There’s no arguing with the success of the Millenium trilogy, handed by Steig Larsson over to his publisher shortly before his death. The main character, Lisbeth Salander, has been singled out as one of the most ‘unique’ heroines that crime fiction has ever produced. It was with this hype that I received the whole trilogy as a present over Christmas, and I set down to read the lot pretty much straight away. I wish I hadn’t.
I have many issues with the books, but I’m going to concentrate on one per book for the sake of brevity. The first is Larsson’s understanding of what constitutes a cliché. Early on in the first book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, one of the main characters has the novels central mystery described to him by an elderly man. He immediately remarks that the situation sounds like some kind of cliché from a crime novel, to which the elderly man responds by agreeing, but insisting it really happened. As far as I can tell, the book then seems to think that by addressing the fact it’s central mystery is clichéd, it has avoided this trap. In reality, Larsson only succeeds in bringing the shortcomings in his writing directly to your attention.
The Girl who Played with Fire, the second novel in the trilogy, manages to throw any lingering doubts of realism from the first book out of the window in the first 75 pages. Having made it through the events of the first book, Salandar goes on holiday, saves a woman from certain death at the hands of her abusive husband while a hurricane hits the beach, has her flight delayed by the threat of a terrorist on board the plane, and ruins a corrupt estate agent. While I understand that Larsson is trying to keep the readers attention whilst building plot for later in the novel, there is no need to do this by making every single thing the main character does some kind of incident. He only ends up creating a world where everyone who is not explicitly introduced as a ‘good person’ is essentially a devious arse-hole out to fuck someone over.
The trilogy concludes with The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest, which prefaces each section of the book with a mixture of historical fact and myth surrounding the idea of female warriors capable of taking on men. It’s at this stage when the true ideals, and limitations, behind the book are revealed. The trilogy proudly displays its ‘feminist’ credentials, taking you through an array of bad guys who deal in trafficking, or just plain like some good old fashioned rape. There are also multiple female characters who act as successful, independent role models. This in itself is a great ideal, but Larsson’s understanding of equality is hideous. His idea of proving the equality of women to men is by showing that they can beat men up. His ideal of female equality, in other words, is a distinctly male one.
I’ve not seen the Swedish film adaptations, and I’m writing this before the American remakes reach cinema screens. As a result, I can’t share my verdict with you on how this saga translates onto the big screen. My suspicion is that with a talented cast and production team, they could probably make a decent story out of this. Films often condense a novel into it’s highlights, usually by cutting out the crap. If they managed this with either adaptation, it’s bound to be a vastly improved, if considerably shortened, version.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Monday, 7 March 2011
I, Too, Am Malay
Working on the Southbank in London, I got to see a fair amount during the recent student protests in London. Helicopters flew over our office, while groups of protesters came streaming out of the station heading towards the march. Some clever UCL students set up a custom Google map, that allowed them to update the progress of the strike over the internet, allowing other students to view where any clashes were happening. This was brilliant. I can see Nelson atop his column from my desk, but couldn’t see any of the action below. This map allowed me, and the whole world, to get regular updates (roughly every few minutes) on the locations of protesters and police. Admittedly I had to question the accuracy of the map at times - I’m pretty sure the giant Godzilla icon that was placed in the Thames wasn’t real - but the map showed open, public defiance of the government.
It can sometimes be easy to forget the fact that such public opposition to the government is a right people in other countries struggle for. The current conflict in Libya is notably marked by Ghaddafi’s claims that all the people in Libya love him, an outright denial of such opposition even existing. I, Too, Am Malay, is a book written about a country where brutal force isn’t applied to those who disagree with government policy, but political ostracism is.
The author, Zaid Ibrahim, is a former minister of the Malaysian government. He resigned from his post in controversial circumstances, and was later kicked out of his political party. In this book, he recounts his life story, in which he founds the country's biggest law firm, he explains his version of events when he was in government, and sets out his idea of where the country should be going. If the book has one success, it’s in Ibrahim’s pleas for political debate to be encouraged, and for the nation to embrace it’s multi-ethnic population and learn to treat them all as equal citizens. I’ll admit I’m a sucker for this kind of rhetoric, which delves into the nations past and shows how the country was at it’s best when working together. Learning to accept each others differences can lead to a stronger society. If you don’t agree with these principles, you’re probably not worth listening to. Still, for Malaysian society, these are important principles, and are still being learned.
