October 2008 was a great time for stylish rereleases.  I’ve posted on The New Annotated Dracula and The Complete Ripley Novels box set, both by W. W. Norton, and now I want to mention the New York Review of Books’ compilation from Daphne du Maurier.

Don’t Look Now is a collection of nine stories by du Maurier as chosen by Patrick McGrath; he also supplies an introduction piece.  It includes the very popular story, ‘The Birds,’ though it won’t be recognizable to Alfred Hitchcock fans (du Maurier was reportedly not pleased with the liberties Hitchcock took with her narrative), and also the popular title story, which was filmed by Nicolas Roeg.  The other stories are filled with the sense of romance, the mysterious and, naturally, the type of thrills and chills that made du Maurier such an icon in world literature.

Daphne du Maurier is probably best known for her novel, Rebecca.  It’s a very misunderstood and under appreciated book, with critics citing it as a poor retread of Jane Eyre, and it managed to snag an Oscar for Best Picture for the David O. Selznick production in 1941, which, incidentally, was Hitchcock’s first American film; Hitchcock would also helm another du Maurier adaptation in Jamaica Inn.

It’s Rebecca, however, where du Maurier really made a case for her literary career.  It’s an almost peerless, modern gothic that tells of a mysterious widower who remarries a much younger woman, only for her to discover in great unease that no one can seem to forget the now dead former wife, Rebecca.  How charming Rebecca was.  How beautiful Rebecca was.  Just how very perfect Rebecca was.  The story then takes some unexpected, not to mention, creepy twists, and there is a constant sense of the supernatural at work, and maybe more than a few people who have some sinister secrets to hide within the walls of the old estate residence, Manderly.

I’ve read Rebecca and consider it a very good book, even if not everyone seems very comfortable admitting it.  If one doesn’t draw too staunch a comparison to the towering masterwork in Bronte’s Jane Eyre, then Rebecca survives as truly inspired storytelling.  I’ve also read Jamaica Inn, and while the character work was fantastic, the story seemed a little too frothy for it’s own good, and the sexual references seemed to almost border on the absurd.

There are many other du Maurier books that I’ve yet to read, but one quickly notices a problem with trying to track them down.  None are really available as recently published hardbacks, and the flimsy paper copies are strikingly pricey, though Amazon seems to be offering them at a minor reduction.  Obviously the London born du Maurier won’t see the royal treatment from an entity such as the Library of America, but why hasn’t someone turned on a light bulb over at Everyman’s Library? It’s all very discouraging, and establishes an ongoing trend in the publishing business, and the literary world at large, in that cheaply produced copies can inherently translate a particular writers legacy to be of the same quality.  I just did a post on on the unfairly recognized Woolrich, and many others of the ‘Pulp’ genre find themselves to suffer a similar fate.  It’s hideous.

That’s why it’s so reassuring to see du Maurier getting some real respect for a change with this particular release.  It is a paperback, true, but it’s beautifully printed and bound.  The inside covers are a solid purple color, which had me wondering if it wasn’t a nod to the concept of endpapers in hardcover books, and it also happens to be printed on acid-free paper.  Shock! I wasn’t even sure if they could do that with paperbacks, as I don’t recall ever seeing such a thing before, and I was honestly convinced that maybe acid-free paper couldn’t somehow be bound in softer fashion.  Has anyone told the folks over at Penguin about this ingenious marvel? If not, then they really should as Penguin needs to get on top of that one.

Anyway, this is an excellent release, and a generally faultless one at that.  My only complaint is that it seems far too short at only nine stories, and I easily could have settled in for twice that number, but it wouldn’t be fair to take up such a complaint with this one as what is here is pretty good stuff.  The stories are all filled with nice little twists and shocks, and they are all perfectly creepy, and they also capture the rather romantic and stylish knack that du Maurier brings to her writing.  There are great touches of her excellent wit on display, as well.  To Mr. McGrath’s credit, he did a nice job with the selection, and provides a nice introduction.  It’s brief, but articulate and incisive.

If you’re looking for an entertaining and quality read, you’ll be pleased with this one.  My instructions are to gather up any available pets at your feet, and make yourself a proper drink as you take to your favorite reading chair.  This book is the perfect companion for a dark and stormy night, or great fare for a rainy day.

