Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Gone Girl is a brilliant, irresistible exploration of a fatally flawed relationship. The spoiled but practically perfect Amy is the namesake of a celebrated book series that her parents started writing when she was just six years old. Haunted by the title character who seems to be her parents' perfected version of herself, Amy constantly struggles to feel comfortable in her own skin. Nick, an unbearably attractive (no really, he hates the fact that he's so attractive--wears fake glasses to make up for the fact that his face is so pretty until he realizes how prickish that is.) midwesterner who grew up on the Mississippi, impersonating Huck Fin for spending money as a kid, meets Amy at a party, and the two seem destined for each other. They find that they are happier and better together than they've ever been. The gorgeous couple is a picture of domestic happiness until they both lose their jobs in the recession, and move to Missouri to care for Nick's ailing mother. While there were cracks in their relationship before the move, the upheaval creates more even more strain, and they are in a dangerous place in their marriage when, out of the blue, Amy goes missing. The narrative is split between Nick on the day of Amy's disappearance and Amy's diary entries starting when the two meet.

I'd heard a lot about this book before I read it, bad and good, and I went in with a healthy amount of skepticism, but I found it completely engaging, fascinating, and terrifying. It's rare that a thriller will actually teach you something about the human condition, but I think this one does in a way that made me incredibly uncomfortable. But as our dear friend Stephen King says, "art should make you uncomfortable," and I think Gillian Flynn knows exactly what he meant. Highly recommended.

A Field Guide to Trees of My Childhood

I miss the trees in California.

New York is beautiful in the summer. This evening I walked through Central Park, and it is unbelievably green, but it's just not the same. After living in the city for two years, and spending the last eight months on the east coast, I miss the rustling of the hot dry wind in the leaves of my hometown.

When I was a kid, probably four or five, I would go to the elementary school playground with my dad and my brothers and sister, and what I remember most about that playground is not a slide or a merry-go-round, but a giant oak tree I would sit in and collect acorns. There never seemed to be an end to them, and I stuffed them into the pockets of my overalls, or my corduroys, or whatever my parents dressed me in.

When I think of the trees in California, I don't think of palm trees. Although there are plenty of them in my hometown, someone told me a few years ago that they actually aren't indigenous to the area. Which makes sense to me. The trees I miss are the magnolias with their giant white blossoms that appear up and down entire avenues, sprawling from one city into the next.

I miss the jacarandas at my grandparents' house that drop sticky purple flowers and hard circular seed pods all over the street.

And I miss the wispy pepper trees with their tiny seeds encased in crispy red berries that crumble between your fingers and fill the air with a spicy aroma.

Blogging About Blogging: The James Franco Approach*

After being asked about my blogging habits two days in a row, I've decided to start blogging again. It wasn't a difficult decision to make, but actually doing it is a different animal. There's so much to think about. A friend of mine told me today that he has 5 or 6 different blogs, each one focusing on a different interest of his. I would kill to be able to divide and classify my interests! (Not literally, of course. That would be rather rash.) Some people can maintain unhealthy levels of commitment to a whole plethora of activities at once (e.g. facebook, twitter, foursquare, tumblr, biking, hiking, jogging, mario and world of warcraft). My brain has never really worked that way. So, when I decide to start blogging, I feel like I'm staring at a blank slate, and rather than seeing a set of possibilities, I see nothing. Tabula rasa.

And so, dear reader, this is how we arrive at a blog post about blogging. Feel free to leave off now if this is becoming a bit too self-absorbed for you. I will completely understand. I'm feeling I've stepped into the deep-end as well.

What should a blog be? What should it do? The word blog is a blend of the term "web log." (I know I knew that at some point, but I'd completely forgotten and actually had to look it up. Strange how language can do that to you.) According to Wikipedia, the arbiter of knowledge for our generation, personal blogs have the following characteristics:

"The personal blog, an ongoing diary or commentary by an individual, is the traditional, most common blog. Personal bloggers usually take pride in their blog posts, even if their blog is never read."

To which I say, one should take pride in everything one does. Though I'm often more ashamed than proud to admit that I blog...Perhaps I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe it was that episode of Ugly Betty (where Betty starts a blog in 2008, and Marc says cuttingly, "Welcome to six years ago") getting to me a bit more than it should. Or perhaps it's this next part.

"Blogs often become more than a way to just communicate; they become a way to reflect on life, or works of art. Blogging can have a sentimental quality."

As a writer, I've never been very good at fabricating. Everything I do stems from personal experience, and to some extent, sharing personal experience makes one vulnerable. If you're like me, part of that vulnerability is in knowing how to walk the line between personality and sentimentality. Mis-stepping there makes you, the reader, feel awkward. Because, though it may be an on-going diary, you don't really want to feel like you're reading my diary. If you ever do, just remember, if you were actually reading my diary, it would probably be twice as wordy and half as interesting.**

"Few personal blogs rise to fame and the mainstream but some personal blogs quickly garner an extensive following."

