Booky-wooks

Here's a nice little list of "Old Fashioned Horror" books from Abebooks.com.

Old-fashioned. Doesn't that have a nice, wholesome ring to it?

In a completely unrelated story, my birthday is coming up soon.

"Miss Marple Resurfaces, And This Time She's No Spinster"

According to Deadline.com, "Disney has made a deal to revive the Agatha Christie mystery series staple character Miss Marple, but with one big difference: instead of the elderly spinster who lives in the English village of St. Mary's [sic] Mead and solves mysteries as a hobby, the new configuration is for Mark Frost to script a version where Marple is in her 30s or 40s."

That's interesting because I'm adapting an Hercule Poirot mystery for the Dizneee Channel wherein he is a 25-year-old Asian man played by John Cho who can communicate psychically with elephants. He works at the San Diego zoo and solves mysteries in his spare time, when he's not riding his Harley. Also, Veronica Mars makes a bunch of cameos.

A not-at-all-timely review of Breillat's Sleeping Beauty

It is axiomatic that fairy tales morph with each re-telling. This narrative shape-shifting lets each new version capture new anxieties, reflect new eras; each new author adds his or her own personal stamp. Catherine Breillat’s Sleeping Beauty is no exception. As the director said in a recent interview, “When I made the film I had to ask, ‘Why me?’ I have to become part of the story. I have to be it.” With Sleeping Beauty, Breillat re-imagines the plot by starting from the most seemingly obvious point: the heroine’s dreams. (After all, what else can you do with a character whose main action is sleeping?) Breillat imagines a girl who “wanted to be daring and do things that were dangerous, forbidding, and do them in her own way.” So the passive protagonist of yore becomes an adventurer, whose soul fearlessly roams the universe as her body lies asleep in a silent chamber. Or, as Breillat puts it, this is no “a little Barbie pink dream.” This decision is both brilliantly simple and dazzlingly inspired. Whether the film always holds up to this conception is a matter of debate, but as a guiding construct it is nearly perfect.

Want more? The rest of the review is here! Aren't you angry I'm making you click something?

In Which I Celebrate Drunken Irish Novelists*

Let's take some time out of our very busy day (accomplished so far: gone to deli for milk, learned how to pronounce Justin Bieber in Spanish, drank coffee, briefly opened windows, closed them again, now eating oatmeal) to pay tribute to some of my literary heroes who also happen to be Irish!

After spending much of yesterday arguing about the correct spelling of Saint Paddy's Day (D's, not T's people!) I got to thinking about words, language, and the old sod. Apparently James Joyce didn't give a shit about spelling and made up a bunch of 100-letter words in Finegan's (sp? who cares!) Wake. I don't know, I never read that fucker. I'm just not smart enough, honestly. Anyhoo, so then I thought some more and realized that two of my all-time favorite scribes were Irishmen.

One: first love, Oscar Wilde. I had a children's edition of The Happy Prince and other Tales when I was tiny -- illustrated by Arthur Rackham, sigh.... so beautiful -- and loved, loved, loved it. Later, as a teenager, I learned Wilde was master of the bitchy one-liner, and my devotion was renewed. I still heart you, fatty.

Two: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. The master, the absolute master, of gothic ghost stories. Along with M.R. James, one of my very very most beloved favorites, ever! There's a very comprehensive bibliography and link to articles here, and a very nice appreciation of J.S. by M.R. here. And here's a link to one of my favorite Le Fanu stories, The Sexton's Adventure!

Some smarty-pants critics have posited that some of Le Fanu's anxieties were rooted in his fractured identity as an Anglo-Irishman. Again, I'm not smart enough to know what this means. All I know is that he totally rules, so a toast to him! Hurrah for ghost stories, hurrah for mad novelists, and hurrah for holidays on which intemperance is celebrated, nay, encouraged!

* And here's a full list of Irish references on The Simpsons! You caught that Simpsons reference, didn't you? Of course you did, clever reader! That's why you really boil my potato!

Once upon a film

There's a delightful round-up of fairy tales on film over at Movie Morlocks; it runs the gamut from classic (Cocteau) to obscure (Valerie and her Week of Wonders) to contemporary (Red Riding Hood). Insightful readings add new dimensions to old favorites (Freeway's "subtext is not about sex, but about class and taste, as it reveals the hypocrisy and condescension of the liberal middle class toward the 'unfortunates' of society..." zing!) while her list also adds at least three previously unknown titles to my Netflix queue.
An excellent list that should inspire any fairy-tale fan, or fan of film for that matter. The only thing I might add to it might be Hawks' Ball of Fire, which bears a very loose resemblance to Snow White, as gangster moll Barbara Stanwyck hides out in a houseful of seven* mild-mannered professors who are writing a slang dictionary.