Where the book suffers is in Ibrahim’s treatment of his own life. While he seems to be gracious and respectful to all, he remains a politician. What I mean by this, is, that I don’t trust his version of events. He seems not to have a clue why certain events surrounding him transpired, especially when accusations of political opportunism are thrown at him. You get the impression that certain, crucial, events are being skimmed over in order for him to present himself in the most flattering light possible. It’s a shame that a book with such a positive message is, in a way, undermined by the author’s failure to acknowledge his own shortcomings. I still think the book contains enough inspiring material to merit a read, but if Ibrahim truly believes in the right to criticism, then he surely won’t mind my declaration that I don’t believe him.
It can sometimes be easy to forget the fact that such public opposition to the government is a right people in other countries struggle for. The current conflict in Libya is notably marked by Ghaddafi’s claims that all the people in Libya love him, an outright denial of such opposition even existing. I, Too, Am Malay, is a book written about a country where brutal force isn’t applied to those who disagree with government policy, but political ostracism is.
The author, Zaid Ibrahim, is a former minister of the Malaysian government. He resigned from his post in controversial circumstances, and was later kicked out of his political party. In this book, he recounts his life story, in which he founds the country's biggest law firm, he explains his version of events when he was in government, and sets out his idea of where the country should be going. If the book has one success, it’s in Ibrahim’s pleas for political debate to be encouraged, and for the nation to embrace it’s multi-ethnic population and learn to treat them all as equal citizens. I’ll admit I’m a sucker for this kind of rhetoric, which delves into the nations past and shows how the country was at it’s best when working together. Learning to accept each others differences can lead to a stronger society. If you don’t agree with these principles, you’re probably not worth listening to. Still, for Malaysian society, these are important principles, and are still being learned.
Where the book suffers is in Ibrahim’s treatment of his own life. While he seems to be gracious and respectful to all, he remains a politician. What I mean by this, is, that I don’t trust his version of events. He seems not to have a clue why certain events surrounding him transpired, especially when accusations of political opportunism are thrown at him. You get the impression that certain, crucial, events are being skimmed over in order for him to present himself in the most flattering light possible. It’s a shame that a book with such a positive message is, in a way, undermined by the author’s failure to acknowledge his own shortcomings. I still think the book contains enough inspiring material to merit a read, but if Ibrahim truly believes in the right to criticism, then he surely won’t mind my declaration that I don’t believe him.
Monday, 28 February 2011
The New Scientist Guide to Chaos
As a mathematician, I find it pretty easy to love science. I remember getting into New Scientist magazine during my A-Levels, and being excited by all the cool stories of scientific discovery, and the practical uses of these discoveries. A friend of mine bought a subscription to the magazine for a year, but barely read it. Luckily for me, I frequently stayed over at his after the pub (not like that, although there was a lot of tying up involved…), and as I always woke up before him in the morning I’d sit and read through his back catalogue of magazines, skipping to the best bits. I think we should move on to the book before I say anything incriminating.
The New Scientist Guide to Chaos was published in the mid-eighties, and designed as a guide to how Chaos theory was impacting many areas of science, and the importance of emerging computer technologies in driving these new theories and applications. The publishing date leads to two unavoidable, if slightly amusing, issues with reading this book now, in the early teenies. One is that most of what you’re reading is pretty dated, if theoretically sound. The other is that every now and again, some passage of the book shows up that dates the book in an extremely unflattering manner. One such passage occurs at the end of an essay on weather systems. The author begins to discuss climate change, but points out that any evidence pointing to global warming is still highly doubtful, and as such, scientists are hesitant to make any assertion that would imply the notion of climate change is real.
Despite the occasional reminder of how quickly scientific consensus can change, I really enjoyed the book. One of the reasons I stopped reading New Scientist was that, as my knowledge of Maths, Physics and science in general grew, I felt that it relied too heavily on metaphors and allusions, rather than just explaining what was going on directly. This book has few such problems, with frequent equations, experiments and direct explanations on display. The calibre of writer is also apparent, or at least I think it is - Mandelbrot, a famous Maths guy, writes one of the essays. That means I can assume everyone else is famous, right?
