Freezing!

Frell! The heating is broken, and we have freezing temperatures! I'm typing with gloves, wrapped in a warm jacket and a blanket, very cumbersome. The most annoying thing is that the heating has been less than fully functional for quite a while and will probably not be repaired any time soon. Oh well, it isn't as if I'm paying as much rent here for one room as you would pay for a whole apartment in other cities... wait a sec'! you say it is? Hmm, I should talk to the landlord. Damn, the landlord lives in the U.S.

I'm frelled.

In other news: Happy New Year, everyone! For the time being I've moved to my parents (more warmth) but I've written some entries for the journal there, so I'll post a few updates today, sort of retroactively.

Damn, I can't feel my fingers anymore.

The Two Towers review (31-12-2002)

Yesterday I went to see the movie for the second time. I went with my mother who, BTW, enjoyed it even more than the first one, something I’ve heard from several people who aren’t as into the books as I am. Even a friend of mine who didn’t like the first movie loved this one. I may have enjoyed it more than the first one, too, at least more than the cinematic version of it (the extended version is a whole other story), but the reasons lie not so much in the movie as in the fact that I was more prepared for this one than for the first.

So, details. What did and what didn’t I like, and why?

Some nitpicks first (bigger issues later):

The whole warg-rider scene, and especially Aragorn’s falling off that cliff, was very unnecessary and partly bordering on cheesy. What’s it with PJ and fake deaths, anyway? It’s almost as bad as on Farscape! (People always die and come back on FS... well, not always, but remarkably often.)
Theoden’s exorcism. All I can say to that is Arrrgh. So cheap. Just as embarrassing as the wizards’ duel in the first part. Although Gandalf’s throwing off his cloak was pretty cool.
Frodo. More on that later. (This is a bigger issue.)
Faramir. I understand the need to show the influence of the ring, so I can accept Faramir getting tempted and temporarily claiming the ring for Gondor, but they could and should have shown a little bit more of Faramir’s thoughtful, philosophical nature, IMO. It would have made a nice contrast to his brother. BTW, I don’t have a problem with Faramir’s looks. He’s not *my * Faramir, but then, Viggo Mortensen bears little resemblance with my Aragorn, and Elijah Wood is not my Frodo. I can accept deviations from my visual image of the characters as long as I can live with the way they are portrayed.
Gollum’s probably a bit too cute, ‘cause my mom loved him. She went ‘ooh, he’s so cuuuute!’ every time she saw him!
Treebeard’s and Merry and Pippin’s story is reduced a bit too much
Sauron’s presence is eclipsed somewhat by the emphasis on Saruman. (The Darth Vader syndrome.)
Why does Arwen appear to renounce her decision to stay with Aragorn here?
Helm Hammerhand with a hammer in his hand. Argh.
Did I hear wrong, or is Hama’s son called Haleth? Umm... I haven’t read the Silmarillion recently, but I seem to remember that as a female name?
Merry and Pippin being carried by Treebeard through Fangorn Forest looked *very* blue screen at times
Too many great lines of dialogue missing (e.g. Aragorn’s speech to Eomer – ‘I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I am called Elessar, the elfstone, and Dunadan, Isildur’s heir, Elendil’s son of Gondor...’ etc.)
The ringwraiths aren’t as intimidating as they should be, and have a distinct feel of cg about them.

Strange:

Grima reciting Aragorn’s description of Eowyn. Somehow, it worked, but it nevertheless felt like a desecration to have these words uttered by Wormtongue!
Sam saying ‘we shouldn’t be here’ in Osgiliath. I keep wanting to reply: ‘Indeed. You should be in Minas Morgul or Cirith Ungol!’
I don’t think it’s physically possible for horses to go down *that* steep a slope.
How did the horses of Theoden, Aragorn and co. get into the big hall??
What was that light that shone into the hall from the doors while Theoden was being dressed for battle? (Spotlights in Middle-earth? ;-))
Wasn’t there an image of Arwen getting Anduril in the trailers? So what’s happened to that?

What I liked:

Basically, almost everything, except for the above. ;-) More precisely:

