Crime and Crinolines: British Crime Shows and Period Dramas

My Mom lives on a diet of two kinds of DVDs: British Crime Series and British Period Dramas. The plot of the average British Crime Series is as utterly routine and comforting as a strong cup of tea. There is a crime, various suspects are presented, a piece of utterly circumstantial evidence is discovered, at which point the culprit makes a full and detailed confession. Here's some dialogue that could be parachuted in to the next British Crime Series the Guelph Public Library feels like buying:

Detective: But why, my lord, DID YOU LEAVE THE WINDOW OPEN?
Lord Evil Baddy-Diditmay: Yes, I did it, I'm glad I did it, I would do it again and here's how I did it. I purchased arsenic at the druggist's at tuppence* a pound, reduced from sixpence and four as Lloyd's had ordered a surplus...

The British Period Drama is no less formulaic, but instead of confessing to having been Colonel Mustard in the drawing room with the candlestick, the spunky heroine simply hones in on the biggest asshole within county limits and falls in love with him. Or: the rough idea of Pride and Prejudice gets some new togs. My mother and I are currently working our way through a fine example of this sort of British import. It's called South Riding, and it features Sarah, an idealistic young headmistress with two potential suitors, a Scottish socialist and a local aristocrat. Robert Carne, the local aristocrat, has unpaid bills, a mysterious illness, an incident of marital rape, a high-strung daughter and a wife in an institution. Most of us bring some baggage into our relationships, but he's one hatbox short being a full-on baggage car. Naturally, Sarah falls madly in love with him.

We're only two thirds of the way through, and I'm shocked the socialist hasn't become evil in some way. He can be excessively dogmatic or secretly in league with the capitalists, but either way, the path towards being Mrs. Carne must be cleared somehow. But then the first Mrs. Carne also needs to be conveniently offed much like the first Mrs. Rochester, so maybe they'll just have Carne succumb to whatever he's taking amyl nitrate for to keep things simple. Personally, I'm hoping that Lord Evil makes a crossover appearance and bashes him over the head with a chamberpot. In the oh-so period conservatory.

*I have no idea of the true meaning of "tuppence" or "sixpence", as with "bob" or "quid", but if the Brits couldn't be assed to figure out if I was Canadian or American, then I can't be assed to understand their funny money names. So there.

Cage Fight of Awful: Rob Ford v. Ezra Levant

The worst person in Canada right now, ignoring the usual criminal element, might be either Rob Ford or Ezra Levant. I know that sounds ideological, but hold up. It's a battle between a quivering mass of privileged resentment and an oily mound of an attention hound, so I think this crosses party lines. Rob Ford has an international profile, earning "Worst Person in the World" laurels from Keith Olbermann last week. But a Ford scandal only breaks every fortnight or so, while Ezra Levant appears on SunTV every single weekday.

Although Levant has the (dis)advantage when it comes to exposure, Ford has all the real political clout. Levant might have more if SunTV's production values ever surpass those of a local cable access channel, and he finds a legion of followers. But right now, with that lighting, viewers could be forgiven for turning on The Source and thinking they've caught My View with Peter Etril Snyder on channel 20 instead. Ford carries the chain of mayor and he's using it to batter Toronto. He's set its urban planning back thirty years, abandoned useful transit plans and removed bike lanes instead of adding more. He almost succeeded in saddling Toronto with a monorail/megamall development, and believes his football coaching is more important than his actual mayoral obligations. He doesn't just make people nostalgic for David Miller. He makes them mourn for the days of Mel Lastman.

And yet, even while so genuinely awful, Rob Ford is also more genuine than Ezra Levant. As much as I disagree with his politics and personal conduct, at least it seems like he believes in them. Levant is just what the SunTV's website describes him as, in its little blurb on The Source: a "provocateur." Publishing those Danish Muhammad cartoons in the Western Standard, the dubious achievement that's been front and center on his CV for a while, wasn't a great gesture for free speech. It wasn't even the expected act of an Islamophobe. Levant probably doesn't hate Muslims, as long as they don't raise his taxes, don't ask for arts grants, and keep off his damn lawn, please. But it wasn't free speech. It was just the keening sound of one huckster squawking for attention. And that makes Ezra Levant the worst- or at least the most annoying- person in Canada.

In Praise of Unfaithful Movie Adaptations

For whatever reason, I decided to watch The Eagle today. It's a 300-lite adaptation of The Eagle of the Ninth, which used to be the kind of dusty thing elementary kids were assigned to read, like Johnny Tremaine but without all the silver-deformed hands. Anyway, I read it sometime when I was 10 or 11, so my recollection might be foggy. But I'm fairly sure the book ended with the protagonist disillusioned with the glory of Rome. Instead, the movie has our hero (Channing "Mr. Poutylips 2012" Tatum) and his sidekick (Jamie "Billy Elliot Got Buff" Bell) striding out the door and into a buddy comedy.

