Jeez, I hate novel revisions!

I just started reading Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the updated title for Jack Finney’s 1955 serialized novel, The Body Snatchers. I decided to read this more than sixty-year-old horror/scifi novel because I’m reading another old book, Stephen King’s Danse Macabre (1982). I was about two thirds of the way through DM, when King began discussing Body Snatchers as one of the classics in the genre. Well, since I’ve seen this movie a hundred times (at least), but never read the classic from which it sprung, I decided to avoid King’s spoilers and first read the Finney novel. The retitled paperback was available for cheap on Amazon (the original was much more expensive), so I plunked down my two bucks (plus $3.99 shipping) and had it in a few days. I’m just fifteen pages in, and almost wish I hadn’t bothered.

It’s not that I dislike the writing, Finney’s writing is pretty good. It’s also fun to revisit Dr. Miles Bennell, Becky Driscoll, and crew, after seeing them so many times on screen. The problem is that the title was updated in 1978, to coincide with the release of the remake. Unfortunately, an attempt was made to revise the text to fit within 1978 as well. Evidently, we poor, dumb readers couldn’t deal with ancient writing from twenty years ago (dum dum dee doh, Shazam! Golly Sgt. Carter!).

The problem with such revision is that fiction is a creature of the period in which it is written. There are hundreds of phrases, idioms, and historical aspects that flavor the writing, which is part of the fun. For each one you change, you miss a bunch. So you end up with dozens of anachronisms that pull the reader out of the narrative. It’s like seeing that fictional 555 area code they used to use in movies. You cease suspended disbelief and say, “Jeez!”

For example, Miles describes the life of a young (he’s 28) doctor. But this description is for a mid-1950s doctor, not one in 1978. He talks about house calls and all-night answering services to wake him for emergency appendectomies, etc. By the late 1970s, hospitals and emergency rooms had sprung up throughout even rural America, so that the house call was a thing of the past. He describes his training as four years of med school and one year of internship, but by the late 1970s, a general practitioner would have at least a two-year residency in family medicine, with ‘GP’ designating older docs that only had a general internship.  Finney seems to realize some of this, so he adds expository narrative such as “Yes, I still make house calls.” But such padding detracts from the flow, waking the reader from the nightmare Finney’s weaving. After a while, you find yourself looking for these “Jeez!” moments, instead of immersed in the tale.

Well, enough bitching. Time for me to go back to reading Body Snatchers, hoping that the story is strong enough to withstand a revisionist flogging. At least it should be a nice walk down memory lane. Jeez!

Holiday movies are about Holiday memories.

I saw a post on Facebook that someone’s favorite holiday movie was Miracle on 34th Street – the 1990s version. 1990s! I scoffed and scolded, “Check out the original.” Or how about It’s a Wonderful Life, or Charlie Brown Christmas, or Holiday Inn? Peasant!

The reply was simple, sweet, and humbling.  

“I have never seen the original, but grew up with the 1990s version. That one holds my Holiday memories.”

And right she is! That’s what Christmas movies are about – Holiday memories. We revisit them each year like friends and family, warming our hearts in their company and fondly reminiscing about Christmases past.

So, whether your favorite is It’s a Wonderful Life, Scrooged, The Santa Clause, or Bell Book and Candle (A favorite of mine), I want to wish you warm reacquaintance and fond memories this Holiday season. As Tiny Tim opined – “Pass me a drumstick! Every one!”

Harry "Breaker" MOrant -- Bushman and Buccaneer.

 One of my favorite small-budget movies is Breaker Morant, the story of three Australians that were tried for murder during the Boer war (Circa 1901). Wandering through Amazon (the online bookstore, not the jungle), I came across a short book from 1903 about the life and verse of Harry “The Breaker” Morant (Frank Fox: Bushman and Buccaneer). The movie was based on this book, so I got a copy, looking more for the Breaker’s verses than his life story. But the latter proved interesting as well.