* There are eight, actually, if you count Gary Cooper, but we all know he's the Prince!

"Hey... they both wear capes!"

"Industry expert" Mark Lisanti on how fairy tales became the new comic books. Picture the phrase being uttered by a dim-witted studio exec and it actually sounds like a fairly accurate, or at least plausible, explanation. Add to that the two most beautiful words in the English language -- public domain -- and you've got yourself a trend!

"That oughta have a highball around it"

As anyone who knows me is aware, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is one of my all time favorite movies -- certainly my favorite Hawks movie, and that's saying something. I never understood criticism of the film; I remember vaguely hearing something to the effect that "those women" were gold-digging "monsters" who should be reviled. That maybe some boring old prude somewhere would like to toss them right off the great big cruise ship of life. Well let me tell you something, buster: those girls wouldn't drown.

I learned everything I need to know about life from Dorothy and Lorelei. (Well, those two, and the Golden Girls who, if you think about it, follow the same paradigm: Rose + Blanche = Lorelei, Dorothy + Ma = Dorothy Shaw.) For example, here's a little advice that comes in handy most any where, any time:

"If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing well."

"If we can't empty his pockets between the two of us, we're not worthy of the name woman."

"A lady never admits her feet hurt."

"Nobody chaperones the chaperone."

And there's more! So if you've never seen it, go rent, steal, or charm someone into lending you Gentlement Prefer Blondes tonight.

As for me, I'd like to make a toast: to friendship, highballs, song-and-dance numbers, Henry Spofford III (and valet), and diamonds.... shiny, shiny diamonds.... I raise my glass and recite this little number:

There once was a fellow named Sidney
He drank til he ruined a kidney
It shriveled and shrank
But he drank and he drank
Well he had his fun doing it, didn't he?

I know another one: bottoms up.

Interview with Corinne May Botz

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

Ghosts have a strange relationship to their spaces: they are part of the home, yet they are frightening; they are unknown, and yet they reveal themselves to us. They are integral to the space, which may explain why so much ghostly activity comes from the house itself (moving furniture, smashing dishes, etc.). The house becomes its own agent, and yet is entwined with its inhabitants – and interlopers....

I write about ghosts, art and haunted houses in this interview with photographer, writer and all around nice lady Corinne May Botz. Read it if obsession holds no fear for you, if you can tread the darkest places of the mind without trembling....

Secret Beyond the Door

When I'm not writing random screeds against perfectly innocent children's movies, I craft thoughtful considerations of fairy tales on film: read my take on the Bluebeard-inspired Secret Beyond the Door at Cabinet des Fees!

The Little Mermaid

Five grown women gathered in a Brooklyn apartment one wintry Friday evening to watch The Little Mermaid. Why? That actually, I can’t explain. A mass email had gone out mentioning a “girl’s night,” that included, for reasons unknown to me, the mention of “a Disney movie.” Somehow this grew to mean the specific aquatic-themed Disney movie, and I was, if you will, hooked. Not so much on the idea of the film, but on the nautical concept surrounding the whole event. We were to eat fish and crab-cakes, and drink salty dogs. Swedish fish were in the offing for desert. One girl thought to bring a sack full of oranges, “to prevent scurvy.”

What can I say? I'm a sucker for nautical crap. I like to imagine I’d enjoy being an explorer on one of the early journeys to map the New World, though my husband assures me these trips were terrible. (I know they were, but wouldn’t the thrill of discovery outweigh the inconvenience of being eaten by your starving shipmates when you ran out of rats and mast-bark? Some people have no sense of adventure.)

So it was this, more than the prospect of the Disney movie, that drew me in. To be frank, I never cared for this particular studio offering. In general, 1990s Disney always struck me as too precious and cloying, too snide and self-congratulatory. I don’t hate Disney. I respect the animation and even like some of the songs (though not all – again, many of the ‘90s songs struck me as too Broadway, and I despise Broadway musicals). And there are some sequences in Disney films that are almost literally enchanting: the dwarves’ “Whistle as you Work” song in Snow White, the terrifying spindle-pricking scene in Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella’s opening credits. And Alice in Wonderland entranced me as a child (it still does). Though I can respect, appreciate and even enjoy certain aspects of the Mouse’s imagined universes, I can’t help but loathe certain Disney princesses.

