Book vs. Film: On the Road

Sal Paradise, a young innocent, joins his hero Dean Moriarty, a traveller and mystic, the living epitome of Beat, on a breathless, exuberant ride back and forth across the United States. Their hedonistic search for release or fulfilment through drink, sex, drugs and jazz becomes an exploration of personal freedom, a test of the limits of the American dream. A brilliant blend of fiction and autobiography, Jack Kerouac's exhilarating novel swings to the rhythms of 1950s underground America, racing towards the sunset with unforgettable exuberance, poignancy and autobiographical passion. One of the most influential and important novels of the 20th century, On the Road is the book that launched the Beat Generation and remains the bible of that literary movement.

I was quite probably the least rebellious eighteen year-old when I first read Jack Kerouac's iconic On the Road. I was quite boring in a way I suppose - think awkward bob, no fake ID and a penchant for H&M v-neck jumpers. Things could only improve, that's all I can say... Anyway, at the time, On the Road (probably unknowingly) was quite an eye-opener to me. Its quality of writing, its strength of characters (perhaps helped by their autobiographical foundations) all made the book atmospheric to say the least; you really became part of this post-war generation and everything that came with it - the music, the excitement, the rebellion - even half a century later.

In an effort to get this across, there's no definitive, traditional plot. I guess I found that a little problematic from time to time but my main problem was that it was all so blokey. Lots of naked men giving each other man hugs, shagging as many women as possible while trying to maintain an authoritative intellectual status by introducing oneself as part of that elusive profession: 'a writer'. Nevertheless, I could still see its appeal, much more than, say, Conrad's Heart of Darkness which I had just struggled through reluctantly for A-level.

It's the kind of book you can imagine the previous generation - one that had just lived through the horrors of World War Two - would have wanted to burn. On the Road presents a new world, a new generation: the Beat generation, which showed young people with no responsibilities, a lot of drugs and very high sex drives all listening to jazz and rock n' roll. At the time, a review from Time magazine read: 

The post-World War II generation—beat or beatific—has not found symbolic spokesmen with anywhere near the talents of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, or Nathaniel West. In this novel, talented Author Kerouac, 35, does not join that literary league, either, but at least suggests that his generation is not silent. With his barbaric yawp of a book, Kerouac commands attention as a kind of literary James Dean.

Despite appreciating it for these reasons, I didn't fall in love with this book. Oddly this reaction made me really excited for the film. As I've said before, it's a lot easier for me to enjoy a film if I distance it from the book, especially if its a book I loved. The film, for me, was able to bring to life the colour and sound of the age, altogether with a fantastic cast that all stepped up to the mark. Yorkshire boy Sam Riley took on Sal Paradise, Garrett Hedlund nailed the role of Dean Moriarty and Kristen Stewart proved yet again that she is not just masochistic vampire-lover Bella Swan but a competent actress. Equally, Tom Sturridge put in a fantastic performance, as did the legendary Viggo Mortensen, Kirsten Dunst, Amy Adams and Brit Danny Morgan.

Walking out of the cinema, despite all the dramas, I surprised myself by wanting more than ever to go on a road trip. In the book I think I was safely distanced from it but here I wanted nothing more than to jump in a car, put on some Slim Gaillard, and let my K-Stew-esque sun-kissed hair blow out the window.

All in all, I think perhaps we should all read On the Road even if only to have said we've read it and to at least try and understand the era it puts on display for us. Overall, though, I probably preferred the film. It's definitely got that 'indie' feel to it, though, in the way that it doesn't make it immediately easy to get into; you have to be patient but you'll eventually become completely involved in Kerouac's era and his characters. In fact that's probably my final comment... I am always impressed by a film or book that is able to make you feel for characters that are in so many ways, if not all, completely unsympathetic. Dean is one of those addictive personalities that you kind of resent because everyone falls for him even though his inherently irresponsible and causes problems everywhere he goes. But you do want to see him do well all the same - perhaps because he's not deliberately evil or mean and that's what really matters isn't it?

The film gets 8/10 - the book gets 6/10

The Marriage Plot

Brown University, 1982. Madeleine Hanna, dutiful English student and incurable romantic, is writing her thesis on Jane Austen and George Eliot - authors of the great marriage plots. As Madeleine studies the age-old motivations of the human heart, real life, in the form of two very different men, intervenes.

