@TheMovies with PopPop: East Side Sushi

Posted on October 22, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

East Side Sushi, a 2014 film directed by Anthony Lucero, is a delightful cross-cultural fairy tale. Set in LA, Mexican-American single Mom Juana and her young daughter Lydia, share a household with her father. Working hard at various low paying jobs – the father mainly in a dry goods store, and she in various restaurants, as a sports club janitor, etc., they barely make ends meet, while focused on Lydia, a sweet, bright pre-teen, having a “better” life, starting with her attending a private school.

Each day, mixed in with all these jobs and a pre-dawn to after dark schedule, they also sell fresh fruit from a hand cart. The father is getting older and weaker, and after a robbery of the cart’s proceeds at the end of a busy day and Juana getting knocked unconscious, she decides she needs a different path. Over the years, she has developed remarkable knife skills (to accompany the dish washing and cleaning skills!), and so when she passes a mid-scale sushi restaurant with a help wanted sign in the window, she applies for the assistant to the chefs (dishwasher, clean-up person and whatever other tasks she’s asked to do), and despite the Japanese owners’ concerns about hiring a non-Japanese who’s never tasted, let alone worked in a sushi restaurant (can’t even use chopsticks), gets the job.

Over time, she’s asked to do more and more, from checking the fish for freshness to preparing them for the sushi chefs, to even making rolls (of course, invisibly in the back when they’re shorthanded), gets better and better at it, develops a friendship with the head sushi chef and, of course, remains unacceptable to the very traditional Japanese owner. And in a fit of pique at not being allowed to work up front at the sushi bar – after all she’s not only non-Japanese, but a woman — she quits.

In the meantime, she has entered the TV reality competition for Sushi Champions – requiring along with execution of traditional sushi items and rolls, a unique chef’s creation, which of course integrates Mexican ingredients with the traditional roll shapes and tastes – and is invited as one of four finalists to the live competition.

From there the rest is predictable, albeit with a couple of cute twists.

The film is delightful in a straight forward feel good way, is well done, and both sad and funny where it should be. Mainly in English with some subtitled dialogue between Juana and her father, an occasionally a few sentences of Japanese among the restaurant staff.

See it – you’ll enjoy it, perhaps choke up a bit, and mainly smile.

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Reading Well: Children of God by Mary Doria Russell

Posted on October 17, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Children of God (1998) is Mary Doria Russell‘s sequel to The Sparrow, which I adored and wrote about here. The structure remains similar: chapters alternate back and forth in time, with the novel as a whole closing in on an endpoint from both sides. This carries the same challenges it did the first time around, as plot elements are necessarily revealed before their dramatic moments have fully played out.

But, again, she makes it work. Emilio Sandoz’ story remains compelling, and his return to Rakhat rounds out his story in moving, surprising, and emotionally resonant ways. The book remains strongest for me when centered on Sandoz himself: he’s a great character, whose suffering and determination and intelligence shine brilliantly. As a reader, I care about him as a character, and his all-too-brief moments of happiness remain memorable long after those scenes pass.

Perhaps most impressively, most of the activity from The Sparrow is more fully explained here, and the characters lose none of their depth through that process. That’s remarkable: misunderstandings and errors in communication are central in building tension in most fiction, to unwind those and still retain a dramatic narrative is an act of great skill.

I do think The Sparrow is the better novel; but if you enjoyed that, you will certainly enjoy this.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

I forgot to do this section when I reviewed The Sparrow, so this covers both of them. Doria Russell is clearly working through big issues: faith, free will, what God’s presence in a life may actually mean, things like that. But she never comes off as preachy or academic or theoretical: those questions are lived and explored through the activities, motivations, and interactions of her characters.

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Reading Well: Storm Front by Jim Butcher

Posted on October 3, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Published in 2000, Storm Front is the first installment of The Dresden Files, a series Jim Butcher has extended over a dozen books. The protagonist is Harry Dresden, a traditional hard-edged private investigator in contemporary (or, near contemporary) Chicago. It’s all very noir: gangsters and damsels in distress and beautiful women in all roles.

The twist? Dresden is a wizard, indeed one of the only remaining powerful magicians in the world. He works as a consultant to the Chicago police department, called in whenever crimes spill over into the supernatural. The plot sits at the intersections of many worlds: the supernatural and the mundane, the legal and the illicit; and there are double-crosses and a nicely climactic showdown with the Big Bad.

That about wraps it up: it’s a nicely plotted, well-paced mystery. But, with magic!

Dresden is a solid character, but there is almost nothing surprising about him and, more problematically, little complexity to any of the various women (all attractive, some hard-edged, others manipulative, a few pure of heart).

Butcher’s grasp of magic is nicely done: it’s consistent, and it reflects a nice understanding of traditional western elemental systems.

