TRH Movie – The Duchess

We had advance screening passes this week through work, so Zesty and I went to go see Keira Knightley in The Duchess. Based on Amanda Foreman’s biography, The Duchess follows the life of Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire (Keira Knightley). She was married at seventeen to the much older Duke (Ralph Fiennes) and the two were an unlikely match from the beginning. Played at first as a young woman enraptured by the idea of the man actually being in love with her, Georgiana soon realizes that marriage isn’t quite as she imagined. After a period of difficulty (involving the birth of a male heir), her husband’s mistress, Lady Elizabeth Foster (Hayley Atwell; who was once her best friend), Georgiana and the Duke form an awkward and terrifyingly strange trio. The triangle proves to be Georgiana’s undoing. Of equal importance in the film’s portrayal of her life was her politics — both her support of the Whigs and her love affair with Charles Grey (Dominic Cooper).

Keira Knightley does surprisingly well as the Duchess, carrying off her more outrageous attributes to a tee, and has surprising emotional depth in the role. Audiences will surely despise Fiennes as the Duke, not for his acting, but for the nature of the part itself. The costumes are truly outstanding, the score to the film lovely, and on the whole, the picture was much better than I thought it would be after first watching the trailer.

It’s also amazing to get lost in the history that surrounds all the pomp and circumstance of the two families. Georgiana, a Spencer, has infamous relatives (Princess Diana, as the press keeps reminding people) and Lady Caroline Lamb. And then with the Duke of Devonshire’s peerage still in existence, it’s consistently amazing to me how the ancestry of these families is passed down, traded up and titled. I can get lost in tracking it all. Clicking from one Wikipedia entry to the next filling my head with information that has absolutely no relevance to my everyday life.

Annnywaay, it’s an okay film, a solid B, but I’d recommend waiting for it to come out on DVD rather than ponying up for theatre prices.

#54 – This Charming Man

No other chicklit writer even comes close to achieving what Keyes can: strong, morally based stories about real women that grab your attention from the very first page and hold on to it tight like a hand on a roller coaster. Her latest, This Charming Man, is no exception. To be honest, my wrist is strained from holding the book up until all hours on Monday night (I wasn’t sleeping anyway). I mean, it’s 676 pages!

The story follows four very different women all connected by one man: Paddy de Courcy. As Ireland’s most eligible bachelor, de Courcy has been courting women for years. Now that he’s ready to settle down with Alicia, how will all of the other women cope with his absence from their lives? For Nola, it means she leaves her life, her job, and her entire world behind to escape the grief that her politician boyfriend is marrying someone else. For sisters Grace (a journalist) and Marnie (a troubled office manager), it means ending a life-long obsession they each had with Paddy. And, lastly, for Alicia, his intended, it means finally recognizing the love she’s carried for Paddy since adolescence.

The lives of the four women intersect and the narrative changes between their four perspectives. If I had a favourite storyline, it would have to be Nola, whose breakdown is tempered by her delightful adventures living in her friend’s uncle’s summer house. But as with all of Marian Keyes’s books, there’s a hidden story behind the sweet writing that slowly reveals itself as each of the women confess their own problems when it comes to Paddy de Courcy. Being in the public eye, as a member of an up and coming Irish political party, does little to save face as the novel unravels his less than charming persona.

I won’t give anything more away except to say that while I’ve been ill this week with that damned bronchitis, this has kept very good company indeed.

READING CHALLENGES: Chicklit, chicklit and more chicklit, but at least Keyes is Irish so that counts as a country other than the one my arse currently occupies.

#52 & 53 – Home & Housekeeping

As I reviewed both Home and Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson for the blog at work, The Savvy Reader, it’ll be a duplication of efforts to re-write them here. So I’m cutting and pasting from my original review:

The first Marilynne Robinson novel that I read was Gilead, and what a reading experience it was, exhilarating would be a good descriptive word. That novel sent me reeling forward headlong into Home, which comes out this fall, and follows many of the same characters from Gilead. Glory has come home to take care of her father, Reverend Robert Boughton (neighbour and best friend of John Ames), as his health declines in old age. It begins:

“Home to stay, Glory! Yes!” her father said, and her heart sank. He attempted a twinkle of joy at this thought, but his eyes were damp with commiseration. “To stay for a while this time!” he amended, and took her bag from her, first shifting his cane to his weaker hand. Dear God, she thought, dear God in heaven. So began and ended all of her prayers these days, which were really cries of amazement.