In terms of recommending this book to you, my loyal book clubbers (you are, after all, still loyal after the inappropriate jokes earlier on, aren't you?), it’s a difficult decision. The book is clearly dated, a relic of time, but on the other hand, it tells you a lot more about scientific processes than the last several dozen New Scientists I read. If you’re after a proper science read, Brian Cox’s book is probably a much better option, but for those of us who can't resist indulging in an old love affair, this will do fine.
The New Scientist Guide to Chaos was published in the mid-eighties, and designed as a guide to how Chaos theory was impacting many areas of science, and the importance of emerging computer technologies in driving these new theories and applications. The publishing date leads to two unavoidable, if slightly amusing, issues with reading this book now, in the early teenies. One is that most of what you’re reading is pretty dated, if theoretically sound. The other is that every now and again, some passage of the book shows up that dates the book in an extremely unflattering manner. One such passage occurs at the end of an essay on weather systems. The author begins to discuss climate change, but points out that any evidence pointing to global warming is still highly doubtful, and as such, scientists are hesitant to make any assertion that would imply the notion of climate change is real.
Despite the occasional reminder of how quickly scientific consensus can change, I really enjoyed the book. One of the reasons I stopped reading New Scientist was that, as my knowledge of Maths, Physics and science in general grew, I felt that it relied too heavily on metaphors and allusions, rather than just explaining what was going on directly. This book has few such problems, with frequent equations, experiments and direct explanations on display. The calibre of writer is also apparent, or at least I think it is - Mandelbrot, a famous Maths guy, writes one of the essays. That means I can assume everyone else is famous, right?
In terms of recommending this book to you, my loyal book clubbers (you are, after all, still loyal after the inappropriate jokes earlier on, aren't you?), it’s a difficult decision. The book is clearly dated, a relic of time, but on the other hand, it tells you a lot more about scientific processes than the last several dozen New Scientists I read. If you’re after a proper science read, Brian Cox’s book is probably a much better option, but for those of us who can't resist indulging in an old love affair, this will do fine.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Don't Make me Think!
I am a web analyst. I have been analysing the web since the dawn of September, and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon. I can analyze anything on the web, from the website I work on (Bookatable.com) to this humble blog. If my gmail account has access and the data is tracked in Google Analytics, I‘m set. Versatile, no? Anyway, I was handed a copy of Steve Krug’s ‘Don’t Make Me Think!’ by my boss, along with the advice to “read it, sleep with it and have it memorized by next week“. Sadly I failed to accomplish two of the three appointed tasks (I shall let you guess which), but I have been able to absorb enough to compile a review.
Steve Krug is a web usability expert, and the book was designed to be a short guide to giving you a better website. If this doesn’t get you excited, then you may not wish to read the book, or indeed the rest of this review. You would, of course, be foolish to adopt this opinion (and by extension not adopt mine). Krug’s principles of web usability can be extended to any creative endeavour. One such nugget of gold, that you should get rid of half the words on a given webpage, and then get rid of half of the remaining words, could easily apply to a late period James Cameron film, or a Stephen King novel.
Perhaps my favourite piece of advice, though, comes when discussing how to make things as accessible as possible. He gives a load of examples where presenting something simply allows a site to be intuitive, eye friendly, and easier for people with disabilities to navigate. Alongside this comes the point that people don’t mind having things they consider obvious explained to them, provided the explanation doesn’t get in the way. This is, of course, a crucial point that is understood throughout this book. There is a huge difference between simplifying something, and dumbing it down. It’s the same reason why Pixar make such successful films. Their stories are not dumb, they are presented simply.
Of course, you’ve read this post (you are still reading this, right?) thinking ‘yes James, you are a web analyst and you like a book about the internet. So what?’ I understand your point. You will not read this book and your life will be poorer. I pity you.
Steve Krug is a web usability expert, and the book was designed to be a short guide to giving you a better website. If this doesn’t get you excited, then you may not wish to read the book, or indeed the rest of this review. You would, of course, be foolish to adopt this opinion (and by extension not adopt mine). Krug’s principles of web usability can be extended to any creative endeavour. One such nugget of gold, that you should get rid of half the words on a given webpage, and then get rid of half of the remaining words, could easily apply to a late period James Cameron film, or a Stephen King novel.