* * *

Don’t Look Now, by Daphne du Maurier, and selected with an introduction by Patrick McGrath, 346 pages

The New York Review of Books

Published October 2008

Listed at $15.95

UPDATE: It probably would have been helpful if I had listed the stories contained in this volume; here they are:

Don’t Look Now

The Birds

Escort

Split Second

Kiss Me Again, Stranger

The Blue Lenses

La Sainte-Vierge

Indiscretion

Monte Verita

Una de las ventajas de ir a Granada, de vez en cuando, es que allí, en algunas librerías, si llevan abiertas el suficiente tiempo, todavía se encuentran libros descatalogados como éste. “La Historia de Martha Peake”, de Patrick McGrath, 2000, es, probablemente, la novela más ambiciosa de este oscuro y retorcido, y brillante, escritor, tanto por pretensiones como por extensión.

Comienza cuando Ambrose llega a Drogo Hall, una mansión de la campiña inglesa donde su tío se empeña en contarle la historia de Harry Peake y su hija Martha. Ambos vivieron en pleno siglo XVIII y, muy a su pesar, fueron testigos de importantes acontecimientos, tanto para Inglaterra como para Estados Unidos.

Las constantes de la obra de McGrath están presentes desde la página uno: las taras físicas, las taras psicológicas y, sobre todo, la herencia de las mismas. En “La Historia de Martha Peake” hay de las dos: Harry Peake sufre un accidente que le deforma la columna vertebral y su descendiente la heredará; lo mismo que este hombre es víctima de un ímpetu desmedido -que, bien es cierto, también se le convierte en virtud en determinadas situaciones-, y su hija Martha hereda tal cualidad, también.

Creo que ya lo he dicho alguna vez: Patrick McGrath no es un gran novelista, pero tiene una gran imaginación y un afilado ojo para penetrar en la psique de los personajes y los lectores. Aquí, despliega su maestría como siempre, con garra y una buena historia, y llega a una conclusión satisfactoria y ambivalente: nunca sabremos cuál fue la verdadera historia de Martha Peake. Queremos creernos la versión de Ambrose, pero puede ser que tenga más verdad la de su tío, William quien, a su vez, tal vez por remordimientos, puede que haya suavizado algunos aspectos.

En el “debe” de la novela hemos de situar la -para mí- irritante manía de McGrath de constantemente estar prometiendo “cosas” que pasarán más adelante. Aquí, por la extensión, promete muchas más de lo habitual… con la sensación, siempre, de que las expectativas son demasiado altas. Quitando esto, es una oscura delicia ser testigo de la historia de la familia Peake.

Now you may remember the other week I mentioned that I was going to have one of my book sort outs and I did. I actually, and it amazed me and everyone who knows me, managed to donate a quite impressive 76 book to charity! So now the books I have had for well over a year and just dont really think I will read have all gone to lovely new homes and will be raising some money for charity. I thought the process would be painful and though in parts it was tough it has also left me feeling much better with a slightly less bookish weight on my shoulders.

Not only was I wanting to sort out what I was going to pass on, I was also looking at what I was keeping and rearranging my priorities in terms of reading. One of which was to hunt down all of the books that I as yet have not read and I thought fell into the ‘Modern Sensation’ catagory for my Sensation Season. I found I had quite a few some of which you had recommended to me.

• The Widow’s Secret – Brian Thompson
• The Journal of Dora Damage – Belinda Starling
• The Tiger in the Well – Philip Pullman
• Kept – D.J Taylor
• Misfortune – Wesley Stace
• Classic Victorian Ghost Stories – Various
• The Evil Seed – Joanna Harris
• Martha Peake – Patrick McGrath
• The Girl on the Landing – Paul Torday
• The Mist in the Mirror – Susan Hill
• Portrait of a Killer – Patricia Cornwell
• Ghost Stories – M.R. James
• The Apple – Michael Faber
• Underground London – Stephen Smith
• The Magician – W. Somerset Maugham
• Fixing Shadows – Susan Barrett
• Fingersmith – Sarah Waters
• Silent in the Grave – Deanna Raybourn
• The Meaning of Night – Michael Cox
• The Glass of Time – Michael Cox
• Instruments of Darkness – Michael Cox

Phew there was quite a few. I should maybe mention that some of these books arent technically ‘Modern Sensation’ reads but are either set in that period or in the case of a few of them are non-fiction which will set the atmosphere even more so for me. I think I may get so lost in the 1880’s I may never return, I am loving it though. So which ones of thses have you delved into? Am I still missing any?