While, this new novel takes place concurrently with Gilead, you don’t have to have read the first book to enjoy this one, as the stories, while they have similar plot points and some of the same characters, are extremely different.

The assured nature of Robinson’s voice, her ability to tell a story, and the emotional depth of the relationships between the elder Boughton and his children, bring you right into this novel from the very first page and just don’t let you go. As both Glory and her father await the return of Jack (brother and favourite son), who has been away from Gilead for twenty years, it’s apparent that his presence will change their lives irrevocably and as only family members can. In many ways, Jack’s visit is a blessing and a curse, as it brings both Glory and her father closer together but also forces them to reflect on the past, an exercise that truly brings out the richness in Robinson’s writing.

When I finished the book at the cottage last weekend, I actually hugged the book. I may have uttered an, “Oh, Glory!” or two, as well. The novel picks you up and drops you so wholly into these characters that you can’t help but want to reach into the book and hold them, befriend them, debate with them, and simply enjoy the pleasures in their lives.

Of course, my adoration of Home sent me reeling, again, for more of Marilynne Robinson, which led me to read her first book, Housekeeping. I’ve only just begun, but I am already enthralled by Ruthie’s story. Here’s a passage I read this morning in transit:

It is, as she said, difficult to describe someone, since memories are by their nature fragmented, isolated, and arbitrary as glimpses one has at night through lighted windows.

What do your lighted windows display? Right now mine would be filled to the brim of thoughts about Marilynne Robinson’s books.

#51 – Quick

For some reason, when I can’t bike into work and am forced to take the subway (read: when I’m under the weather for various illnesses), I like to read poetry. The books are often smallish so they fit nicely into pockets and purses and it’s a nice way to be eased in or out of your day. Anne Simpson’s collection Quick was my companion for a good month — as the days were far and few between where I wasn’t riding my bike. I actually finished the book up the Friday of the September long weekend and simply haven’t had a chance to blog about it yet.

The sky softens with the end of light. Reaching for something solid when there’s nothing to hold. The woman slips deeper in the water, swims, snatches up her hand. A jellyfish has stung her. She gazes at its lurid pouch, fringed with cream: doll-sized weapons. Mute and deaf and blind, the creature glides forward as if this was what it wanted all along. Lifted on a wave, dropped on sand. A spilled sack. It’ll lose its sheen, begin to stink. Later, a boy will poke it with a stick, just to see.

Chorus

Did you think you could miss this part? Everything is sharpened around you.

The above is taken from the almost prose-like epic poem that makes up the later half of the book. “Ocean, Ocean” is a sharp and visceral exploration of human interaction with the body of water and its many metaphors aren’t so much spelled out as inferred through the beautiful two line chorus that accompanies each one paragraph stanza. I was captivated by this poem and read it many, many times. The beginning of the collection wasn’t as arresting for me but I was consistently impressed by the themes: the most basic in literature brought to soaring new heights by Simpson’s wonderful poetry. Man versus nature, man versus man, nature in its most primal, effortless state.

I am ever glad to have ensured that my Canadian Book Challenge not only included the ladies, but poetry as well. It’s not as if I have to force myself to read poetry as much as remind myself how much I love it. Funny, too, as I had a conversation with someone at work who mentioned that they never, ever thought about poetry, that they couldn’t care less. I was saddened by this statement only because poetry, while endlessly important, seems to never sell as well as much of the schlock that crowds out the shelves of the bookstores.

Everyone should at least buy a book of poetry. I don’t even care if you ever read it. Well, maybe I care a little bit.

READING CHALLENGES: Quick is #3 in terms of my For the Ladies Canadian Book Challenge.

#50 – His Illegal Self

Peter Carey remains one of my most adored living authors. I count some of his books among my all-time favourites (Oscar and Lucinda; Theft; Jack Maggs). His latest, His Illegal Self, isn’t at the top of my Peter Carey goodies list, but it’s not at the bottom either (that honour belongs to the Ned Kelly book that [to date] remains unfinished). His talents are considerable so even a mediocre book by Carey is hands and feet better than an excellent book by a lesser writer.