But oh well. A sick side of me actually enjoys it when movie adaptations stomp all over their source text. Like that version of The Scarlet Letter with Demi Moore, where a bunch of Natives ride in at the end to save the day. I figure by that point screenwriting was happening on a day-to-day basis, and having run out of excuses for Demi to get her frock off, the writers decided to wrap it up quickly. Credit also goes to Timur Bekmambetov's Wanted. Mark Millar's comic books might not have the same cultural capital as Hawthorne's AmLit 101 staple, but they get hacked just the same in the 2008 adaptation. The title's the same, and so are the characters' names, but... that's about it. And I loved it. Here's to faithless movies made from better books. They allow me to quietly disrespect my English degree and eat hot buttered popcorn, all at the same time.

Reflections on Canzine

Last Sunday, I went to Canzine with some cash in my wallet and the stated goal of finding a zine about backyard chicken raising. I never did succeed in the latter, but did return to Guelph with a bag of zines and the following observations, shared below for your edification/amusement/ire.

1. Cupcakes Are Our New Overlords
The most popular product at tables at Canzine? Zines, of course. It's in the name. Second? Screenprinted posters, probably. And third? Cupcakes. You could buy homemade versions along with your handmade journals at many a stall, or go for the slightly more ambitious cakes being sold as part of the Underground Food Fair. Remember when folks said the cupcake trend had crested, and it was for whoopie pies and macarons to fight to the death for our love? Well, cupcakes were there all along, waiting for the other baked goods to destroy each other so they could hog all the sweet, sweet glory for themselves. Victory tastes of buttercream frosting. And costs between $2.50 and $3.25 a pop.

Conclusion: Cupcakes are here to stay. Unless if fatigue finally sets in next year, in which case I'm fully planning to bring a doughnut frying machine to Canzine.

2. Digital Technology Has Not Killed Print (Yet)
The vendors at Canzine ranged in age, but generally skewed- based on a lazy visual appraisal- heavily to the 20 to 30 year old range. Admittedly, zine culture is a niche thing, but there was still a roomful of people who had taken the time to write, draw, stitch, photocopy, staple and in whichever way create printed artifacts. And it wasn't the work of a colony of strange youth who had rejected Twitter and Facebook, grabbing their butter churns to go back and crank a letterpress, either. I checked out some of the scheduled readers and presenters the day before. Most of them at least had a blog.

Conclusion: Calm down, New York Times, Globe and Mail, or whomever. I know that as the new moon rises, another, often hysterical, obituary for the printed word (the book in the particular) appears under your masthead. But at least for the time being, young folks are finding ways to integrate both print and digital media as creative outlets and entertainment.

3. People Can be Sickeningly Talented, and Often Nice Too
A few highlights: Raymond Biesinger, who produced this clever graphic poster of World War I. It already contains more information about The Great War than I was ever taught in a high school history class. He's also really friendly, so buy from him and you support the cause of niceness. Jonah Campbell, who writes about food in Food and Trembling in a wry, critically sharp way. The man understands the power and the glory of the Montreal zaatar, so clearly he's to be trusted. Aaron Costain, who has some pretty but sinister prints of cityscapes, along with cat zines and comics about transportation disasters. A true Renaissance man, that one. There were also tons of social justice zines, and although I neglected to do my duty and pick some up (apologies, I had cupcakes on the brain) they still made me feel a bit better about the world.

Conclusion: We must harness their power for our ends. Or at least make them fetch zaatars for us.

Goddess of the Longbox: Brian Azzarello's Wonder Woman

Up until two months ago, I thought of Wonder Woman more as a brand than as a book. She could be bought on journals, t-shirts, wallets and more. But not so much in comic books I wanted to read. I knew about her first, bondage-heavy incarnation thanks to a collection of golden age Wonder Woman stories which randomly appeared in my grade 8 classroom. Everything I could find at the library told me we then passed through a Lynda Carter/George Perez heyday, only to get bogged down in the 1990s with convoluted stories and low sales numbers. After that, good things could have happened. But so did The Dark Knight Strikes Again. Wonder Woman having sky-shaking sex with Superman was bad enough, but the digital colouring job gave it a particularly mind-searing quality. I decided I no longer had the fortitude for her. Who could guarantee I wouldn't see her boffing Darkseid, printed on glitter paper? But the big DC 52 reboot brings renewed faith, in the form of Brian Azzarello's Wonder Woman.