Perhaps my favourite piece of advice, though, comes when discussing how to make things as accessible as possible. He gives a load of examples where presenting something simply allows a site to be intuitive, eye friendly, and easier for people with disabilities to navigate. Alongside this comes the point that people don’t mind having things they consider obvious explained to them, provided the explanation doesn’t get in the way. This is, of course, a crucial point that is understood throughout this book. There is a huge difference between simplifying something, and dumbing it down. It’s the same reason why Pixar make such successful films. Their stories are not dumb, they are presented simply.
Of course, you’ve read this post (you are still reading this, right?) thinking ‘yes James, you are a web analyst and you like a book about the internet. So what?’ I understand your point. You will not read this book and your life will be poorer. I pity you.
Monday, 31 January 2011
The Time Travellers Wife
I’d heard such strong opinions about the Time Travellers Wife before I read it. It seemed to divide people into two camps, the lovers and the haters. Normally when this happens to book or a film or whatever, I’ll read or watch or whatever it and decide that everyone is wrong and the subject matter is pretty average. However, there are exceptions to this rule, and the Time Travellers Wife is one of them. In other words, it’s shit.
But how did it go wrong? I think most people will agree it has a wonderfully trashy sci-fi premise (although again I know people who would object to that…). There’s a girl who falls in love with a guy, but the guy cant stop travelling through time and hi-jinks ensue. With a concept like that, I think most author’s would struggle to fail. Somehow, having done the hard work, Audrey Niffenegger fails spectacularly, and she does so for 2 reasons.
The first is that she misses out all the dark and interesting stuff in the novel. Early on it’s revealed that Mr Time Traveller is haunted by the death of his mother, who died in a car crash when he was four. As a result of his time travelling medical condition, he ends up watching this happen over and over, from a different viewpoint each time. This is a dark, brooding and really interesting idea, and is ripe for some emotional exploitation. However, having been told about all of these visits you know what happens? It never gets mentioned again. Any writer worth half their salt would have brought you back to this scene half a dozen times, and the more Hellerian amongst them would have even made him accidentally cause the accident. Missed opportunites such as this frequent the novel.
The second issue is that there is no purpose or point to the book. I learned after reading that the original idea for this book was for Niffenegger to write a metaphor for her perfect guy. As a result of this, the book is heavy on sentimentality and light on any actual moral or point. The only theme I could discern was the loneliness associated with being alone, but this is negated by one small thing: The guy fucking time travels. How am I expected to feel the loss of any character if the guys keeps jumping through time and visiting everyone?!? Regular book clubbers will remember from last week that One Day won me over with it’s charming characters and concept. Part of it tackled a very similar theme, but you know what? It didn’t have someone jumping out of time to console people!
I should probably bring this review to a close before my brain explodes. As far as I can tell people who want to read this book fall into two camps. People who want time travel and people who want a love story. My recommendation to the time team is to find some proper science fiction. For the love train, how about you read One Day?
But how did it go wrong? I think most people will agree it has a wonderfully trashy sci-fi premise (although again I know people who would object to that…). There’s a girl who falls in love with a guy, but the guy cant stop travelling through time and hi-jinks ensue. With a concept like that, I think most author’s would struggle to fail. Somehow, having done the hard work, Audrey Niffenegger fails spectacularly, and she does so for 2 reasons.
The first is that she misses out all the dark and interesting stuff in the novel. Early on it’s revealed that Mr Time Traveller is haunted by the death of his mother, who died in a car crash when he was four. As a result of his time travelling medical condition, he ends up watching this happen over and over, from a different viewpoint each time. This is a dark, brooding and really interesting idea, and is ripe for some emotional exploitation. However, having been told about all of these visits you know what happens? It never gets mentioned again. Any writer worth half their salt would have brought you back to this scene half a dozen times, and the more Hellerian amongst them would have even made him accidentally cause the accident. Missed opportunites such as this frequent the novel.