The story of a young boy who’s kidnapped by a woman who isn’t his mother and spirited away to the wilds of Australia, His Illegal Self is an arresting story. I think it’s just not entirely believable. As a result of his mother’s (and father’s to boot) illegal activities as political radical protesters, Che (as he’s called) lives with his posh mother on Park Avenue, spending much of their time at a summer home outside the city. He’s only eight (I think) when the action begins and yearns for his mother who remains a distant memory locked away in his mind. When Dial shows up and kidnaps him from his grandmother under the guise of taking him to see his mother, everything that could possibly go wrong does.

As I said above, I did find the plot somewhat implausible; there are far too many nefarious characters in one place who consistently roadblock the way back to a legal existence for both Che and Dial. The voice of the story sometimes comes across as kind of alienating and more than once I found myself backtracking just so I could be sure I knew what was going on. Yet somehow, despite some little bits of confusion here or there, I did find the novel to be a swift read.

READING CHALLENGES: While I think I’ve already done Australia for Around the World in 52 Books (which I am so very far behind it its almost criminal), Carey hails from there so I’ll add it to the list.

Still Bending, Still Almost Breaking

Sleep still remains something far off in the distance like a summer storm or a sailboat. I know I can get there but my body can’t quite muster up the strength to make it happen. Last night the crying started. The darkness isn’t really comforting. Today I had soup and friends at lunch. That was nice. My husband teased me yesterday. That was also nice. But I am over the shock of everything and keep turning the reality of the events of my mother’s death over and over in my mind late at night. Any dreams I have are invaded and mixed up with the smell of hospitals and the pain of knowing even if she did magically get better one day she’s now lost to us forever. It’s not sad. She suffered more in one lifetime than people should ever suffer. I feel I’m less than myself right now. Coughing. Shuffling. Stuck on the subway in a throng of people when I’d much rather be riding my bike. My shoulders slumped and a defeated look on my face.

Bent And Almost Broken

Now besieged by bronchitis that the doctor thinks I probably picked up at the hospital. Have been unable to talk, walk or really do much of anything except sit and watch the television. Watched all of Generation Kill again. It’s a great show. Watched Norma Rae, and enjoyed the film immensely. Started Volver and finished Lions for Lambs (very disappointing film). I need good films and good television right now. At least my brain can wrap itself around them. Deadlines have slipped. Priorities are changing. My heart hurts. So does my chest from all the coughing. I haven’t slept in over a week. First because of everything that was going on and then because I am coughing so much that I wake myself up every fifteen minutes. But there was light on the horizon today. Today, I actually picked up a book.

Please Forgive My Silence

After a long and extremely profound illness stemming from a car accident over twenty years ago, my mother passed away. She had been incapacitated and living in a chronic care hospital for many of those years, and we are all deeply saddened by the loss, but comforted by the fact that she isn’t suffering any longer. I promise I’ll get back to blogging at some point.

#49 – Petite Anglaise

In all honesty, I don’t know what to say about Catherine Sanderson’s Petite Anglaise. Written in the chatty, blog-like style the writer developed on her enormously successful blog of the same name, her memoir covers a tumultuous period where Sanderson makes sweeping changes in her life. Having spent the last eight years with her partner, whom she identifies in the book as “Mr. Frog,” the British ex-pat now finds her life as a working mom somewhat lacking. While trying to reclaim her identity, she starts her blog, and it opens up a whole new world to her. And when a mysterious man starts leaving comments that cut to her romantic core, Catherine is forced to make some very hard decisions about what she wants out of her life.

The writing was all a little too Eat, Pray, Love for me, and for the most part I found that blog-style writing doesn’t always necessarily transfer to a larger book format as well as one would expect. The never-ending descriptions of Paris grow weary after a while (Sanderson never met a view of the Eiffel Tower she didn’t love and/or want to describe) and, despite her obvious talents, the whole book felt like it was lacking maybe a bit of an emotional core? I mean, it’s not as if Sanderson didn’t describe her emotions, but somehow reading Petite Anglaise felt like work. If I was truly engaged (like I was with Kerry Cohen’s excellent memoir, Loose Girl), the pages would have flown by.

That said, there’s a lot to like about it as well, and I’m so impressed with the story behind the book — her rags-to-riches blog success, how she made a life for herself and for her delightful daughter (Tadpole) in Paris (a city I adore too and would give my right arm to live in any day), and how she gets swept up in a moment that may have not been the best decision, but takes it all in stride, dusts herself off, and carries on with the same tireless spirit she displays throughout the book.