Some are less irritating than others – Sleeping Beauty, for instance, I find quite elegant. But I have the usual feminist gripe with Walt’s stable of fair maidens, and little Ariel seems to bother me most of all. Her unnecessarily enormous eyes, for instance. All Disney heroines are wide-eyed, but there’s something about her proportions that irritate me. Obviously I’m not looking for verisimilitude in a cartoon character; I just don’t find her aesthetically pleasing. I do like that she has red hair, though, so I’ll give her that.

I have another issue with The Little Mermaid: I think it frankly butchers Hans Anderson’s exquisite story. I realize it is irrelevant and useless to compare filmic adaptations of literature to their source material in such a way. There’s nothing worse than hearing some nerd whine, “It wasn’t like the booo-oook!” Film is an art form unto itself. So I will concede this point is critically irrelevant but note that it biases me against the film from the get-go, since I cherish the tragic original story so very much.

So maybe I should check myself here, and try to locate the locus of my hatred: other than twisting a delicate tale of love and loss into a cheerful fable about “being yourself” and spoon-feeding it to hordes of already over-entitled, delusionally self-confident little girls, is the movie really so bad? I don’t know. Plot-wise it dutifully hits all the requisite points. Song-wise, I guess it’s all right, if a little poppy (thought thankfully nowhere near as appalling as The Lion King). The sidekicks are average, neither especially charming or especially annoying. The sense of place is nicely rendered. It is mentioned at one point that they dwell in the Caspian Sea, and Prince Eric’s seafaring kingdom boasts a dreamy beachside castle. (Though I would have liked to spend more time in the undersea kingdom; I think the lack of time spent in this world merely demonstrates the lack of imagination put into this film.) There are interesting little touches here and there (Ariel’s stash of human detritus includes a de la Tour painting of “A Penitent Magdalen,” an interesting choice). So far, it seems to be coming up a draw. Now what about the villains?

This may be the only area where The Little Mermaid really shines. Ursula the Sea-Witch is the best Disney villainess since the evil queen in Snow White.

Her oozing flesh jiggles and quakes monstrously, as she quivers with delight in her own evil. Her big musical number is actually pretty decent, very lurid and smoky and filled with obscene suggestion. I’m unclear as to what her motivation for evil is exactly, other than mere generational jealousy – she seems to motivated partly out of an admirable desire to displace King Triton and rule the sea (who wouldn’t want to rule the sea?) and a generalized dislike of the willful, self-regarding Ariel – obviously something I can understand. Whatever the reason, she pursues evil with resounding style, from her clip-on earrings to her fire engine lipstick. Her flabby, fulsome body is a masterstroke of monster design; you can hardly tell where her back-fat ends and her octopus legs begin. And the final showdown, in which she turns Triton into a weird sea-ghost, raises a thunderstorm, and attempts to murder both Eric and Ariel, is an astoundingly frightening climax for a children’s movie. You can’t help but respect Ursula.

Overall, there is a nullity to The Little Mermaid that I just can’t quite get behind. I feel hollow after I watch it, experiencing neither joy for Ariel nor pity for her father, the imposingly rendered King Triton, who sacrifices everything to let her join Prince Eric’s kingdom. I don’t even feel feminist rage* at Ariel giving up everything she knows for a man, because all she ever knew before was a petulant, sullen sort of discontent. In essence, she gets everything she wants, no matter how many people she has to destroy (Ursula) or almost destroy (Eric, her father) to get it. When the movie begins she is spoiled and selfish, and when it ends she is spoiled and selfish. (How many months will go by before she wakes up one morning next to Eric and says, “Darling don’t you that I long to live in the air!”?)

But most of all (and I realize now I veer dangerously close to "it wasn't like the book!" territory here) this is a tragic tale of longing (not petty whims, Ariel!) and loss, utter, utter loss! This is not a peppy story, it shouldn't have a happy ending, damn it. The message of The Little Mermaid seems to be “let your children do what they want.” Surely this isn’t a lesson American parents need to learn.