Issue #2 has just been released, which means it's still simple and fiscally responsible to catch up on the series. So far it's shaping up to be less about typical superheroics than Maury among the gods. Zeus has been fooling around on Hera again, and Diana and Hermes try to protect his latest mortal conquest and the unborn demigod she carries. The family tree gets further complicated at the end of issue #2. Strife lets slip that Diana is also Zeus' daughter, instead of clay brought to life.

Perhaps my Maury comparison is unfair. Wonder Woman aims higher than that- Apollo, Hermes, Hera and other superstars of Greek mythology all make unannotated appearances, for example. For a truer ancestor, something about the dense, allusive writing reminds me of the Sandman series, Azzarello sounding as much like Neil Gaiman as his earlier, 100 Bullets self. Cliff Chiang's pencils are worth noting too. Although all of the female characters are drawn within society's set parameters of female beauty, Diana gets to look more athletic than pneumatic. It may be too early in Azzarello's run to get excited about his Wonder Woman. But there's something exciting about a book that aims for Mount Olympus while so many others settle for the gutter and a pretty thin conception of grit.

I feel as if a link to this Dresden Codak comic about Wonder Woman's costume is only appropriate: Why Cleavage Is Bad For Crimefighting

Love Hurts, And Sometimes Steals Your Tea

Even my dreams have begun to sadden me. Last night I was dreaming about meeting a guy in some sort of meet-cute situation in an apartment. For most of you, normal, happy people, the next part of the dream would have involved some sexy adventures of at least Cinemax standards. However, I dreamed I went to his apartment the next day, only to find the loose tea he had stolen from my apartment. It was all there- the Earl Grey, the genmaicha, the rooibos, the bougie green tea with the little fruity bits in it. There was a confrontation, dramatic tears were shed, doors were slammed, he admitted that he had a compulsion and I gave him the ultimatum that "I'll only see you if you get heeeeelllllp!"

It was kind of like an episode of Intervention, crossbred with a Lifetime movie of the week and sponsored by Tetley.

I woke up remembering the "green tea with the little fruity bits" detail distinctly, and the rest of the dream with some concern. Really, if my dream guy is a tea-hording klepto, and not a bare-chested English 19th century lord with suspiciously good dental work and a disdain for the social conventions of his time, my real-life prospects have got to be depressing. Which reminded me of a recent conversation I had with a friend, where I confidently promised to "work harder at, you know, that whole aspect... of life" once I found a job in Toronto and moved there.

Really, that was just a way of buying time, and even that looms oppressively in my future. My anxiety was not helped by a post on a Toronto city blog that offered a glimpse into that very future. It was about a singles event with an ugly sweater theme, held at a bar with an awkwardly long name. That kind of name is usually a good indication that it will house equally (and endearingly) awkward men, so at first I was all like "Whoah, I could get a head start on my vow!!", then was more "That bar name is actually mildly annoying" and finally: "I would likely want to burn down that bar and the be-sweatered men it contains, mostly out of misdirected self-loathing, but also because of drunkenness."

So, now that I've saved myself the trouble of finding an embroidered cat sweater at Value Village, I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't also save myself from this doomed vow. Some people are good at dating- I'm not one of them. Some people are good at learning how to be good at dating- I'm not one of those either. I don't even know how to blow dry my hair. My temporary conclusion is that, yep, I'm still planning to move to Toronto, and if nothing works out in the suitor department, that's fine. But if something does work out, that's fine too. I'll just have to remember to keep an eye on my Elf Help (organic) tea, and put out the Lipton as decoys.

Book Covers I Have Loved, Liked and Loathed: Wuthering Heights

Realities may be plural and meaning may be fluid... but anybody who goes about thinking Wuthering Heights is a template for true love is a stone-cold idiot. Postmodernism can only take you so far. Of course, the actual content of the book hasn't stopped legions of hormone-addled folks (and some older people who should know better) from taking Heathcliff to be the dreamiest of dreamboats to ever sail, or at least stalk, the moors. Thus, a certain kind of terrible cover could be expected for Wuthering Heights. Bare, yearning, extremely buff chests. Terrible Twilight tie-ins, even. But I sure wasn't expecting this:


I couldn't bring myself to open the book, although I'm sure Heathcliff exhuming Cathy's corpse was rendered with the same kind of apple-cheeked wholesomeness. I understand that this is part of a series of classic stories and novels digested for the children. And because of that, some darker elements would have to be left in the original text. But this is more than missing the mark. This is aiming for Wuthering Heights and landing somewhere deep in Magic Treehouse land. Perhaps writers, librarians, parents and anyone else who cares about kids should stop presenting pulverized classics and give children good, original works instead. It seems more likely to create dedicated readers who'll find the real Wuthering Heights (and Jane Eyre, and heck, Agnes Grey) on their own.