Leonard Bankhead, brilliant scientist and charismatic loner, attracts Madeleine with an intensity that she seems powerless to resist. Meanwhile, her old friend Mithcell Grammaticus, a theology student searching from some kind of truth in life, is certain of at least one thing - that he and Madeleine are destined to be together.

But as all three leave college, they will have to figure out how they want their own marriage plot to end.

I'm going to be quite blunt here. I didn't really rate this book. I was really excited to read it (perhaps that was the problem) having been promised 'One Day with George Eliot thrown in' by the Times and all written by a Pulitzer-winning author whose previous novels have been raved about no-end. I guess I was hoping to read an intricate narrative that directly compared relationships in 'great' novels to the ones of everyday life. I didn't get that at all - it was more Eat Pray Love meets One Day for me, not George Eliot. Perhaps that is my own fault for misunderstanding the premise but once I got past recognising the key literary terms I'd picked up at university and the geeky exclamations of 'omg I've read that too' and 'I didn't understand Derrida at first either!' it all just went a bit down hill.

I just didn't relate to any of the characters, which I found surprising as on the surface it seems we had a lot in common - namely our university degree and interests, but also our complete ineptitude at making decisions (it took me three days to decide I would read this book rather than Sister by Rosamund Lupton...). As it was, I found Madeleine a little annoying, which is never a good start. Em in One Day is definitely annoying, but some how I managed to understand those annoyances better and have affection for her despite those. Perhaps because I recognised friends in her? She was someone I might know. Don't get me wrong, I was never the person raving about One Day as the best book ever written but it really was much more enjoyable. Ultimately I now wonder if perhaps my opinion on these two books is rooted in the fact that I am British, not American. Maybe if I had grown up in Boston I'd have understood those characters better. 

By the end I have to say I did get more into it. I really liked the ending and finally I felt some kind of emotion for the characters. There are other aspects of the book too that shouldn't be drowned by my subjective rants. For instance, I think Eugenides' exploration of depression is an interesting one and I think the relationship between someone who is suffering from such an illness and someone who loves that person but can never begin to understand it is a great subject and one that perhaps should be written about more often. I also think that the book is well written. It doesn't surprise me that he's a Pulitzer-winning author in that respect and I can see that he creates convincing characters - I just didn't particular like them...

In the end I think that Jeffrey Eugenides sat down one day and thought, 'One Day, that's a book that did well - let me do an American version with books and stuff' and so he did but it just didn't quite work for me.

Final question - what the flying duck are those yellow and orange circles on the front cover? I'm assuming wedding rings? Any confirmation or alternative opinions would be gladly received. Otherwise I will just assume the design intern got bored one day and started doodling and some how had to persuade her superior that it was a fantastic symbolic image of marriage and decision-making.

Overall it gets a 5/10. It didn't grip me enough, is what I would say in summary - it took me two and a half weeks to finish what is quite a short book. Not a good sign. The fact that I spent most of my train journey's playing Fruit Ninja on my phone may be another reason... oops.

Pimp. My. Book.

God knows what putting 'pimp' in my title is going to do to the kind of searches this blog appears in on Google... but whoever finds their way here has just got to love these covers right? Thanks to Shortlist magazine, a whole load of re-vamped covers for classic books have appeared on my radar and I'm loving them. Would love to know your feedback - which is your favourite?

Cheltenham Literature Festival 2012

Last Friday in torrential rain and all in the name of books I headed out West for the Cheltenham Literature Festival. Upon arrival at our hotel I handed over my booking confirmation and the distinctly confused look on the man's face did not bode well. It's amazing how quickly you can imagine spending the night in a shopping arcade car park, squeezed into a tiny Fiat 500 only to come out the next morning smelling of Magic Tree air freshener. Turns out, though, that I had not got the wrong date after all and they sent us upstairs with no explanation. The explanation wasn't far away though. We open the door and I wish I had a photo of our faces. Some kind of awkward mix of disbelief, hilarity and slight confusion. I'm not sure what caught our attention first - the fury, almost-fluorescent, blue curtains or this room's sheer SIZE. We had the suite.

Admittedly it was not the Ritz but when two young people open a cupboard hoping to hang up their clothes and find a fully equipped kitchenette... all for the price of a basic twin room... they're going to be impressed. Our enthusiasm was captured minutes later in this rather telling photo of my friend hanging from the bunk beds... yes, our room slept four in total. Oh the hilarity. Turned out that the television and three sofas came in quite useful that evening when we came down with a bout of food poisoning from a questionable cheese and onion twist... Needless to say 'cheese' was a sensitive topic for the remainder of the weekend.