Of course the sort out was now about two weeks ago. I did impose a ban on book buying on myself. I must mention before I go further that I could happily have taen all 76 books and bought another 76 from my favourite charity shop however both times I went they were closed for lunch though let me in to drop my bags off (it took three trips in one weekend) and so I couldnt buy anymore. I have since though somewhat fallen off the wagon, though not as badly as I could have and now, and this is very true, I only buy books if I have a very valid reason. Such as…

• Twilight – William Gay (because have a) been meaning to read it for ages and b) it fits into the Modern Sensation reads perfectly what with grave robbing and swapping, mayhem and mystery)
• Miss Garnet’s Angel – Salley Vickers (a favourite of Kimbofo’s and an author I have been meaning to read, I have just swapped to reading this instead of Cover Her Face which I started and know I will love but not just now, if I love this will be kicking myself I missed her at Wimbledon Bookfest)
• Water for Elephants – Sara Gruen (a book I kept seeing everywhere in Tel Aviv for some random reason and then Jackie recommended it and so thought why not?)
• The Other Side of You – Salley Vickers (for the same reason as Miss Garnett’s Angel)
• Marley & Me – John Grogan (have always secretly wanted to read it and thought it was possibly trash, but so many of you recommended it after my sad reads post I had to get it)
• The Unbearable Lightness of Scones – Alexander McCall Smith (I am very, very keen to read all of his work and though this is in the Scotland Street series I struggled with am hoping this gives me the umph to read more of that series)
• Three Cups of Tea – Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Pelin (simply because Amazon has been recommending this as my top recommendation for three months – have they got me spot on?)
• The Lost Book of Salem – Katherine Howe (a rash buy I wont deny but one about Salem and the witches, I think I will love this)
• The Beacon – Susan Hill (a favourite author and a book I have been meaning to get for ages and ages and then got from £10 to £2 bargain, I will be buying her new book instantly full price just so you know)
• White Is For Witching - Helen Oyeyemi (have wanted it since it came out and an author have been meaning to read, matches the Sensation Season just and was in a half price charity shop that called me the other day… was the only book I bought in that shop and on that day… I was impressed)

So thats the latest books. Which of these have you read and which ones would you like to give a whirl? Do you like posts where readers share there latest hauls of books? I know I love reading them, its a mixture of book addict, desiring recommendations, sharing thoughts and just being a plain nosey parker! If you do like these posts you may want to pop here as this is the secret stash I bought over a week or so (and have even had to hide the post) leading up to the great autum arranging and modern sensation hunt! Can’t wait for all your thoughts on these and my modern sensation reading.

This is an amazing book that is a must-have for anyone that is in the industry, interested in being in the industry, or just plain interested in the world of digital video. Editing Digital Video by Robert M. Goodman and Patrick McGrath is an exceptionally well-written book that covers techniques in craft and theory about editing that can benefit the novice home video editor to the professional feature film editor.The authors complete the daunting task of covering all of the many different digital editing interfaces by stripping them down to the essentials.They also cover the many different kinds of formats, such as narrative, documentary, commercials, music video, etc.I found the Keyboard Shortcut Cross Reference exceptionally handy.This book also covers recording DVDs, EDL formats, and details about exporting graphics.Being an editor initially learning editing techniques by physically cutting film and graduating to digital video editing, I very much appreciated this book that respected editing as a craft and art.
The fundamentals about storytelling and editing are definitely worth reading.Some of it might be a bit too Editing 101, but surprisingly, held some gems.The “Films to Watch” chapter with films that have been recommended for different genres of editing to lists of Eddie Award Nominees and Oscar Nominees is an added bonus.
Written in a very readable and likeable prose, Editing Digital Video is an absolute joy and a must for any editing enthusiast, whether in trade or in hobby.

Click Here to see more reviews about: Editing Digital Video : The Complete Creative and Technical Guide (Paperback)

I started this blog with the intention of posting regular updates on on the creepy, halloweenie new stuff I know of or encounter as the season of falling leaves and horror movies approach…. Instead, I’ve been sidelined by work, unexpected foot surgery (minor but debilitating) and more work/life issues and changes. SO – this post is an effort to get me back on track.

So over the last few months of stress and trauma, I’ve been treating myself to revisiting my boxed set of the Carnivale series originally aired on HBO a couple of years ago. Only living two seasons, Carnivale is an incarnation of all things I love – creepy, symbolic, filled with great, fulled-developed characters with incredible flaws, carnies and carnality, human oddities, an epic battle between good and evil, and mysticism. It’s all set (you guessed it) within the lives of a carnival troupe, their hangers-on and an evil (?) preacher a la Night of The Hunter meets The Exorcist during the The Great Depression.

