Little Anne, my two-year-old, often talks to herself in her crib for quite a while before she falls asleep. My study is right downstairs from her room, so I can usually hear what she says. The other night it was this:

“One! Two! One! Two! One! Two! One! Two! One! BLAST OFF!”

This is the umpteenth Amelia Peabody mystery; it’s just been released in
paperback. The umpteenth+1 has, accordingly, just been released in
hardback, and no doubt we’ll be hearing from Deb about it in a few weeks.

The first thing I have to say about this book (which I devoured) is that
Elizabeth Peters is utterly shameless. I won’t go into details, because
that would spoil things; all I’ll say is that someday I expect Amelia and
her intrepid husband to run into a completely new adversary, and die of
shock on the spot. I’m no longer sure whether this is a mystery series,
or a soap opera.

Anyway, if you’re not familiar with the series by now, go click on
the author’s name, above, to go to our Elizabeth Peters page; there
you’ll find a list of the earlier books in the series. That’s important,
because you won’t want to start with this one.

If you are familiar with the series, then all you need to know is
that it’s much like its predecessors. The Emerson clan arrives in
Egypt, Emerson wants everyone to help
excavate, Amelia wants to organize everyone, there are mysterious
happenings, Amelia wants to investigate, Emerson and Amelia quarrel and
make up repeatedly, scandalizing Ramses and Nefret, who quarrel and
make up occasionally, amusing Emerson and Amelia, while diverse members
of the extended (and growing) Emerson family wander in and out and about,
still more mysterious happenings happen, Amelia succeeds in
organizing everyone and has to make up with Emerson (again), and Ramses
and David investigate this and that and occasionally get injured, until
miraculously at the end we find out who the villains are and how they are
related to the Emersons, who probably can’t wait to make up again.

I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Fair warning–this is another book I read only because I was offered a
free review copy.

Subtitled “The Harrowing Adventures of a Baby Boomer Childhood,” this
book is further labeled, “Warning: This book contains heavy doses of
humor. Do not read while driving or operating heavy equipment. Standard
adult dose is one chapter per day. In case of overdose, discontinue
reading immediately, lie quietly, and watch the news.” I suspect that
this is adequately expresses how funny Fried wishes he were; alas, it’s
an overestimate.

The first chapter is particularly bad; in it, Fried explains how he moved
to Florida, and what he found there. It’s got all the usual tired digs
about development and elderly drivers, and is punctuated with lots of
little gags that mostly fall flat. It short, it’s trying far too hard to
be funny, and not managing.

The remaining chapters are much better, and include many anecdotes of
Fried’s childhood that are genuinely funny, if not quite the laugh riot
the cover bids you expect. And, unsurprisingly, the funniest bits are
those in which Fried stops trying to be a comic and just tells the story.
I enjoyed hearing about his dog Sardo, and the varied population of his
hometown, the more so as he grew up in a time and place that I know
little about (Upstate New York, in the 1950’s).

I suppose what fascinates me the most about the book is the moral
dimension, which is almost completely lacking. There are a handful
of passages infused with PC-piety on animal rights and the environment,
but in all of the tales of his youthful exploits there’s no sense of
shame or contrition or sheepishness, but only the concern then (and
pleasure now) that he didn’t get caught at the time.
He relates an incident concerning one of his childhood
friends, who inadvertently ate some candy after giving
up candy for Lent. The friend was absolutely mortified about it. Fried
comforts him, but clearly doesn’t understand the problem.

Now I’m not looking for heavy-handed moralizing; it’s meant to be funny,
after all. But somehow Garrison Keillor manages to
acknowledge his own moral frailty without ceasing to be funny.
Fried’s parents were Jewish, so he tells us, but were apparently not
particularly observant, and left him to make up his own mind about religion;
which is to say he got no religious instruction whatsoever. Keillor, on
the other hand, was raised in the Church. Fried’s book has no real moral
dimension; Keillor’s books, on the other hand, do. It makes you wonder.

So anyway, I read the book, and enjoyed most of it–except for the first
chapter–well enough, but I didn’t have to pay for it. Would I have paid
money for it? Well, honestly, I probably wouldn’t even be looking in
that part of the bookstore. But if someone called it to my attention,
and I leafed through it….well, probably I would have left it in the
store. Still, if you have a particular interest in mid-1950’s Americana
you might take a look.

Update: Given Ian’s comment (see the comments sections), I want to make it clear that I’m not accusing Fried of being a man of no morals. It’s his book I’m talking about, and it’s what he chose to put in it, and what he chose to leave out, that I find interesting.