Mandy...

Anyway, back to the festival. We had four tickets this year which kept us very entertained. First up was an interview with the only Hercule Poirot - David Suchet. An adorable man in a very fine suit telling us that the only way to achieve Poirot's 'mincing gate' was by trying to walk with a penny trapped in a rude place made my day... genuine hysterics ensued. Poirot's walk will never be the same for me again. On a more serious note, this man is a theatrical genius and after seeing him a couple of years ago in All My Sons by Arthur Miller made that fact all the more clear. Biggest discovery of the afternoon? That David Suchet and Mandy Pantinkin have got to be related.


Up next came festival pro, Philip Pullman, of Northern Lights fame. I'm a complete Dark Materials fan and was lucky enough to work for his original publishing company and so when I heard he was doing a talk on his latest project, reworking the Grimm fairy tales (very close to my own undergraduate dissertation subject) I got all excited. I even asked a question. Pathetic that that is perhaps the bravest thing I've done in recent months... no bungee jumps, desert treks or working with wild animals... my heart starts thumping when asking an author a question about the likes of Hansel and Gretel and Sleeping Beauty...

To be honest, I didn't entirely warm to him as a person. I wasn't about to demand a hug. But I did find myself nodding along to what he said and he made excellent listening. Like JK, he has inspired generations of readers and really is incredibly eloquent and intelligent, with fascinating insights on all sorts of subjects. I personally found his thoughts on religion and his inspiration from the bible very interesting considering the uproar his books caused over the years.

After a deliciously long sleep in my king size bed after selfishly claiming it for myself - come on, we had FOUR possible places to sleep ok? - we took on another beautifully sunny day in the Gloucestershire town. Cheltenham itself really goes all out for the festival with posters everywhere, ad hoc book clubs and a rather unnerving Fifty Shades of Grey inspired window of a fashion boutique... who knew bondage could sell middle England winter coats...

Perhaps our most intellectual talk was a debate on 'what makes a good leader?' chaired by Radio 4's Libby Purves and featuring BBC Newsnight presenter Gavin Esler, former Secretary of State for Justice Jack Straw, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author Anne Applebaum and leading historian Peter Hennessy. There were no prizes for guessing the political allegiances of the room but it did prove a really interesting discussion, covering whether G W Bush was as stupid as he looked, was Thatcher a great leader and why do people follow 'evil' leaders.

Finally we ended our weekend with VIP entry to the Great British Bake Off tent for a wonderfully English Afternoon Tea. After shaking hands with the Paul Hollywood I thought my weekend could not improve any further. That must be it. The peak of geeky joy. But no, after waiting thirty minutes for our table of six to be filled it became clear that we were not to be joined by any other hungry diners and so we tucked into a tier of cakes just by ourselves while relishing in the jealous looks from tables nearby...

After such a great weekend filled with intellectual stimulation, questionable interior design, enjoying a drink alongside sixty-five year olds in mini-skirts, a signed book by Mary Beard and a whole lot of food, the long slog back to London was made all the more difficult. Belting out tunes the entire way down the A40 certainly helped though. Obvs.

Just because I know you wanted to know just how amazing
those blue fluffy curtains were...
I shall leave you with this dashing photo

Harriet Harman on Fifty Shades of Grey

Fifty Shades of Grey has had its fair share of press. Personally my favourite has to be watching the cast of Snow White and the Huntsman be forced to read scenes from it. Hilarious, seriously, YouTube it. What I wasn't expecting was for it to reach the political sphere.

We are in the midst of the UK's party conference season and this time it's the turn of Labour. For those of you who don't know, Harriet Harman is the current Shadow Culture Secretary and here is what she had to say on the book. I don't know about you but there's something quietly satisfying about the thought of politicians sitting down to a raunchy novel, a cup of tea and an evening watching The Great British Bake Off. It's like finding out your teacher has a life outside school...

National Poetry Day

Yesterday (but we're going to pretend it's today) was National Poetry Day. Every year we are supposed to get excited by poetry one day in October and every year it kind of passes me by. I've always had a bit of an unfair dislike of poetry but most likely that's just down to me spending hours learning about Seamus Heaney's potatoes or maybe it was the fact that somehow an A Level discussion of Shakespeare's sonnets led to my teacher talking to us about Shakespeare's interest in elephant penises. No, I don't get it either, and quite frankly I'm still pretty confused and freaked out.