Slightly Victorian, very dark, deep and completely engrossing – Carnivale is a must for fans of Ray Bradbury, David Lynch, Cormac McCarthy, Patrick McGrath, Tim Burton, the Coens and Elias Merhinge.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be making more suggestions on October-esque viewing and reading. But rent Carnival and pick up a copy of Bradbury’s October Country to get yourself set for the season.

David Cronenberg’s 2002 thriller “Spider” is one of those rare movies which creates a solid, substantial divide between viewers, depending on what the audience wants in a movie and in how they watch it. For viewers who want a movie to spell things out for them or at least hint at the grander scheme, who want to be frequently if not constantly entertained with action, drama, or comedy, who want to see attractive actors playing endearing and likeable roles, this movie most certainly will not appeal whatsoever. Viewers who enjoy an intellectual movie with twists and turns barely noticeable until the end, who are fascinated by deep and complex performances which take time to puzzle out, who watch films closely for each hint in each frame, however, will find in “Spider” a movie to watch over and over again.

In this film, directed by horror master Cronenberg and adapted by Patrick McGrath from his own novel, a man known as Spider suffering from severe schizophrenia, portrayed by the unparalleled Ralph Fiennes, escapes from an insane asylum and takes up a room in a sordid halfway house. As the film is told mainly from this man’s perspective, the lines between present and past are blurred, as are those between reality, memory, and delusion, as Spider begins to explore what he perceives to be his childhood, his Oedipal and disturbed relationship with his mother (Miranda Richardson in a truly fantastic performance), and his own mental illness, ultimately piecing together the truth behind his delusions.

Before any critique can be made, I must first commend the film for its absolute brilliance in screenwriting, acting, cinematography, and countless other areas, for I find this to be one of the best movies I have seen in years. The script delves into psychosis far better than any other film I have seen to date, marking the strangeness and subtleties of mental processes while keeping a coherency which must be admired. As the title character, Fiennes takes on the role of a schizophrenic to a rather alarming degree, creating an altogether disturbing persona, from an unsteady walk to random, unintelligible murmurs to the frantic yet deliberate writing in Spider’s precious book of memories. Richardson as well delivers a fantastic performance as Spider’s mother, stepmother, and landlady, blurring the lines of reality by similar appearances yet retaining three individual characters only marred by the narrator’s psychosis — a pretty, soft, caring housewife; a vulgar, cruel, sexual mistress; an angry, efficient, blaming housekeeper; bleeding into each other like ink on damp paper. The cinematography also perfectly explores the schizophrenic mind, blending artistic angles with more mainstream shots which creates a balance between a dramatic movie and an experimental piece which functions perfectly within a film which pushes the boundaries on what cinema can really and effectively explore.

However, the film itself relies primarily on subtleties in order to make its point. From the movie’s first abrupt departure into memory, noted by little more than Spider’s ability to speak silmultaneously with other characters, to the replacement of actors by other actors to imitate the man’s faulty perceptions, the film unapologetically delves into the psychotic mind without explaining its differences from concepts of normalcy. Yet, without noting these small departures from reality, the audience is unable to realize how deep and complex this film has rather suddenly become. Without noticing the blurred lines between memory, reality, and delusion, the viewer cannot become part of Spider’s journey and cannot understand the importance of all of the hints which Cronenberg, the traditional master of psychological horror, places within his film, ultimately missing what makes this film so fantastic.

“Spider” has rather few faults, and this I believe to be the only major one — the failure to accomodate an audience who will watch lazily and will therefore miss the brilliance hidden in the film’s subtletles. Though I personally hate films which spell out the major themes and though I appreciate hidden meanings as much as any writer, for a movie which even remotely relies on mass appeal it becomes unfortunately necessary to make things slightly more obvious than the cinematic artist would like. As a critic and as an avid film buff, I daresay I picked up on the majority of Cronenberg’s subtletles, but without such a background and a pension for artistry, I doubt that any average viewer would be able to understand the beauty that exists in this film. I wonder, of course, if anything more obvious would ruin the unequivocal complexity which makes this film great, but I cannot help but think that something a little less subtle and artistic could have made “Spider” far more successful than it is today.

(Acaba de caer la segunda tormenta de verano en Granada).

“Locura”, la magnífica y compleja novela de Patrick McGrath, no tiene una fácil adaptación pero es apasionante. Imagino que más de uno la habrá leído y planteado cómo trasladar a imágenes la escabrosa relación que se establece entre Stella, esposa de un psiquiatra; Edgar, recluso del hospital, y Cleave, psiquiatra de Edgar.