The April issue of Ex Libris Reviews is now available.

Just so as not to leave everyone hanging, I’d like to announce that all of the plumbing was in fact completed successfully, and we’re having no further trouble.

Ian thinks I’m being too hard on Peter Jackson and company. He reminds us that unless a thousand little things all come together exactly right an otherwise good movie can be ruined. He points out how much worse Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy could have been. He says that it’s a miracle that it was made at all, and an additional miracle that it’s so good. He thinks, I gather, that we bookish folks who carp and complain about every little detail are missing the big picture. In his phrase, we’ve been handed a pile of diamonds, and are complaining about how they are cut.

In short, we need to (a) count our blessings, and (b) give Jackson some credit.

Very well.

I went and saw Ralph Bakshi’s animated The Lord of the Rings when it first appeared in the theaters. It was 1978. I was in 9th or 10th grade, and a thorough-going Tolkien geek. But even a young geek’s enthusiasm couldn’t save Bakshi’s movie from being the complete and utter disappointment that it was. So I’m well aware how much worse Jackson’s movie could have been.

In fact, I’ll readily concede that Jackson got almost everything right, especially when it came to the visuals. The Shire was a joy and a delight; Moria was suitably eerie; Lothlorien was suitably ethereal; the Argonath was glorious; Gollum was exactly right, even with that absurd trick with the lembas; Minas Tirith was gorgeous; Grond was a terrible sight; and on and on.

I’ll further concede that, not being a movie buff, I’ve got no real appreciation for all of the difficulties involved in making a movie, so the achievement that seems so unlikely and miraculous to Ian seems less so to me. Nevertheless, it was a superb effort, and I’m genuinely grateful to Ian for filling us in on some of what went on behind the scenes.

So, Ian, I’ve looked at it from your point of view; now look at it from mine.
You compare the movie to a pile of (possibly miscut) diamonds; Tolkien’s trilogy, then, must be the Arkenstone of Thrain. If I’m holding Jackson to a ridiculously high standard, it’s because I’m measuring Jackson’s achievement against Tolkien’s. Not fair, perhaps, but being a bookish person I can’t help it.

This is the midpoint of the Chronicles of Prydain, and it’s of a piece
with the others. Our hero, Taran of Caer Dallben, escorts “the
golden-haired Princess Eilonwy” to the Isle of Mona, where she is going
to live with the King and Queen of Mona and learn all about being a
princess. Nothing goes quite as planned, of course, and no sooner do
they arrive than Eilonwy is kidnapped by Achren, the wicked enchantress
who stole her from her mother when she was a baby. Naturally, Taran must
rescue her.

As in the previous volumes, the other characters seem to be chosen for
the lessons they can teach young Taran. In this case, the major learning
experiences are provided by the feckless Prince Rhun and a giant named
Glew. From Glew he learns that physical size has nothing to do with
moral stature; from Rhun he learns that fecklessness can go with a good
heart, that it is not a permanent condition, and that he really doesn’t
want anyone else to marry “the golden-haired Princess Eilonwy.” And
there are all the usual things about loyalty, courage, and the
importance of good friends.

David’s immediate response when we finished it was, “Tomorrow, we can
start the next one!”

At the moment, we have our house about half-replumbed. That is, the main line from the street to the water heater and service porch (well, it’s not really a service porch, and it’s not really in the house, but it has a washer-driver and a half-bath in it, and the distinction isn’t worth going into) has been replaced with copper; the second half will be done in a month or so.

Well, call it seven-sixteenths done, rather than half-done. To begin with, the hot and cold water lines have been swapped. That’s supposed to be fixed on tomorrow. The problem is, the hot water line had a whole bunch of junk in it from the old water heater; that junk is now clogging the fill valves of all of the toilets in the house. That’s supposed to get taken care of tomorrow as well. In the meantime, we’re filling up the toilet tanks with buckets of water from the shower.

Home ownership–a never-ending source of interest!

Michael Blowhard has a neat post proclaiming the greatness of light entertainment–of authors like Ngaio Marsh and P.G. Wodehouse. It should come as no surprise to anyone that I think he’s got something.

Read the comments, too.

A couple of days ago, there appeared on Brandywine Books a
conjecture as to a couple of plot changes in Peter Jackson’s film The
Two Towers, to wit, why does Faramir take Frodo back to Osgiliath,
and how come the Ents first decide not to march on Isengard only to
change their minds “hastily”. I thought his conjecture was plausible,
but I’m a book guy not a film guy, so I challenged Ian Hamet, whom as we all know
is a film guy, to give his opinion.