By referring to you as reader, I'm assuming that a reader actually exists. I recognize that that may be a bit delusional. But, when the day comes that I refer to you as readers you'll know I've become the ruthless dictator of a populous that exists entirely in my own head. At that point, you are welcome to stage a coup. Or an intervention. Though that would probably require more than one of you. So good luck with that.

In the meantime, I leave you with this thought. Take from it what you will.

"There is no such thing as blogging. There is no such thing as a blogger." -Simon Dumenco


*If this reference eludes you, click here

**The reader unaccustomed to my sense of self-deprecating humor may find here a perfect example of the personality/sentimentality line. This sentence basically means "my life is exceptionally boring, twice as boring, in fact, as a blog about blogging." While sentimentality might lead you to feel sorry for me, understanding my personality would lead you to read it as a tongue-in-cheek apology for the dry, convoluted verbosity of this post.

Arthur

After seeing signs all over town indicating that the new "Arthur" is being filmed right in my own back yard, and after Russell Brand's hosting of SNL this weekend, I found myself drawn to the original "Arthur" staring Dudley Moore and Liza Minnelli. Netflix instant is among my best friends these days, and I found that it did not let me down in this instance.

Arthur is a millionaire who has never worked or struggled a day in his life. He stumbles drunkenly through life without much care for anything but the sound of his own voice, and so he remains patently happy. Until his father, desperate for his only son to finally grow up and start doing something, tells him that he must marry Susan or be cut off. Financially.

Arthur agrees finally, but things take a turn for the complicated when he meets Tina during a vengeful shopping spree at Bergdorf Goodman. The two seem meant for each other, but Arthur is already promised to Susan and the drama continues.

I liked this film every bit as much as I anticipated. The writing is wonderfully quippy. Dudley Moore's laughter can be a bit grating, but if you can get past that, it's good fun from start to finish. I am incredibly excited to see Russell Brand's interpretation, and I love the fact that the butler becomes a nanny (played by the brilliant Helen Mirren) in the remake. Cannot wait to see it.

Valentine's Day

One holiday on your calendar sparks more bitterness and anger than any other: the holiday meant to celebrate love. The reasons for this anger are not terribly varied; usually they can be traced to three things:

1) The extreme commercialism surrounding the holiday
2) Not having anyone to celebrate with
3) Increased pressure to be exceptionally romantic

Over the past week I've heard various themes on these arguments, often involving more than one of the above causes for anguish. While I can commiserate with the plight of those who are lonely, commitment-phobic, disillusioned, and poor, I can't help but think all of these issues come from over-thinking and not from the holiday itself.

Case in point: I had a lovely Valentine's Day. I'm single and received no flowers or chocolates from anyone. However, I did not hole up in my apartment lamenting the fact. I went to City Bakery and had delightful "love potion" hot chocolate with good friends who helped me stuff valentine cards for a party I went to afterwards. At the party, I ate dinner with my hands tied to my two nearest companions (a difficult but entertaining feat). I spent time with friends, talked about the importance of telling our loved ones (family, friends, lovers...) that we love them and showing it, and ate delicious food.

I had a fabulous time and returned home happy. To those of you who suffered through the holiday this year, I put forth this challenge: Next year, don't take things so seriously. Do something silly and spend time with the people you love (or just like a lot). If commercialism bothers you, bake some cookies. Unless you truly hate the idea of love or have absolutely no one in your life for whom you have fond feelings, there is no reason to dread the celebration of it.

Go out and love somebody.

Biutiful

For me, this movie was the definition of hard to watch. I think what I liked most about it was that all of the characters, as depraved as they may be, are sympathetic. You feel something for every single one of them, which makes it particularly difficult when terrible things happen to them.

One thing that bothered me consistently was the hair. Are mullets particularly cool in Spain? I don't know, but both Uxbal (Javier Bardem's character) and his son are rocking them, and it makes me want to take a pair of scissors to the screen. Uxbal's dad on the other hand, is attractive in the extreme. Unfortunately, that has little effect on the film.

The cinematography is fittingly gorgeous, and the acting, on all sides, is amazing. If it were up to me, Javier Bardem would surely be taking home an Oscar. This is not a feel-good movie. You will leave the theater feeling like crap. But it is absolutely Biutiful.

127 Hours

I wasn't 100% sure what to expect from this film. I knew it was about a hiker in Utah who gets stuck in a crevice and eventually has to sever his own arm to escape. Such a plot, one that takes place in a single, unmoving location, leaves a lot of time for the director to get creative, and creative he did get. They made a lot of interesting editing choices, and though I was skeptical at first, I think they worked really well. There are some gorgeous shots, and the story is really beautiful. James Franco did a fabulous job, though his portrayal felt a bit caricature-ish at the beginning, by the middle it was dead on.

I love watching a movie that lets me leave the theater feeling elated, and that's what this film did. It's a great tribute to the human spirit. 4.5 stars.