This next cover (for the complete text) would definitely appeal to those kids, particularly those tormented souls who are simultaneously going through a Tim Burton phase. The cover is by Ruben Toledo, and it's part of a set of three Deluxe Classics he illustrated for Penguin. I can't decide whether I like it or not. Sometimes I think it has the right mix of superficial prettiness and barely hidden rot. Other times, I find it irritatingly gothy-cute, with Catherine looking like a consumptive Hello Kitty.

(Photo from Etsy seller CalloohCallay)

But I would love to track down a copy of this Wuthering Heights, which features woodcuts by Fritz Eichenberg. Published as a box set with Jane Eyre in 1943, I think it's just about perfect, with the emphasis being as much on the environment and atmosphere of its setting than Heathcliff himself, looking here- unlike that awful Real Reads cover- like a real adult.

A Very Merry X-Oween

It's not an original sentiment, but... the X-Men the Animated Series intro is just balls out awesome, isn't it? Seriously, I want to loop that song and play it for 20 minutes whenever I run. Things would quickly go south however when I confuse myself with Rogue and attempt to fly off the curb while punching the air, but with the healing powers of Wolverine (or my delusions of such) I would quickly recover and finish my run. Or at least limp home to the X-Mansion, aka my house.

On a related note, I am strongly considering making Rogue my 2011 Halloween costume of choice. Unfortunately, one thing is kind of stopping me. Three syllables, starts with a vowel, heavily featured in American Apparel catalogues... no, not areola. That's four syllables. I'm talking "unitard." I mean, for 19.95 I can buy a green unitard from Value Village that promises, somewhat sinisterly, "one size fits most." Judging from the model photo though, a more accurate description would be "gives cameltoe to all." Oh well, slap some yellow spandex patches on it, add some superfluous belts, bleach a streak in my hair, and I'll be cooking like early '90s classic Rogue.

Book Pile for October 13

This month's book pile, from top to bottom.
1. The Itty Bitty Book: Music From Big Pink, John Niven
2. Book Most Likely to Take Another 8 Months to Finish: The Magus, John Fowles
3. The Tome of Misguided Self-Improvement: How to Get Any Job: Life Launch and Re-Launch for Everyone Under 30 (or How to Avoid Living in Your Parents' Basement), Donald Asher -> Too late!!!!!!
4. Let's Get Critical, Critical Reading: American Movie Critics, Ed. Phillip Lopate
5. Current Non-Fiction Reading: The Best of The Best American Science Writing, Ed. Jesse Cohen
6. Future Novel Reading: A Meaningful Life, L. J. Davis

Lucille by Ludovic Debeurme- Review

The teenager, whether as subject, intended audience or both, has been well-served by graphic novels. Well, well-served in quantity, at least, but not so much in quality. Nearly every adult superhero team has a youth league (Teen Titans, Generation X, Young Avengers, etc.) but when Batman angsts more than a sixteen year old, the actual teens can seem like toddlers. Which is why Ludovic Debeurme's Lucille is so surprising and necessary.

Originally published in French by Futuropolis in 2006, Lucille appeared in English earlier this year through Top Shelf Comics. If you were expecting, based on its continental heritage, lush backgrounds and smoothly symbolic figures, you'll be disappointed. This isn't that kind of bande dessiné. But if you've read King Cat Comics and liked John Porcellino's minimalist, sketchy illustrations, you'll probably enjoy the kind of style Debeurme is working with. And it's a good fit for the story, allowing readers the space to mix their own experiences with those of the characters.

That kind of projection will be more effective if you're either still in, or still reeling from, your that time. Hopefully, few of you are as put-upon as Vladimir (né Arthur) and Lucille though. Vladimir is the scion of a long line of suicidal Poles and Lucille is an anorexic French girl. But this isn't an issue-driven YA novel, with no hotline phone number on the back page. Lucille and Vladimir are written like plausible, intelligent and troubled teenagers. That is: As people who are more articulate on the interior than they can express to the exterior. It's not surprising then that Debeurme leans heavily on interior monologues instead of dialogue, but pages completely free of text are common too. Coupled with Debeurme's aversion to the square, thickly bordered look of the traditional comic panel, Lucille feels like a graphic novel that's fighting against traditional expectations of the form while still having to work within some of them. And that's not unlike your average teen's life experience, helping this book to become one of the truer, sadder looks at those in-between years.

On a related note for Toronto folks, two events of note are coming up:
Canzine Toronto, which should have some great indie comics for sale, among other artifacts of the zinely sciences (October 23, 2011)
Toronto Draws Tintin, in honour of everyone's favourite Belgian, which features history, local artists, and provides support for the Comic Legends Legal Defense Fund. (November 2-27, 2011)