Ian responded with a detailed
and informative post in which he dissects the forces acting on the
screenwriter and director who have the unenviable task of cutting a
massive novel down to size. I won’t repeat his observations here; you
should go read them. But I do have a few comments.

First, I understand that very few novels can be translated to the screen
without significant changes. The two media are extremely different, and
the way in which you tell a story is different. That’s fine, and I don’t
have any trouble with many of the changes that were made for this reason.
As an example, Jackson’s The Fellowship of the Ring includes many
scenes of Saruman and Isengard that are simply not in the book–but they
are consistent with what we eventually find out in the book. That’s telling the
story in a different way, and it works, and it’s appropriate.

But my view is, if you’re going to bother creating a screen adaptation of
a well-know and much loved novel, you had best tell the same story. Your
inventions should, if at all possible, be consistent with the facts of
the novel; and if they are not consistent with the facts, they should at
least be consistent with the spirit of the novel. And if they can’t be
consistent with the spirit of the novel, they should at least make sense in the context of the movie.

Let’s take the Ents’ decision to march on Isengard upon seeing the
devastation created by Saruman, immediately after the Entmoot decides to
do no such thing. Ian’s opinion is that this is a case of “show, don’t
tell;” the Entmoot’s close decision in favor of not marching is
overturned by showing them–and us–what Saruman has been doing to Fangorn
Forest. Now, I agree with Ian thus far–the devastation, and the Ents’
reaction to it, needs to be shown visually. But I think it could have
been shown without requiring the Ents to make a snap judgement, something
that Ents simply don’t do. For example, the Ents could have closed the
Entmoot with the resolution to investigate further–and then been roused
to full anger when they saw the devastation.

But this is a lesser sin; it bugs me, but in general the right stuff
happens.

Next, take Faramir. Faramir’s purpose in the book is as a constrast to
Boromir. Both are brave; Faramir is also wise. Jackson’s changes relieve Faramir
of a great bit of his wisdom, and weaken the character (among other
things, as we shall see).

Ian argues that Faramir’s decision to take Frodo to Osgiliath adds drama
to Sam and Frodo’s story, drama that is badly
needed there since Jackson moved the Shelob’s Lair sequence that ends Tolkien’s
The Two Towers to the third movie. (Ian explains why moving
Shelob to the third movie was reasonable, and I rather agree with him.)
Ian claims that without the extra drama, Sam and Frodo would have spent
the last half of the movie doing a lot of boring clambering about on
rocks, and the scene with Faramir would have been devoid of drama.

I’m inclined to disagree–and I don’t think Jackson’s feel for how much drama
is needed in a given scene is all that good. Witness, for example, the
collapsing staircase at the end of the Moria sequence in The
Fellowship of the Ring. Our heroes have just fought a cave troll,
Frodo has apparently been impaled, they are being chased by orcs, and
they are about to face a balrog. No additional drama was required.
Similarly, when the balrog’s whip catches Gandalf, he clings to the cliff
for agonizingly long moments; I think it would have been more effective
(as well as truer to the book) if he’d shouted “Fly, you fools!” as he
was falling into the depths, Doppler shift and all.

In fact, I think the Faramir sequence has scope for plenty of drama
without changing its nature; for example, Jackson could have made Faramir
much more reluctant to let Gollum go.

But that’s not the real reason I complain about the Faramir sequence; I
complain about it because it ends up with Frodo in Osgiliath and seen to
be there by a Ringwraith. This simply makes no sense.

First, Jackson is ridiculously bad at conveying how large a place Middle
Earth is. The battle scenes in The Return of the King, for
example, make it look like Minas Morgul is about ten miles away from
Minas Tirith; in fact, it’s about fifty miles. Having Frodo take a
detour to Osgiliath without paying any real time penalty for it is typical.

But OK; grant that the distance is negligible. What’s unforgiveable
about the sequence is the scene in which the Ringwraith confronts Frodo.
As I recall, Frodo is standing on top of a wall, completely exposed. The
Ringwraith has very likely seen him before, at Weathertop; but would
definitely sense the Ring anyway. You can’t tell me that the Ringwraith
wouldn’t have stooped on Frodo like an owl on a mouse and carried him off
to Mordor. Pffft. End of story. Dramatic, yes–but also, absurd and
nonsensical.

Back to you, Ian.