El elegido, finalmente, fue David Mackenzie, con un guión escrito por Patrick Marber y Chrystanty Balis. Fue su siguiente proyecto (2005) tras aquella turbadora e interesante cinta que era “Young Adam”. Como siempre, no la vimos por estos lares, y a saber si aparece en algún momento.

La película tiene los defectos que se esperan de la adaptación de tal obra, pero no por ello es mala, ni mucho menos y, además, se beneficia del buen hacer del trío protagonista: Stella es Natasha Richardson, Edgar es Marton Csokas, y Cleave es Ian McKellen. Desde físicamente, a sus dotes interpretativas, mejor no podían haber estado elegidos.

En la parte negativa hay que situar la media hora inicial de la película. Cuidado: el que la ve sin haber leído la novela, la ve tan ricamente, porque está bastante bien y consigue un par de escenas brillantes. Pero para el posterior desarrollo de la película, notas que algo se queda cojo, asunto que no pasaba en la obra de McGrath. Y es que el personaje de Stella se mueve por reacción -una vía de escape de un matrimonio insatisfecho- y no por acción -Edgar en la novela despierta en ella una serie de sentimientos sepultados en la rutina de su vida, de su día a día, que ella nunca se había atrevido a seguir. Parecen la misma cosa, pero no lo son. Y, más, teniendo en cuenta que, después, hemos de entender lo que se cuece dentro de esa cabeza para que ella actúe de la manera en que lo hace.

Es un gran escollo, cierto, pero la película puede verse a pesar del mismo. Se apuntala verbalmente lo que no han conseguido transmitir de otra manera -no transcribo la frase para no desvelar nada-, y problema solucionado. No es la manera más estilosa de hacer las cosas, cierto, pero tampoco nos vamos a llevar las manos a la cabeza por eso, puesto que se hace en tantas películas que sería injusto penalizar sólo a esta.

Por otro lado, y dependiendo directamente del escollo ya mencionado, hay otro menor: Edgar. La tesis que su psiquiatra defiende con él, que es un manipulador, está igualmente verbalizada. Creo que se echa de menos un momento de duda, una revisión de lo que Edgar hace para que podamos ver la manipulación de la que habla Cleave, y no sólo fiarnos de sus palabras -porque es un manipulador, a todas luces.

Sin embargo, la función se cierra magníficamente bien con Cleave, personaje que está siempre ahí, pero aguarda su turno en la vida para demostrar quién es realmente y cuáles son sus verdaderas intenciones.

He leído en Imdb varias de las críticas de la película. Algunos la tachan de fría, y lo es, pero para mí es una virtud antes que un defecto: en un caldo de cultivo tan pasional como el que la peli presenta, me parece la mejor opción la de mantenerse al margen y mirar, pero no juzgar. Aunque es comprensible que otros quieran ver, aparte de sentir, la pasión destructiva que el film intenta diseccionar.

2002: Spider di David Cronenberg

“Il regista canadese, maestro dell’ambiguità, ci cattura ancora una volta” (Il Sole 24 Ore, 15 Dicembre 2002).

Meritato grande successo al Festival di Cannes del 2002, David Cronenberg “varia sul tema che predilige – l’orrore della personalità – con indubbio virtuosismo: fa convivere nella stessa inquadratura passato e presente; provoca sussulti nello spettatore suggerendogli efferatezze senza bisogno di mostrargliele; dipinge una periferia londinese gravida di squallore poetico” (la Repubblica, 22 maggio 2002).

Opportunamente tutti i critici hanno sottolineato come questo sia un film che va visto più volte (“per capirne le mille sfumature”): da sottolineare che il lavoro è stato accolto più favorevolmente in Francia che in Italia (ma Cronenberg è famoso per dividere…).

Tratto dall’omonimo romanzo del 1990 di Patrick McGrath (scrittore cresciuto in un manicomio criminale), un film non facile, tutto giocato sull’ambiguità essere-apparire, incubo-realtà, fantasia-verità e che David Cronenberg dirige con maestria e con inquadrature che richiamano continuamente Bergman e il migliore Hitchcock.
Viaggio di un uomo all’interno della sua follia, esplorazione senza speranze o soluzioni di un incubo insieme reale e mentale, Spider è stato giustamente avvicinato al mondo di Escher, Becket, Kafka e Freud.
Un vero e proprio puzzle massimamente coinvolgente, una straziante riflessione sulla propria identità, un psicodramma sull’intersecarsi di passato e presente che procura inquietudine e angoscia nello spettatore che pretende dal cinema qualcosa in più dei soliti spettacoli fracassoni a cui purtroppo siamo sempre più abituati.