Chicklit readers will appreciate the passion in the memoir, and I’d suspect the package too, with its pretty brown and pinks, the lovely sillouette on the cover. Maybe it’s just me and the fact that I love a little more meat in my memoir, something slightly juicer and far darker than Petite Anglaise can provide. This, of course, is no fault of the author and utterly all my own subjective ideas about the kinds of truth I like uncovered between the pages.

PHOTO IN CONTEXT: The book on my kitchen table in exactly the spot where I finished reading it this morning. What you can’t see in the shot are the twenty-odd tomatoes surrounding it.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: Marilynne Robinson’s Home, which I started this week too and am already loving.

Weekend Update

We stayed in the city because my RRHB played a festival in Collingwood on Friday night, which meant that after leaving for summer hours, I had a whole band widow afternoon stretched out in front of me. One guess where I ended up: the garden. I did some weeding, picked some beans for dinner and tried to save as many of the tomatoes as humanly possible. We also had two more cucumbers and there are 4 more zucchinis growing.

The cucumber is waning, dying a slow death on the vine, and I’m actually mourning its going. I’ve eaten those cucumbers all summer as snacks and it’s a huge part of how I’m now winning the 18 Pound Challenge. When I saw the final slicer that I think will actually ripen out of the corner of my eye as I was attacking a weed patch near our lone corn plant that will probably not produce any corn, I actually gasped out loud. About a vegetable. So I brought it inside and tenderly sliced it up for dinner alongside the beans that are a mite bit happier now that I pulled the hulking squash out from in front of them (not to worry, our other squash plants are happily growing like mad just on the other side — they’re even starting to flower and bud).

Annnywaay, my Friday band widow afternoon/evening was spent watching some terribly girlie movies (Miss Pettigrew Lives for Day [utterly fetching and truly wonderful] and What Happens in Vegas [meh; of course, meh]) before passing out at about 10 PM and trying to read some of Marilynne Robinson’s Home. Two pages, maybe three?

On Saturday I managed to do more gardening (more weeding; more watering) before meeting Tara for lunch before we went to go see Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. Aw, those pants, still so enjoyable in a totally can’t-believe-this-cheesy-movie-made-me-cry-more-than-once kind of way. There were some parts that were so ridiculous that we were laughing when we (obviously) shouldn’t have been, but that’s what those movies are for. The most hilarious part of the film wasn’t even on screen. When Kyle MacLachlan showed up as the artsy drama teacher at Carmen’s summer stock, a woman in the row behind us exclaimed, “Oh my god!” Heh. Among other annoyances: why on earth would anyone wear white eyelet to a charcoal drawing class? To any art class? The guy from Swingtown does a terrible Greek accent and is forced to say lines like, “we are terrible at not loving each other.” Bridget goes to an archaeological dig and kisses the bones, all the while bouncing around and then PLAYING SOCCER next to the dig. As Tara said, “She’s a worse archaeologist than Indiana Jones.” But we forgive these indiscretions and even the truly awful pants because they did a really good, honest job of those moments that either change friendship forever or let it evolve as their lives evolve. Those were the parts that made me all teary.

Then it was back on my bike and home to see my RRHB for about 10 minutes before he left for his show at the Horseshoe last night. Meredith came down and met me for a drink beforehand, and then it was off for a night of rock as Fembots played with Cuff the Duke (and I’m so sorry but I don’t remember the other opening band as I completely missed them!). A truly fun four beer evening complete with a joke, a very tall man bobbing his head, and a couple that made out on the dance floor while pretending to be in grade eight. They were awesome.

Despite my ridiculous hangover, I crawled out of bed at 7 AM this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. As a result, I finished a book, biked down to the farmer’s market in Liberty Village, bought some great vegetables, biked home (HOLY CRAP IT WAS HOT AND HARD), and then cleaned out the fridge all before 10:30 AM. We’ve already come and gone from Kensington Market and now I have the whole afternoon in front of me to work on my Classic Starts and finish up my last Harlequin assignment for this month. That’s if I don’t collapse on my keyboard as the dregs of whatever energy I do have left piss out top like the rest of an empty keg (does that even make sense?).

Happy Sunday all.