Still, especially as a break between more demanding reads, this was an enjoyable and engrossing read.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Plot and genre, naturally. The plot of Storm Front works: it is intricate without ever feeling forced. And, as I’ve written elsewhere, being able to so totally embrace a genre is really a freeing move for a writer, providing rails within which one can bounce around.

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Reading Well: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Posted on September 23, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Remains of the Day is Kazuo Ishiguro‘s best known novel; Never Let Me Go published in 2005, was his sixth novel, followed by a seventh in 2015.

It’s an odd book. Ishiguro’s voice and craft are incredible: poised, restrained, full of both life and clarity. The novel is set in an alternative England, covering a period roughly from the 1980’s into the 1990’s–the time is marked by the emergence of the Walkman, of the first whispers of the onrushing information age. But, immediately, it is clear that something, and something vital to the core of the novel, is different.

Ishiguro’s plot runs in a series of spirals: events are foreshadowed and referenced and returned to, and the details of the exact circumstance of the main characters is only revealed gradually, with some details never fully explained. As such, to not spoil the tension of the novel, it is enough to say that it follows a set of friends through their life at a specially created, somewhat bucolic, private school in the English countryside and then into the wider world. The purpose of the school, the relation of the students to the teachers (called guardians), and their later roles in society are all slowly peeled away as Kathy (the narrator), Ruth, and Tommy grow up.

There is a love triangle, and there are some interesting observations along the way about creativity, sex, and, ultimately, the intersection of technology and civilized society.

All that sounds a bit mysterious, but it’s neither a mystery book nor a thriller. Instead, it has the feel of a Gothic work, where the atmosphere is draped over everything, and the meaning behind it only apparent at the end.

Ishiguro’s skill makes it a worthwhile experience. As I read, I kept thinking how it should be adapted for film: turns out it already was, a 2010 motion picture was released to critical praise, but little commercial success. I have not seen it, but plan to.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Ishiguro’s prose is just so controlled. It lets him combine musings on the motivations of other characters with very direct statements of intent and anticipation in a way that, if it were less skillfully handled, would feel forced and wooden. But, it never does. Writing interiority like that is pretty amazing.

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@The Movies with PopPop: Hell or High Water

Posted on September 15, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Hell or High Water, a 2016 release directed by David Mackenzie and starring Chris Pine, Ben Foster, Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham, is a solidly crafted modern Western with an old time plot of good guy does bad for good, set within current economics.

Set in rural Texas on dusty lands with failed farms, no job opportunities, and folks struggling to retain what shreds of decency and integrity they have in the face of a system providing little or nothing for them, Toby (Pine) is a divorced father of two teen-aged boys who live with his ex-wife. His mother has recently died, after living on a reverse mortgage on their land, about to be foreclosed and possessed by the bank. While oil has recently been found on the land, and is projected to generate several tens of thousands of dollars a month, unless Toby can pay off about $40,000 owed to the bank within the next week or so, the land will become the bank’s, clearly leaving his children as yet another generation in poverty, with little or no hope of ever breaking out of that cycle – from Toby’s grandparents to parents to him to his children.

Toby hatches a plan with Tanner, his ne’er-do-well ex-con of a brother (Foster) to rob several small banks, taking only the untraceable small bills from the cash drawers and not touching the larger amounts of money in the banks’ safes. After robbing several small branches, they’re close to enough money to pay off the debt and put the land in a trust for his children. As the amounts are small in each case, the FBI is uninterested, and so a pair of Texas Rangers, Marcus (Bridges), a near retired officer and Alberto (Birmingham), his Mexican-Comanche partner, take on the case. Bridges plays one of those wise old intuitive lawman (reminiscent of some Tommy Lee Jones roles) who figures out what’s going on.

For their last bank, they hit a much larger branch and for the first time run into serious problems. There’s shooting, deaths and a chase. Alberto and then Tanner are killed, but Toby gets away and completes the bank transaction.

The last scene is a confrontation between Toby and Marcus, in which they share details of what’s occurred, but delay any final confrontation between them.

The movie moves quite well, has some funny lines and ironic turns, and manages to retain deep sympathy for Toby and his desperation, the nature of his plan, and the folks of Oklahoma, while without preaching, being clear that within the system, the bank is the only thing that prospers through the deterioration of working folks hopes and aspirations.

See it – it’s a first rate old time movie, And the only movie I’ve seen in a theater in a long time that I thought was worth a review!

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Reading Well: The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall

Posted on September 12, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Wolf Border (2015) is Sarah Hall‘s third novel that I’ve written about, following Daughters of the North and The Electric Michelangelo. I really enjoy her writing, and I received the paperback edition of The Wolf Border with great anticipation.