Far away from elephant sex organs, though, this year's poetry theme is "Stars". Pretty, no? I can think of lots of poems about stars and when it comes down to it, poems themselves are ok really. I still think I was right to avoid as much poetry as possible at university - I can't be doing with reading the ENTIRE Rime of the Ancient Mariner before considering the dramatic effects of iambic pentameter tetrameter watsit as well as each and every caesura - I have since found enjoyment in reading poetry purely (as, I think, many were meant to be read) for pleasure.

I've already shared one of my all time favourites, Drummer Hodge by Thomas Hardy - there are stars in that one, sad stars. You can read that here, and I really hope you do.

Arguably the most famous poems featuring stars are To the Evening Star by William Blake and Bright Star by John Keats, which a few years ago inspired a film on Keats and the love of his life who, it is thought, the poem was written for.

To the Evening Star by William Blake

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence

Bright Star by John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art-- 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

If all these love sonnets don't do it for you, why not read some poems by some pervy old men like Rochester and John Donne - The Flea by Donne and A Ramble in St James' Park by Rochester are quite fun... but nothing about stars I don't think I'm afraid.

Anyway, since I seem to have given up on stars I'm going to leave you with one of my favourite children's poems:

Colonel Fazackerley 

The Time Machine

When a Victorian scientist propels himself into the year 802,701 AD, he is initially delighted to find that suffering has been replaced by beauty, contentment and peace. Entranced at first by the Eloi, an elfin species descended from man, he soon realises that this beautiful people are simply remnants of a once-great culture now weak and childishly afraid of the dark. They have every reason to be afraid: in deep tunnels beneath their paradise lurks another race descended from humanity the sinister Morlocks. And when the scientist's time machine vanishes, it becomes clear he must search these tunnels, if he is ever to return to his own era.

I feel I should apologise for distinct lack of presence online last month. But, no holidays this month means plenty of posts I hope.

Last week my book club met to discuss our latest read, H G Wells’ classic The Time Machine. Normally when I turn up I don’t have much of an idea what people will think – it’s one of those unspoken rules that you do not discuss book club books unless you want one of my turn-you-to-stone frowns or raised eyebrow at the very least. Ok so probably raised eyebrows… never been able to move them independently. It’s a flaw I have come to terms with. This time though I had a little insight. One of the book club members couldn’t make it and so she sent me her views by email earlier that day – it’s a serious business. Bearing in mind this friend was the person who struggled to give Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things anything higher than a 2, this email didn’t pull any punches: “Didn't particularly enjoy the book and was thankful it was short”.

In general, though, it wasn’t a bad sum up. When the rest of us got together and contemplated the book inbetween pistachios – thanks Phoebe – we all agreed we weren’t the book’s biggest fans. The Time Traveller was far from Eric Bana for starters, he instead came across as inward-thinking, emotionless and old-fashioned. Old-fashioned is the key, though, as while I did find his account lacking in heart I came to think that perhaps it’s all just a matter of being old.

We were all disappointed there were no relationships to get excited about and the only one that had potential, was abandoned by Wells (or, more fairly maybe by the Time Traveller himself) so that storyline fizzled. And so did she – the girl that is – another example of an old-fashioned masculine world dominating culture privileging scientific fact and achievement over emotion, experience and, really, people. This woman, Weena, could have been a child or an adult for all we knew – she had no personality of her own, no kick-ass Black Widow moves – she was just nothingy.

Saying that, I’m not about to accuse H G Wells of being a misogynist. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, but surely the whole thing was just a product of its times and the values held back then? Saying that, I find it odd that someone with those thoughts had the capability of being so forward thinking with everything else. The basic premise was amazing, then and now. The concept I loved, and I don’t think I’m really spoiling anything plot-wise here, was the idea that a culture can become so technologically developed that it turns back on itself and becomes more primitive as a result of no longer needing to develop or do anything.

Anyway, all in all we thought it was a great book to discuss and study; we thought it was well written, I myself found it successfully creepy at times and we liked the ending. We were grateful that it was short, though, as the narrator just seemed to lack depth and we wanted more relationships…

The Book Club gave it 5/10. I gave it 6/10

Wonder if HG Wells would approve of Marty McFly...