Both the author’s forward and a more modern one by his great grandson suggest that it is a myth that Morant, Hancock, and Whitten were railroaded by a kangaroo court. Yet, the “myth” has a ring of truth, knowing how the British army has historically closed ranks to hide their mistakes. And it is interesting to note that both author and great grandson are upper-crust British gentlemen.

Still, whether it is truth or myth, it’s a great story. So, if you haven't seen the movie starring Edward Woodward and Brian Brown, I highly recommend it. For now, I leave you with my favorite Morant poem, one not in the Fox book but highlighted in the movie. The dark blue eyes and silken hair in the later stanzas no doubt refer to Harry’s beloved Nell, left behind in Devon.

AT THE RIVER-CROSSING by Harry "Breaker" Morant

 Oh! the quiet river-crossing

 Where we twain were wont to ride,

 Where the wanton winds were to sing

 Willow branches o'er the tide.

 There the golden noon would find us

 Dallying through the summer day,

 All the weary world behind us -

 All it's tumult far away.

 Oh! Those rides across the crossing

 Where the shallow stream runs wide,

 When the sunset's beams were glossing

 Strips of sand on either side.

 We would cross the sparkling river

 On the brown horse and the bay;

 Watch the willows sway and shiver

 And their trembling shadows play.

 When the opal tints waxed duller

 And a gray crept o'er the skies

 Yet there stayed the blue sky's color

 In your dreamy dark-blue eyes.

 How the sun-god's bright caresses,

 When we rode at sunset there,

 Plaited among your braided tresses,

 Gleaming on your silky hair.

 When the last sunlight's glory

 Faded off the sandy bars,

 There we learnt the old, old story,

 Riding homeward 'neat the stars.

 'Tis a memory to be hoarded -

 Oh, the foolish tale and fond!

 Till another stream be forded -

 And we reach the Great Beyond.

"The trick is not minding that it hurts."

Watched some of Lawrence of Arabia recently, a film that is almost universally acclaimed as another masterpiece by the master director, Sir David Lean. While I do like much of the movie, as well as David Lean’s work in general (his Great Expectations and Bridge on the River Kwai are true masterpieces), I would dub Lawrence of Arabia almost a great film.

The first two hours are rousing entertainment, with epic action and great acting, especially by Peter O’Toole as the character of TE Lawrence. I say the character of Lawrence, because the actual Lawrence was quite a bit different from the one portrayed by O’Toole (For details, see Guerrilla Leader: TE Lawrence and the Arab Revolt; JJ Schneider). However, the last hour is about as exciting as watching a camel chew.

The post-war scenes with the Arabs floundering in their new independence is like sitting through a monthly meeting of a municipal zoning board. Although the scenes have an air of realism, I am reminded of cautionary words from both my acting and writing training: never confuse realism with drama. Drama should suggest realism, but not real life. Real life is boring. Drama should be a distillation of the interesting parts of real life, especially the conflict.

Lawrence of Arabia is notable for having some truly great writing. My favorite line comes from early in the film, and provides excellent insight into the hero’s character. While still in Cairo, young Lt. Lawrence performs a trick where he allows a match to burn down, extinguishing it with his fingers. An orderly tries the same thing, but yelps, “Ow! It bloody well hurts.” Lawrence replies, “Certainly it hurts.” So the orderly asks, “So what’s the trick.” To which Lawrence replies, “The trick is not minding that it hurts.”

A good read that is also an educational one!

Just finished a great non-fiction book by Bruce Henderson called Trace Evidence. It is a meticulously researched account of the hunt for the I-5 killer in northern California. I strongly recommend it, on a couple of levels.

The account itself is riveting, using interviews and transcripts to detail the abductions of several women and the subsequent murder investigations. Henderson makes this read like good fiction, which is always a mark of superior non-fiction.

However, the account also appealed to me as a fiction writer, in that it provides an excellent police/forensic procedural. It shows how detective-work is similar/different across jurisdictions, and how multiple jurisdictions can cloud an investigation. It also provides a fascinating picture into how forensic trace-evidence can be used to pin down a suspect (in this case, Roger Kibbe).

A good read that is also an educational one!

They must "get the job done!"