It did not disappoint, not least of all because of the ways in which it adds to the diversity of her output. Rachel, the novel’s protagonist, is richly drawn and a character whose flaws are evident and on display, but in a way that communicates humanity and not weakness. She is a field biologist specializing in the reintroduction of wolves into the wild, and the novel follows two primary plots; one of which revolves around her being approached by a wealthy and slightly eccentric aristocrat to leave her current role in the USA and lead an effort to bring wolves back to his massive estate on the border between England and Scotland. The other follows an unexpected pregnancy and its impact on Rachel, her family, and her close circle.

The geography of that part of the world remains obviously dear to Hall’s heart, but she has matured as a writer: while the land was almost a separate character in The Daughters of the North, here it serves as deep background, the anchoring context for the actions of the characters. The wolves are dealt with well, too: neither romanticized nor brutalized, they exist as compelling creatures, with no real attempt to decode or humanize their behavior.

But the story is really Rachel’s, and her relationships, her decisions, and her navigation of a constellation of lovers and family (a mother whose presence remains constant and dominating long past her death and a brother with whom she faces a complex path towards reconciliation) are the core of the book. She is strong, and fiercely independent, and tends towards a solitary existence without compromising her passion or her passions. That makes her an unusual female character, and is complicated considerably by the pregnancy storyline.

There are some plotting choices with which I would squabble, but I found the book compelling and memorable.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Hall’s prior protagonists had their own depth, but Rachel is cut from much thicker cloth. Her actions are clearly motivated and remain problematic for her: it is a glimpse into both the benefits and the costs of certain personal and professional choices, and I think that complexity is amazing. Too often, my own protagonists are vehicles through which the world unfolds and the action happens, and while they may be flawed, creating a character with whom the reader has enough sympathy and investment to watch them make difficult and perhaps poor choices while not losing interest is a goal for me. Hall does that with Rachel.

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Reading Well: Open City by Teju Cole

Posted on September 2, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Teju Cole‘s Open City (2012) is one of the finest written contemporary novels you’ll encounter. It tells the story of Julius, a Nigerian graduate student in psychiatry living in New York City.

It’s a classic intellectual novel: Julius wanders the city, meeting people, thinking deeply about art and philosophy and life. There is a love interest, and there are challenges in his career, and there is, quite memorably, a random incident of violence that punctures the internal existence that dominates most of Julius’ time.

Little happens, but the musings make the trip memorable and fascinating, and in this, Open City sits at the intersection of two traditions: first, the displacement, isolation, and loss of agency inherent in being an immigrant and, second, novels which sparkle with the intelligence of the narrator, where their intellectual concerns are communicated in a way that sparks and holds the reader’s interest.

Race and class are both treated with some complexity: Julius is black in New York City, a position that marks his travels in the city; but he is also privileged, and studying for a comfortable professional career.

It’s an excellent book, and one that deserves its various accolades and awards (Pen-Hemingway winner, finalist for the National Book Critics Circle, etc.). It’s not a page turner but it’s well worth the time and thought it demands.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Be comfortable weaving intellectual discourse into my fiction. When it’s pulled off, it’s such a pleasure to read, combining a deepening understanding of the character with musings that are interesting in their own right. Cole does it excellently.

 

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Reading Well: The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan

Posted on August 19, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Eye of the World (1990) is the first in a 16 (!) book series by Robert Jordan. He said he envisioned it a sextology, but things clearly got a little out of hand. It’s easy to see why: not only is the world richly realized, but the premise is one that encourages a sprawling, cyclical set of narratives: since creation, there has been an ongoing struggle between the forces of light and darkness, resulting in an ongoing pattern of near-destruction and near-salvation across ages so vast as to practically speaking be entirely different worlds.

It’s classic swords & sorcery stuff: a hero with mysterious parentage, two friends with their own parts to play, a set of travelling companions that include an inscrutable magician and her even-more-inscrutable protector-king, all arrayed against ghouls and trolls and demons and, at the core of it all, the dark one himself.

There are some nice touches: a Romany troop that combines a semi-Buddhist ideology with gypsy leanings and a search for a single song that will transform the world; a race of anti-trolls with tufted ears that search for ancient forests; a well thought out, gendered, system of magic that portends well for the rest of the series.

The book is engrossing, and a page-turner, and if the ending feels a bit rushed, tying up too many loose strands with a single moment, it’s an enjoyable ride. Whether you’re up for the other 15 volumes is a matter of personal taste: I am unsure, personally, as Jordan’s world seems to hover on the edge of providing enough innovation and surprises. Still, he’s a skilled writer, and I never felt like abandoning the quest, even if its overall contours were well expected.