Un film lento (non noioso, tutt’altro) che si avvale della sorprendente performance di Ralph Fiennes (in un ruolo difficilissimo) e Miranda Richardson (che addirittura interpreta tre parti, una diversissima dall’altra, il che tra parentesi rappresenta la chiave del mistero). Bravissimi anche Gabriel Byrne e Lynn Redgrave. Raramente è visibile un intero cast così nettamente superiore alla media.

tuttelerecensioni

Regia: David Cronenberg
Sceneggiatura: Patrick McGrath
Cast: Ralph Fiennes, Gabriel Byrne, Miranda Richardson, Lynn Redgrave, John Neville, Gary Reineke, Philip Craig, Bradley Hall
Fotografia: Peter Suschitzky
Montaggio: Ronald Sanders
Musiche: Howard Shore
Produzione: Artists Independent Network, CBL, Grosvenor Park Productions, Capitol-Davis-Metropolitan Films
Distribuzione: Fandango
Paese: Canada, Francia, Gran Bretagna 2002
Genere: Thriller, Drammatico
Durata: 98 Min
Uscita Italia: 29 Novembre 2002
Uscita Canada: 13 Dicembre 2002
Uscita Francia: 13 Novembre 2002

Sito Ufficiale

Trama:
Dennis Cleg ha circa trent’anni e da venti vive in una casa-famiglia per malati mentali a Londra. Nonostante gli sia stata diagnosticata una schizofrenia acuta, non è mai stato realmente ricoverato, ma ora comincia progressivamente a perdere il contatto con la realtà.

Note:
Su IMDB i premi e i riconoscimenti al film

Otra fascinante novela de Patrick McGratha. Adscrita a la colección “territorios y escritores” de editorial Herce, McGrath se centra en la castigada Manhattan para construir su particular universo.

La obra consta de tres relatos. El primero de ellos, “El Año de la Horca”, se lee bien pero es, probablemente, el menos autorial de los tres y el más ingenuo. Para abrir boca puede valer.

El segundo, “Julius”, es una pequeña obra maestra. Ubicado en el siglo XIX, comienza con una familia adinerada gobernada por el padre para acabar llegando a la figura de Julius, su hijo menor decidido a no continuar con la estela empresarial familiar. Con el apoyo de una de sus hermanas, comienza a dar clases de pintura en el estudio de un artista, hasta que llega el momento de pintar un desnudo, y así conoce a una modelo, Anne Kelly… Los ingredientes McGrath están claros: artistas, mujeres fatales que alguien se empeña en salvar, personajes a contracorriente de su entorno… y, encima, en esta ocasión, defiende una tesis que no revelaré pero que es muy potente.

El tercero y último, “Zona Cero”, tiene lugar inmediatamente después de los atentados del 11 de septiembre, y podría haber sido un capítulo más de la película homónina. Es un material, también, apasionante: la relación entre una psiquiatra y su paciente, obsesionado con una prostituta. Y un nuevo prodigio estructural: un paralelismo, hasta ahora no visto por mí en otro lado, entre el desescombro de las torres gemelas y el desescombro emocional de un paciente… y de cómo no sirven de nada las soluciones que no aciertan.

Stuffing your head inside the covers of a book doesn’t always get the respect it deserves. Many people claim to be too busy to read a novel. In our efficient and convenient world, maybe it seems particularly wasteful and indolent to turn your back on the happenings of life and simply retire to your room with a book. But I would argue that almost nothing can rival a book for opening up a universe of experience that would otherwise remain undiscovered. And moreover, few media are capable of eliciting such genuine human empathy as the pages of literature.

Here is the opening of Trauma by Patrick McGrath (2008).

My mother’s first depressive illness occurred when I was seven years old, and I felt it was my fault. I felt I should have prevented it. This was about a year before my father left us. His name was Fred Weir. In those days he could be generous, amusing, an expansive man – my brother, Walt, plays the role at times – but there were signs, perceptible to me if not to others, when an explosion was imminent.

That first paragraph of Trauma contains not an ounce of pretension. It is exactly what it is. The beginning of a story about a man’s difficult relationship with his family. How much more simple can communication get? The only thing that can rival it would be to sit down and tell somebody your story verbally. But books can often go one better than that, because the author gets the chance to refine the story. While speech might be clumsy and rambling, an author can find the most effective and engaging way of conveying the narrative and delivering it to you straight.