* On a side note, Disney's pandering to feminism is quite blatant and enraging here: Ariel finds her voice, don't you see? I'm not buying it, no sir.

This self-promotion fills me with shame...

...but Spinster Aunt's alter ego, A.J. Sweeney, has a short story up at Flashes in the Dark! Normally Spinster Aunt is too reserved to toot her own horn like this, but that A.J. Sweeney is a cold-hearted, fang-toothed hussy.

Goblin markets

Lately I've been getting back into fairy tales, having read some great contemporary updates in recent months (e.g. Baba Yaga Laid an Egg) and I'm pleased to see the form is thriving online. A couple of intriguing sites I've stumbled upon recently include Cabinet des Fees, Enchanted Conversation, and the sensibly named Fairy Tale Review. I like the sense of continuation and collaboration as new stories from multiple authors mesh with existing narratives. The Fairy Tale Review organizes its issues by color -- this month's is red, abounding with tales of the girl in the riding hood, and an upcoming issue will be gray. Enchanted Conversation favors story-based themes, with every issue focusing on a specific fairy tale. Upcoming: Rumplestiltskin. EC's editor also has a blog called Diamonds and Toads, where she muses on all things fairy tale with great passion and visual panache. Finally, Cabinet des Fees is a quasi-highbrow affair that tempers whimsy with some sturdy academic offerings, making it a good source for further (non-fiction) reading in addition to its short stories. My only problem at this point is finding enough hours in the day to read everything therein, so if anyone has any spells for stopping time, let me know.

Winter...

I like to imagine I live in an enchanted secret world about 90% of the time... a soft blanket of snow and a hushed, empty park help me do that splendidly...


It's lovely to see this meadow so child-free...

I chose this angle to hide the blue smear of spray paint on the rocks...

......
.......
.........

Critters

I've been having weird dreams lately (I don't know why I bother to use the word "lately") about sinister little forest creatures.

In one dream, I have a pet who is a re-animated taxidermy squirrel named Mabel.

In other, an owl is stalking me. He perches at my window and stares...

According to dreammoods.com, to dream of an owl symbolizes -- wait for it -- wisdom! And to see a squirrel in your dream indicates that you are involved in a loveless, pointless relationship, an unprofitable business project, or are pursuing empty and fruitless endeavors!

Interestingly enough, to dream that you are trying to run over squirrels with a lawn mower means you are looking for some form of acceptance.

Life imitates art

Merry Christmas!

I hope you enjoy this lovely gingerbread graveyard I baked just for you. In truth, the gingerbread looks more like gravestones without the candy on it, but frankly I plan on eating this sucker. Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! See you in 2011!

Ghost Building

Last week my friend Mike and I went walking around the financial district to gaze at old graves and dream of Dutch colonial things but, this being the financial district, couldn't help but crane our necks upward and get carried away by skyscrapers. Inspired by the hollow grandness of the bank buildings, I blathered on a bit about how I love narratives of financial ruin, the sheer drama of histories of crashes and panics. Then we stumbled on a gorgeous Art Deco building at the corner of Wall and Pine, and, well, witnessed history.

Fascinated by its sleek elegance, we trotted round and round the edifice, vainly looking for an open door, but all ingress and egress was blocked off and everything was shuttered up tight. Odd, considering it was five o'clock on a weekday afternoon.

At last we found a single open entrance and passed through a revolving door into an unusually
quiet lobby suffused with warm-colored marble. (I remember it being a gingery gold color, but memory is fallible. I should have snapped a picture, darn it.) A plaque informed us of the building's ownership, and we walked through the hushed, utterly deserted interior to the only people in the place: two uniformed security guards. They stood amidst the silence and half-packed cardboard boxes.

We greeted them and asked, "Is this the AIG Building?"

The kinder of the two guards replied slowly: "Used to be."

We spoke to him some more, and he revealed to us that the building had been sold "to the Koreans." I asked him if he would keep his job. "I don't know. I'm just living from day to day," he replied. (Reverting to a strange Little Orphan Annie diction that overtakes me sometimes, I piped up, "You're real nice, mister, I'm sure you'll keep your job, sure you will!") The other guard stood stoically, as soundless as the empty lobby.

At one point a slim young man with light-brown hair and a sad face came into the building. He was dressed in what I imagine bankers wear on weekends, and had on a backpack. As he passed by the stack of boxes, I realized he was likely going upstairs to pack the last of his work things into that backpack.