Spot-on casting and acting of the following: Eomer, Eowyn, Theoden, Grima. Still love all the members of the Fellowship, too, to slightly varying degrees.
Once again, the chance of seeing Alan Lee’s paintings come to life. For that reason, I could even forgive PJ for taking Frodo and Sam to Osgiliath. I’ve always wanted to see Osgiliath.
The battle of Helm’s Deep. Although I’ve learned to like the battles in the book, they have always been my least favourite parts of the book. They have a certain pompous grandeur, but they’re sort of not taking place quite in the ‘real world’. Tolkien waxes a bit too biblical in the descriptions. It moves me, but in a way that does not have much to do with the characters anymore. (I don’t know how to describe that.) The movie has made the battle real for me, I could connect with the characters during the battle sequences really well.
The visualisation of Arwen’s future (Aragorn’s death – taking place in another Alan Lee painting come to life!)
And, talking of paintings, the very Ted Nasmith-like view of Mordor at the end of the film
Lots of Elvish dialogue! Yay! I could just melt whenever someone speaks Elvish in the movie...
Theodred’s death; Theoden mourning for his son with Gandalf standing respectfully in the background, and Gandalf speaking the words of farewell for him that are spoken for Theoden in the book. *Very* nice scene. Especially because it brings to life something that is only mentioned in the book.
Gollum – apart from the ‘too cute’ issue. There should be an oscar both for Andy Serkis and the team that created Gollum.
Grima crying a tear when he sees Saruman’s army.
The look of the Morannon, and seeing those orcs leaning on their spears, talking to each other, atop it. Gave it a ‘they’re just doing their jobs’ feel.
The look on Pippin’s face when the truth of Merry’s prediction that soon, there will not be a Shire anymore, sinks in. You can see him growing up in that moment.
Edoras. ‘Nuff said.
Gandalf’s death and resurrection. Very well done, not too obvious, not too Christ-like. Nice.
Gandalf’s fight with the Balrog, and especially their falling through that huge cave. Impressive.
Theoden and Aragorn. Theoden’s pride, Aragorn’s silence to his accusations of Gondor.
Frodo’s reaction to Gollum’s saving him from drowning in the Dead Marshes
The ‘great stories’ conversation between Frodo and Sam

Missing Napoleon Boot (January 4, 2003)

Reading the newspaper today my gaze fell on a mention of Napoleon III., and sadness washed over me. I remembered Napoleon Boot, who for me died just yesterday.
Yesterday I finished reading Michael de Larrabeiti’s ‘Borrible’ trilogy, and the end was bitter. And now I am not only missing Napoleon, but also Knocker and also crafty old Spiff who in some ways reminds me of Methos. (And I’m missing Chalotte, Sydney, Vulge, Bingo, Stonks, Torreycanyon, Orococco and Twilight, too.) In fact, I’ve been busy ‘writing’ mindfic about the future of Knocker since I read those last sad words of Chalotte’s. (But what a great way to end a book. . .)

I’m immensely glad I read that book. I didn’t quite know what to make of it first, it felt neither very much like a book for adults nor for children, but after a while I stopped wondering about the ‘target audience’ and decided that *I* was the target audience, and that I enjoyed it. I didn’t expect to be touched quite as deeply by it when I bought it in a spur-of-the-moment decision some months ago, based on some vaguely remembered recommendations on an internet message board and the fact that the German translation was published by a publishing house whose choice in fantastical literature I’ve trusted since I read The Lord of the Rings. (I bought the English edition of ‘The Borribles’, of course.)

It’s been a while since I’ve recommended a book here. Actually, it’s been a while since I’ve posted *anything* here. It’s been a busy time, and I’m still busy, at last writing my frelling Farscape paper for uni, but today I just felt like praising the Borribles for a while, because they really are the best thing that has happened to me, as far as books are concerned, in quite a while, maybe in all of 2002. It really has been a long time since I’ve been this moved by a book. (The last instance I remember that could compare was volume seven of the Sandman comics by Neil Gaiman, and that I read sometime in summer 2002.)

So, let the praise begin. In what way am I moved by this book? In the same way as I am moved by Farscape or The Lord of the Rings (the Borribles, Farscape and LotR – a strange combinations, but such are the ways of my brain... ;-)), and that is the highest praise I can give, really.
It takes some getting used to, it’s hard to take serious in parts – adults are never anything but caricatures in it – but once you’ve gotten used to it, you can’t put it down. There’s darkness and despair, beauty, friendship and hope in it. It would make a marvellous movie (or a marvellous three movies.)

So, what are Borribles? Borribles can be hundreds of years old, but they look just like children. They live on the streets of the big cities, in abandoned houses, in school basements, in the sewers, wherever they can find a place to live. They have pointed ears, are very bright, and are always hunted by the police who want to catch them and clip their ears. Clipping their ears turns a Borrible back into a normal child that will forget its Borrible life as it grows up
To gain a name a Borrible has to have an adventure, and the first part of the trilogy tells the story of the name-adventure of eight as yet nameless Borribles (and one already named one). The two subsequent volumes tell of the further adventures of these Borribles, which mostly result from things that happened in the first volume. The Borrible trilogy is a celebration of the ‘dirty underbelly’ (don’t remember where I stole that, but it fits) of London, set almost entirely in abandoned houses, sewers, dirty basements, rubbish dumps, scrap yards and the like. De Larrabeiti transforms London’s ugliness into beauty as we see the city with the eyes of the Borribles.
The heroes are always dirty, always hungry, and the very few adults who are portrayed somewhat sympathetically are always drunk. The Borribles may not appear very heroic on first sight, yet heroes they are, and their journey pitches them against deadly dangers again and again. They are hunted constantly, and tragedy is always just beyond the corner, their freedom and their lives always threatened. Each of the three volumes ends with a catastrophe of epic proportions, and there is no return to innocence for the survivors. The end is impregnated with a terrible sadness that grows with re-reading – a very specific kind of sadness not unlike that caused by the end of The Lord of the Rings. But there’s also an overwhelming sense of friendship and love in those books, of sticking together against all odds, of solidarity among outcasts. I suspect that the Borribles will stay with me for quite a while, squatting in some abandoned room in my mind. . . right next to Frodo and co.