Another great opening: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (1866):

On an exceptionally hot evening in early July, a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, toward K. Bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret, dinners, attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out, he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

Again, no messing around. Dostoevsky simply gets right to the important stuff. In two simple paragraphs, we can understand the poverty and indebtedness of the main character, the environment in which he lives, and we already have some insight into a conflict that is likely to unfold in the subsequent pages – that between him and his landlady (not to mention the internal conflict caused by his feeling of shame).

Before these words were set to paper, the world of Raskolnikov (the main character) did not exist. Which is an important difference between novels, and say, film or photography, both of which require a tangible reality to capture and represent. For a film of Crime and Punishment, there would be no alternative but to build or find an apartment that accurately depicts Rasknolikov’s squalid and cramped garret. Whereas a writer can create a world without ever setting foot away from his desk.

Of course, to be any good, the writer must have experience of the world. And this is what makes all the difference. What is the author’s ability to absorb and recall the goings-on of life – the noise and smell of a street, the cadence of a conversation between a woman and her lover, the fall of sunlight in a dense forest – and then convey those things on paper?

Writing also requires a particular discipline of attention and decision-making. A film’s eye falls upon pretty much everything in its scope, but a writer, because he starts with nothing, only brings into existence those things he chooses to represent. Until I say, “Crouched expectantly under the chair was a black and white tomcat” there is no tomcat. But now there is one. And he wants feeding. The writer’s job is to convince us that those things he has chosen to represent are worthy of attention.

But books don’t liberate writers only. For centuries, they have liberated a far greater number of people than that. Books liberate readers.

I am in my room and there is nothing happening; the rain falls persistently outside and life seems gloomy. I open a book and immediately I am immersed in the lives of other people. And yet, because it is a book, I am not simply passively escaping my world and into another. An effort is required on my part. Rather like going for a walk, the scenery will not pass me by. I am the one who makes it pass by. I won’t get anywhere without following from one word to the next, from one sentence to sentence the next, page after page, and so on.

And so when I get to the end of Crime and Punishment, I have expended considerable energy in the life of Rasknolnikov, as well as in the numerous other people who inhabit his world. Why should one choose to invest energy in the lives of other people – especially those that don’t even exist?

Because we care about other people; we care about the human condition. If we can care about people that don’t exist, and through the detailed insights into the most intimate happenings of their life come to understand them better, we are also permitted fresh insights into all the people we know and care about in reality.

Fictitious people are our company, our friends. If they die, it hurts us.

Being hurt by the death of people we don’t even know – people that don’t even exist – is the pinnacle of human empathy. If literature can move us, then the events in Gaza or Sudan or Abu Ghraib can move us. Television or video games have frequently been criticized for desensitizing human beings, but I’ve never heard the same said of great literature.

Literature is an empathetic enterprise; more of such a great thing can only be good. To lose the feeling of being alone – albeit fleetingly – is one of the most profound joys that life can offer. And it is a gift not from Nature, not from whatever you think is “God,” nor, heaven forbid, from a company or government. It is a gift from a feeling and thinking human being, just like any of us.

L’ousia (essenza) platonica si sublima nelle idee.

La follia è, in sé, una forma alterata di pensiero e McGrath in Follia ci guida verso la comprensione di questa alterazione e verso la valutazione delle sue conseguenze.

Le idee platoniche sono eterne e incorruttibili; l’uomo, in quanto copia delle “incorruttibili” idee è, per il filosofo, meno autentico delle stesse e maggiormente sottoposto all’alterabilità  in quanto plasmato con materia umana.

Platone parla di follia come McGrath la illustra; un legame insopprimibile, un rimando filosofico necessario.

Nel romanzo Follia si affrontano appunto i limiti dell’umanità e si esplora la linea di confine fra ciò che viene definito sano e ciò che diviene patologia.

McGrath lo fa narrando una storia semplice: una comune famiglia d’uno psicologo si stabilisce e vive, per ragioni lavorative, all’interno di un ospedale psichiatrico vittoriano.

Stella incontra Edgar e per loro è l’inizio e la fine del loro mondo.

Stella s’innamora d’un uxoricida piuttosto violento e, ignorando tutto del suo amante, mette la sua vita nelle sue mani.

L’essenza delle cose è misteriosa, le scelte spesso non controllabili e l’attrazione irrazionale; Stella, che è sempre stata desiderata dagli uomini, adesso è accecata da Edgar, dalla sua istintività, dalla primordialità del loro amore.