We waved goodbye to the friendly security guard (I really do wish I had more of a controlling stake in the universe so I could ensure him a job with the new owners) and headed back into the darkening afternoon. As we left, we saw a lone, white-haired lady, perhaps some ancient secretary, shuffle noiselessly across the floor, swipe her ID card at a golden turnstile, and move toward the elevator bank.

***

P.S. Did you know there are no happy hours in the financial district? A waitress explained, "We don't really need them down here."

Bacon Porn

My new Hams & Jams catalogue came in the mail today, and when I say "new" I mean my first ever. I have no idea how they got our address, but frankly it doesn't matter. When you're pitching meat-in-the-mail, I'm buying.

To start, I think I'd like the Sizzle Pack, featuring one pound of Country Smoked Bacon, 1 lb Belgian Waffle and Pancake Mix and an 12 oz bottle of Maple Syrup. Then I'll move on to the Loveless Smokehouse Special, featuring:

• 1 lb Country Smoked Bacon
  
• 2 lbs Country Smoked Sausage
  
• 12 oz Center-Cut Country Ham Slices

Then maybe I'll grab a nice jar of pumpkin butter to go with my Butter My Biscuits! gift pack, and, finally, top it off with a nice bag of Piggy Popcorn, that is to say, popcorn popped in bacon grease sprinkled with Real Country Smoked Bacon Bits.

And if that's not enough, I might for for a Whole Hog Gift Pack or two.

Teeny tiny deadly things

"Morgues and crime scenes were hardly places for ladies of good breeding to discuss, let alone visit."

So, in characteristic fashion, I discover Frances Glessner Lee long after the rest of the world does. What can I say, it isn't easy living in a state of calculated obliviousness. In any case, it isn't when you find her, I suppose, that matters: it's finding her at all. Imagine my euphoria when I learned that not only was this woman a fellow dioramist, but she made tiny dioramas of real-life crime scenes! What's more, she was a society woman, which made the contrast between her gentle good breeding and the gruesomeness of her chosen art all the more delightful.

Observe:

"Conducted within the contours of conventionality, Glessner Lee’s activities were consonant with the one career she was expected to assume, that of society matron. Her tables were elegantly appointed, her fortune endowed a worthy cause, and her leisure time was productively devoted to a hobby many women enjoyed: making miniature scenes."

Oh yes, please continue!

" [H]er dinner guests dissected grisly details of crime scenes over their consommé [and] within her dollhouse dioramas, cheery dotted-swiss curtains and floral wallpapers belied the presence of dead bodies..."


As if that wasn't enough, the brilliant woman gave her circa-1940s dioramas the best name ever: The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death.

Sigh.

Oh and, sure, yeah, they were scientifically significant and had some major impact on criminologists at Harvard, etc. But for me, I think it's just enough that they are. Would I have liked them better if they served no purpose? No. I'm just sayin. I mean, sure she revolutionized the science of forensic pathology, but it would have been as charming coming from someone who wasn't a millionaire heiress? I mean, I'm picturing her as a sort of Katharine Hepburn/Carole Lomard type, you know? Or maybe, in her later years, a J.B. Fletcher type:


Anyway, this completely badass woman who took dentist's drills to her dollhouses is now the subject of a new film:



Let's all just bask in her awesomeness. And perhaps I can convince my more ghoulish family members to buy me the book.

P.S. Scholarly sources on the preceding quotes can be found here. More info on the amazing woman who took these photos can be found here and here.

Spinster Travelogue: Green-Wood Cemetery

We all know how much I love cemeteries (I'm sure I've alluded to rambling madly over the tomb-strewn hillocks of Green-Wood before) but as I am camera-averse and rarely document anything, I have never actually bothered to post photos of the excellent locale.

Until now:

This is one of my favorite, and most vampirey-looking graves.

A tree. No more, no less. I thought the color was rather nice.

Surely Aunt Abbey was a Spinster Aunt, no?

The grave of Charlotte Canda, which I walked past many times without noticing. Why? Because the False Japanese Cedar always stole my attention. Incidentally, I have written rather an excellent ghost story about Charlotte and her diabolical aunt. (Disclaimer: there is nothing anywhere in written history that proves her aunt was diabolical. This is merely a figment of my fevered imagination.)

The chapel. I like the dusky autumn light.

Again, color!

The path of life leads but to the grave!