapters is only a page long.
The author is the child of Korean migrants to America, and so her story is one of figuring out where she fits – and of enjoying both deeply American and deeply Korean snacks. She explores what makes a food a snack, and changing attitudes to the whole question of snacking. There’s an entire section about the relationship of diet culture to snacking (arguing that the diet industry actually promotes snacks, which when I thought about it for a whole 3 seconds I realised was staggeringly and twistedly reflected in my knowledge of advertising). And then there’s the fact that Big Tobacco bought into the food industry when theirs was starting its downward spiral…
The book is very American, as Dahn herself recognises early on; she mentions some American snacks I’ve never come across, but of course much of it translates to Australia as well. I think it’s a result of this focus, plus the question of migrants and snacks, that means some of the framing for the book is around the question of how invented Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and their subsequent place in the American psyche (do these exist in Australia? Certainly they’re not ubiquitous. I assume I could find them in a speciality store, which is itself an amusing reflection given Dahn’s discussion of finding dried squid in Korean speciality stores in her youth).
The personal side really works in this context. Discussing one’s childhood snacking, the snacks one then foists on one’s own child – all very relatable.
This is a delightful little book.
Randomly Yours, Alex 