The second issue is that there is no purpose or point to the book. I learned after reading that the original idea for this book was for Niffenegger to write a metaphor for her perfect guy. As a result of this, the book is heavy on sentimentality and light on any actual moral or point. The only theme I could discern was the loneliness associated with being alone, but this is negated by one small thing: The guy fucking time travels. How am I expected to feel the loss of any character if the guys keeps jumping through time and visiting everyone?!? Regular book clubbers will remember from last week that One Day won me over with it’s charming characters and concept. Part of it tackled a very similar theme, but you know what? It didn’t have someone jumping out of time to console people!
I should probably bring this review to a close before my brain explodes. As far as I can tell people who want to read this book fall into two camps. People who want time travel and people who want a love story. My recommendation to the time team is to find some proper science fiction. For the love train, how about you read One Day?
Monday, 24 January 2011
One Day
Emma and Dexter have a night together after their graduation. This is the 15th July 1988, and they are in Edinburgh. They decide as they are heading in different directions they should be friends. Life goes on. One day shows you what happens on the 15th July the next year, and the year after that, and that day for the next 20 years of their lives. It sounds like a pathetic love story, it is in fact a wonderful book.
Quite why this book got so under my skin I’m finding hard to pinpoint. Having moved from Edinburgh to London, like Em and Dex, perhaps I found it a bit easier to identify with them. I think it’s more to do with the excellent characterisation. You’re seeing their lives, you understand where they are, how they feel and why they feel it. It’s like having two best friends who you get to catch up with once a year.
The book covers many other aspects of modern life, and I think the book is as much about being alone as being in love. The author, David Nicholls, seems to have a fantastic insight into what makes people tick. Why they make mistakes and what brings them together (or keeps them apart). It’s little moments, like Emma realising that she cant speak to someone she’s known for 15 years, not because they’ve fallen out, but because their partner’s have, and the battle lines have been drawn. Or when Dexter calls girls in the night to try and see them. You know it’s not because of his rampant libido, it’s because he’s lonely, and doesn’t know how to deal with that.
There’s one particularly brilliant section on how weddings happen in your life. The first wave is when you’re at university, and marriage is basically a rebellion against your parents. The second wave is your mid twenties. There’s still a sense of how silly having a wedding is, but people are starting to take it more seriously. The third wave comes in your thirties. By this time, all pretensions have been lost. The wedding becomes this huge planned formal affair, to be taken very seriously. The fourth wave, of course, is the second marriage…
Having wasted an entire paragraph talking about marriage (not to mention last weeks review of Pride and Prejudice), I should probably go ahead and try to salvage some shred of manliness from this review. I shouldn’t admit how much the book affected me. I know too many people who will read this, laugh and think that by never letting me live it down they’ve scored a victory for men everywhere. They would tell me to man up. Well, I probably should man up, but I feel that issue has nothing to do with the horrific mess I was through the closing scenes of One Day. Many people felt that Toy Story 3 was so overpowering because the end of Andy’s childhood was reflected in the viewer. I think One Day has a similar effect on its reader, not because it relates to the end of your childhood, but what happens next.
Quite why this book got so under my skin I’m finding hard to pinpoint. Having moved from Edinburgh to London, like Em and Dex, perhaps I found it a bit easier to identify with them. I think it’s more to do with the excellent characterisation. You’re seeing their lives, you understand where they are, how they feel and why they feel it. It’s like having two best friends who you get to catch up with once a year.
The book covers many other aspects of modern life, and I think the book is as much about being alone as being in love. The author, David Nicholls, seems to have a fantastic insight into what makes people tick. Why they make mistakes and what brings them together (or keeps them apart). It’s little moments, like Emma realising that she cant speak to someone she’s known for 15 years, not because they’ve fallen out, but because their partner’s have, and the battle lines have been drawn. Or when Dexter calls girls in the night to try and see them. You know it’s not because of his rampant libido, it’s because he’s lonely, and doesn’t know how to deal with that.