***

’Take your name, anyway,’ said Knocker flatly, and he held out his hat.
The Wendle narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth to prove that he didn’t care a damn about Knocker, or anyone else, and he pulled out his name. He nodded, then he laughed loud, pleased and hostile.
‘Out with it,’ said Knocker impatiently. ‘What is it?’
‘What a name I have,’ cried the Wendle. ‘I shall cover it in glory.’
‘Or mud.’
The Wendle ignored Knocker and looked up and down the line of adventurers. ‘Napoleon Boot,’ he said loudly. ‘Call me Napoleon Boot.’
(From: The Borribles)


’Cripes,’ said Twilight, ‘you can’t do that; it’ll be you against all of them.’
Spiff turned his head very slowly and looked at the Bangladeshi, his blue eyes blazing with the bright love of danger. It was a light fuelled by hatred and Chalotte blinked in the glare of it.
‘You’re mad, Spiff,’ she said very quietly, ‘you’re raving bonkers.’
But although she meant it there was a note of admiration in her voice. His bravery burnt like a beacon.
(From: The Borribles Go For Broke)


Chalotte lowered her head to her chest so that Scooter could not see her tears. Napoleon turned his back and stared into the weather. ‘What can we do?’ he said to Knocker. ‘I’m not good at this.’
Knocker shook his head, pale. ‘I dunno,’ he said, ‘I dunno.’
(From: Across the Dark Metropolis)


Now Chalotte burst from cover and began leaping across the railway lines to go to Napoleon’s aid, her hair streaming behind her, her legs stretched, a catapult in her hand, her face heroic. Knocker never forgot that sight of her and that particular image of the girl remained unchanged in his mind for the rest of his life, like some beautiful sculpture of war and revenge.
(From: Across the Dark Metropolis)


Knocker looked at his friends as they clustered around him. Not one of them was unwounded and all of them had blood on their heads. They were covered in dirt, and exhaustion and lack of food had drained their faces of hope and energy. Knocker knew they were brave and would carry on the fight if there were no alternative, but Knocker wanted there to be an alternative. . . (From: Across the Dark Metropolis)

Not New York (January 5, 2003)

Today for a few hours it seemed as if terror was ready to crash into Frankfurt, but at the last moment it swerved off sharply into farce.
Around 3 p.m. a small plane appeared over the city, circling the skyscrapers. My parents were in the city right then, taking a look at the river that has risen far beyond its boundaries in the current flood, and they, like hundreds of people, noticed the small aircraft and the police helicopter that was following it. My parents soon gathered that the plane had been hijacked and that the pilot was threatening to crash it into one of the skyscrapers. They tried to cross the river to get back to their car, but the bridges were closed by the police. Finally they found an open bridge, the plane taking a dramatic dive at them as they and others were crossing, and drove home, where they told me of their adventure.
I’d been working on my FFP (Frelling Farscape Paper), but the news made me nervous enough to stop. We switched on the radio and the TV and sure enough, Frankfurt was on CNN and all the other news channels. The latest news seemed to be that the guy in the plane wanted to crash it into the Central European Bank. My mother called her sister, frightened and excited. Minutes later her sister in law called us, asking what was going on in Frankfurt. Big excitement everywhere.
We heard that the airport was closed down and a few minutes later I heard the sound of fighter planes in the sky. I began to feel as if I had somehow woken up in the wrong universe in the morning. The plane looked no larger than a flying shoebox on TV. An expert was telling us that there wasn’t enough gas on board to cause any serious damage. On CNN, a correspondent explained to the anchorwoman that the fighter planes I had heard thundering across the sky were much too fast to apprehend a slow, small plane like that. Then news began to arrive that the pilot’s goal was ‘to remind people of the death of XY, one of the American astronauts who died in the Challenger explosion’. I went back to work, suddenly strangely certain that nothing would happen – it all began to sound way too silly for any serious harm to come of it
A little while later the hijacked plane landed on Frankfurt airport and the pilot was arrested. The news came that he was a 32 year old psychologically unstable German student. He hadn’t intended to hurt anyone, and had simply wanted to commemorate his dead idol. (A fan. No wonder people think fans are strange. . .)
This event is in relation to September 11 what Frankfurt is in relation to New York: small, and slightly ridiculous. But I’m glad it turned out that way, ‘cause for a moment there I was really, really beginning to feel very weird.

Selbsterkenntnis (January 6, 2003)

Perhaps my central ‘trauma’ is growing up, because I seem to identify most with a special kind of sadness caused by a loss of innocence, a loss of freedom. . . it’s present in almost every book or film or series that ever moved me.
So what does it mean? -- Still growing up? Never growing up? Already grown up but regretting it?
Food for thought. . .

On second thought: I was oversimplifying. But it does seem to be a central theme for me. *A*, not the.