I caught parts of The Guns of Navarone the other day on TCM. Although not as good as the book (which I recall as riveting), it is a great action picture, albeit a bit absurd. Gregory Peck described it as part love story and part keystone cops. The love story is a bit unconventional, in that:

"David Niven really loves Tony Quayle and Gregory Peck loves Anthony Quinn. Tony Quayle breaks his leg and is sent off to the hospital. Tony Quinn falls in love with Irene Pappas, and David Niven and Peck catch each other on the rebound and live happily ever after."

Like Where Eagles Dare (also by A. MacLean), this small band defeats the entire German army. Peck thought the whole thing so ridiculous that the only way it would work is for the actors to play it with great conviction. That they do.

Perhaps the biggest absurdity comes near the end. Throughout, the buildup has been a small band sent on a near-impossible suicide mission. The repeated catchphrase is that they must “get the job” done and destroy the guns. Now, why the Germans, who are fighting throughout the world, devoted considerable resources to guns in a remote Greek Island is never explained. But even so, they must stop the guns at all costs. They must “Get the job done.”

Here’s the kicker (spoiler alert), the fuses and timers are destroyed by a beautiful saboteur. So, the chemical-genius David Niven must devise ways of detonating the explosive while still giving them a chance to escape. The methods are chancy and may not work, but it’s the only option they have.

Of course, a committed band on a suicide mission should face no such dilemma. If the only thing that matters is to “get the job done,” and if they are locked in with the guns and ammo (as they are), then one man gets left behind with a hand grenade. Boom! Job is done. Man is dead, but there is no uncertainty about getting the job done. But then, one wouldn’t have a Hollywood blockbuster, now would one?

Reccomend it to a niece, but not your favorite one.

I recently purchased Stephen King’s newest, Gwendy’s Button Box, written in collaboration with Richard Chizmar. I bought it for my kindle based on the author and the back-cover blurb, which sounded like another eerie tale from Castle Rock. Then I read the book, which is when the disappointment set in.

To start with, Stephen King’s contribution seems limited to providing the names of Castle Rock and environs. There are occasional flashes of him in the writing, but the novel was primarily written by Chizmar. I won’t say he is a bad writer, I’ll only say he is of lesser caliber.

The next big disappointment was that the novel is geared to the middle-grade or young-adult audience, which was not clear from the write-up. We are treated to involved descriptions of Gwendy’s teenage angst flowering into young womanhood, complete with the tribulations of dealing with a budding body and budding romance. Teenage girls might like it, I did not. I’d prefer a little budding suspense and terror.

Finally, it is a short novel (novella?), which is a mixed blessing: I felt bad having wasted $7 bucks on a two-hour read, but at least didn’t have to deal with anymore adolescent whining.

My advice, recommend it to a niece, but not your favorite one.

And to think, that was less than 75 years ago.

I recently finished reading Our Island Road to Tokyo, by General (retired) Robert Eichelberger. His Eight Army did much of the leg work reconquering the Philippines, and other divisions/corps he commanded fought the early war to retake New Guinea.

It is not a particularly well written book, with kind of a Grandma Moses literary style. But what it lacks in sophistication it makes up for with a simple narrative that highlights an important but mostly forgotten chapter in the pacific war.

Few Americans realize how important the Island of New Guinea was at the start of WWII. Situated just off the Australian coast, NG straddled the supply lines to our best/sole ally and largest/main base in the region. The Japanese controlled the entire north coast of this massive island, and much of the first year and a half of our Pacific war was contesting this control (eg, Coral Sea, Guadalcanal, defense of Port Moresby) and then retaking the place. The latter was an arduous affair, fought on a shoestring amid appalling jungle conditions. In a series of jungle treks and amphibious jumps, US and Australian forces fought for over a year to seize places with unlikely names like Buna, Weewak, Salamaua, and Sanananda. Malaria and other disease were common, shoes/uniforms rotted apart in the torrential rains and mud, diet was monotonously bad, and fanatical Japs were constantly trying to kill you. There were tens of thousands of US casualties, and many times that number (mostly killed) on the Japanese side.

And to think, that this was less than 75 years ago.