One more note: I was surprised this book was published in 1990. There is something that feels older than that about it, as if it were spawn from a time when editing of genre books–especially fantasy and science fiction–was much less intense than it is now. A single chapter jumps around oddly in time, one character’s looming transformation is foreshadowed again and again in the same way, etc. Oddly, for me at least, this was endearing: this is not a slickly packaged creation by someone trying to emulate George R.R. Martin; it’s an original attempt at creation that walks along similar, yet personal, paths.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Be this comfortable in genre. Calling something derivative is usually seen as an insult, but Jordan’s world is more a re-assemblage of his view of the world, contemporary myths, and a liberal dash of Tolkien. Doing that with enough skill that a reader is engaged takes an a lot of craft, and I think that using familiar tropes to introduce new combinations of characters and plot is a highly successful strategy. And, one I can’t seem to do very well.

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Reading Well: The Dirty Dust by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

Posted on August 5, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Dirty Dust, published in Máirtín Ó Cadhain‘s original Irish as Cré na Cille in 1949 and translated into English by Alan Titley in 2015, rests on a fantastic premise: after the residents of a small Irish town die, they remain as spirits in the graveyard, carrying all of their social concerns–the alliances and grievances, the foibles and the gossip mongering and the attempts at reconciliation–with them.

The story is told in three registers: chapters often open with a short, elegiac statement by “the voice of the graveyard,” but most of the story is either jumbled snatches of overlapping conversations amongst the buried or conversations occurring with the lead character, Caitriona Paudeen, one of three Paudeen sisters, but the only one that is buried in the graveyard. A new burial occurs in most chapters, adding a character to the mix, and eventually it becomes clear that Caitriona’s perspective on events is only one of many, and perhaps unreliable at that.

The central conflict of the book is Caitriona’s deep and consuming hatred for her sister, Nell. This plays out in several streams: concerns over the pending reveal of the will of the third sister, who has moved to America and done well for herself; whether Nell or Caitriona will have the grander funeral and grave marker; and what will happen to Caitriona’s land and house with Nell angling for their use and possession.

But that’s not really the point of The Dirty Dust. Instead, it’s the constant conversation, the often hilarious, often hard-to-follow overlap of reminisces and arguments, revelations and insults that fly around the graveyard. Issues of social status, of class, and of the relationship between a largely closed-off village and the wider world all play a part.

I think The Dirty Dust could make a side-splitting play: the characters are all there, and the book, as much as any I’ve ever read, is meant to be read aloud, with different voices for the characters. It’s not an easy book to read: it takes close attention to track who is speaking and why and what their relationship is to the extended Paudeen family (her in-law’s play a significant role as well).

The language–coarse and direct at times, but also overflowing with the rhythms and patterns of Irish–of the book is a wonder, and often the sheer energy of it carries entire scenes that would otherwise lag. Characters become recognizable through their favorite curse words, or their obsession with a sporting match they missed by dying weeks too soon, or their purported-yet-highly-disputed ability to drink 42 pints at one sitting.

If that sounds like your cup of tea, The Dirty Dust will prove entertaining and enjoyable; if reading dialog for 200 pages is not for you, nor is this book.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Master idiom with this much ease. It’s very hard to write in a linguistic tone, yet keep the book accessible to those unfamiliar with that dialect, whether it’s urban slang, the awkwardness of a foreign language, or an entirely invented culture. Titley’s translation manages to remain readable, but also always generates a feeling of being deeply grounded in a unique culture, a tribute I would assume to both his work and Ó Cadhain’s source material.

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Reading Well: The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan

Posted on July 24, 2016 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Published in 2013, and winner of the 2014 Man Booker Prize, Richard Flanagan‘s The Narrow Road to the Deep North is really two stories woven together. The first recounts the harrowing experience of Australian soldiers in Japanese PoW camps; the second, the life of the protagonist, Dorrigo Evans, both before the war and after his return home.

The first narrative thread is likely to carry more immediate impact: it’s brutal and sad and violent and full of the kinds of detail that make it all too real. The emaciated bodies driven beyond their capacity, the callousness of their Japanese captors, the futility of their efforts, all combine to pack a significant emotional punch. But it is the other story–that of Evans, hailed publicly as a hero, but carrying a devastating level of self-doubt and guilt–that shows, I think, Flanagan’s consummate skill. The portrait of the successful man, rationalizing his infidelities and haunted by his past, is quite memorable.

Just be warned: this is a “man’s book,” fully concerned with war and brotherhood and whoring and father-son (and uncle-son) relationships. There are strong female characters, but they orbit around the men in the book as decoration or reward or foil. As long as that–and the unrelenting brutality of the PoW camp material–doesn’t put you off, this is a deeply rewarding read, a book fully deserving of its accolades.

As far as I know, there is no movie deal, but that has to just be a matter of time: Evans is a role built for a star vehicle for a male lead.

#WhatIWishICouldDo

Other than be this successful? Tackle a monstrous topic while retaining the humanity that lives at the core of great fiction. Evans remains a compelling character, despite the setting and his various peccadilloes. That’s a great accomplishment.

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