There’s one particularly brilliant section on how weddings happen in your life. The first wave is when you’re at university, and marriage is basically a rebellion against your parents. The second wave is your mid twenties. There’s still a sense of how silly having a wedding is, but people are starting to take it more seriously. The third wave comes in your thirties. By this time, all pretensions have been lost. The wedding becomes this huge planned formal affair, to be taken very seriously. The fourth wave, of course, is the second marriage…
Having wasted an entire paragraph talking about marriage (not to mention last weeks review of Pride and Prejudice), I should probably go ahead and try to salvage some shred of manliness from this review. I shouldn’t admit how much the book affected me. I know too many people who will read this, laugh and think that by never letting me live it down they’ve scored a victory for men everywhere. They would tell me to man up. Well, I probably should man up, but I feel that issue has nothing to do with the horrific mess I was through the closing scenes of One Day. Many people felt that Toy Story 3 was so overpowering because the end of Andy’s childhood was reflected in the viewer. I think One Day has a similar effect on its reader, not because it relates to the end of your childhood, but what happens next.
Monday, 17 January 2011
Pride and Prejudice
Being male, its very difficult to read Pride and Prejudice in public. People stare at you. They snigger, they sneer, they look down their noses. Why would I, a man, read a book by Jane Austin? I wasn’t sure why myself, but I paid money for it so it seemed like the decent thing to do. I set about reading the book with as much secrecy as possible on public transport. I hid the cover into the back of the person in front of me on the tube, with the pages folded sharply upwards to stop anyone sneaking a preview of what so many people seemed to find so horrifically confusing.
A lot of female people that I know discovered I was undertaking this most shocking of endeavours, and were horrified that I would refer to Pride and Prejudice as chick-lit. Of course, all of these ladies had actually read the book. Now I have too, I can see their point. The book is a satire on society - the romance story is there as relief from the idiocy of many of the characters surrounding Bennet and Darcy. Your growing suspicions are indeed correct - I really enjoyed this book.
Elizabeth’s mother is fricking hilarious. She storms through every scene, tearing up the pages with her wild inconsistencies, governed only by her emotions and ill defined opinions. Her father is equally amusing. He takes great pride in caring for his daughters, usually at the expense of his wife.
The main characters are fantastic because they are flawed. Elizabeth Bennet is refreshing (even 200 years on) because she holds on to her principles throughout the novel. When she falls in love, it’s for much deeper reasons than a happy ending. She grows in character as the story progresses, learning the importance of holding back from assumptions and speculation until in full possession of facts. Darcy is well suited as the romantic interest, but is held back from her interest for most of the book by a distinct lack of tact.
So why did I think of it as chick-lit? Well, as with many classics, it’s influence has led to many shockingly poor novelists attempting to re-create its magic (I’m looking at you Celia Ahern). It’s a bit like Nirvana drowning in a Puddle of Mudd, or the Libertines wearing the same jeans for 4 days. It’s guilt by association. As a result, I think I’m the first man I know to actually read this book (please correct me if I’m wrong?). I’m very glad to have read some Jane Austin, I suspect many men never will.
A lot of female people that I know discovered I was undertaking this most shocking of endeavours, and were horrified that I would refer to Pride and Prejudice as chick-lit. Of course, all of these ladies had actually read the book. Now I have too, I can see their point. The book is a satire on society - the romance story is there as relief from the idiocy of many of the characters surrounding Bennet and Darcy. Your growing suspicions are indeed correct - I really enjoyed this book.
Elizabeth’s mother is fricking hilarious. She storms through every scene, tearing up the pages with her wild inconsistencies, governed only by her emotions and ill defined opinions. Her father is equally amusing. He takes great pride in caring for his daughters, usually at the expense of his wife.
The main characters are fantastic because they are flawed. Elizabeth Bennet is refreshing (even 200 years on) because she holds on to her principles throughout the novel. When she falls in love, it’s for much deeper reasons than a happy ending. She grows in character as the story progresses, learning the importance of holding back from assumptions and speculation until in full possession of facts. Darcy is well suited as the romantic interest, but is held back from her interest for most of the book by a distinct lack of tact.
So why did I think of it as chick-lit? Well, as with many classics, it’s influence has led to many shockingly poor novelists attempting to re-create its magic (I’m looking at you Celia Ahern). It’s a bit like Nirvana drowning in a Puddle of Mudd, or the Libertines wearing the same jeans for 4 days. It’s guilt by association. As a result, I think I’m the first man I know to actually read this book (please correct me if I’m wrong?). I’m very glad to have read some Jane Austin, I suspect many men never will.
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