Una storia a tratti triste, spesso incomprensibile ma con una sua logica di fondo: Quanto realmente ci conosciamo?

Stella ha trovato la sua dimensione nel folle Edgar e lui, la sua serenità nel versare un po’ della sua Follia in lei.

Scorrevole la lettura; un finale inaspettato.

 Se cercate la vostra ousia sappiate che non si trova dove avete certezza d’averla riposta.

Siamo copie di idee platoniche e la follia non cede spesso il passo alle nostre scelte, ribaltando la tipizzazione culturale d’appartenenza  e ponendovi in conflitto fra il mondo socialmente accettato e quello che può vivere solo nell’oscurità d’una cantina.

A voi la scelta.

Buona lettura.

The most rewarding aspect of my year-and-a-bit old resolution to stop re-reading old favourites and concentrate on new books has been discovering authors whom I’d either heard of but never read, or had simply never heard of.  I am lucky enough to have the library of one who reads more than I do at my disposal, and thanks to him I’ve recently come across two people I’d like to read more by.

Asylum by Patrick McGrath is a dark and rather depressing thriller whose central conceit is that the story is related by one of the major players in a way that initially leads us to think it’s a dispassionate account, when of course the point is that it can’t be.  I found myself almost more interested in the motivations of the narrator than in the events which unfold in the story itself – which in itself is quite gripping enough.  Add to the mix that both the narrator and other key characters are psychotherapists, or possibly psychiatrists (I know it’s terrible to get them confused, apologies to representatives of both professions) and you begin to realise that there are more layers to this story than might at first be apparent.

That said, the weakest part of the book is its characterisation, and it’s hard to care about people who don’t seem quite real, somehow.  But even so, it kept me engaged right to the end.  I don’t know whether either author would see this as a compliment, but I mean it as one when I say that it reminded me of Ruth Rendell at her best.  It certainly made me want to read more by him.

But then I wanted something completely different.  “What sort of thing?”, enquired my private librarian.  “Something set in Ireland!”, I declared triumphantly.  And so it was that I found myself reading J. G. Farrell’s Troubles, the story of a first world war veteran (though he’s not old, which is something I always have to remember when I read about “veterans”) who in 1919 becomes entangled with an Anglo-Irish family living in a tumbledown hotel on the east coast of the country, and gradually finds that he is unable to leave them or the place to their grim fate.  The inevitable eventual ruin of the hotel, brought to rubble by creeping vegetation, serves as a slightly clumsy metaphor for the decline of English rule in Ireland, but the writing is so magical, the characters so beautifully drawn and the jokes so icily perfect that I forgave it everything.  It’s a gem of a book which I would recommend to absolutely anyone.  I have now found copies of The Siege of Krishnapur and The Singapore Grip, and if they’re half as good I’ll love those too.

Speaking of world war one veterans, I have now moved on to The Avenue Goes To War, the second part of the Avenue trilogy by R.F. Delderfield which I began reading last year.  Having barely recovered from the various ravages wrought by the first war the inhabitants of this unremarkable suburban street find themselves embarking on a second.  I haven’t got very far with it yet (I only picked it up at the weekend), but I’m already struck again by the subtlety of Delderfield’s writing.  It seems so simple, and yet it’s so very readable that one wonders how hard he had to work to perfect it.   More thoughts to come when I get further through the book.

In the category of “Things I Thought I Should Read Because Everybody Else Was Doing It” is The Road, which I started a couple of weeks ago but which hasn’t grabbed me yet.  I’ve heard so many good things about it, and so few bad, that I shall do my best to persevere to the end.  It’s not a long book, and I think all I need is a few uninterrupted hours when I’ve nothing better to do.  But as long as I keep finding Wodehouse books I haven’t read for £1.99 in Oxfam that’s unlikely to happen.

Talking of Wodehouse, I’ve come to a firm conclusion about something which I’d only suspected before, which is that I prefer the Blandings stories to Jeeves and Wooster.  Jeeves and Wooster are wonderful and perfect, but the more one reads of them the more one realises that there are a certain number of boxes which must ticked in each story, and once the boxes are all ticked the story is over.  I shan’t enumerate the essential plot elements because I don’t want to pre-empt anyone else’s enjoyment of them, but they are there, and once one realises that the stories become slightly – and only slightly – less enjoyable.  Perhaps this is a symptom of having “discovered” the books so late in life and read too many of them in a six-month-long gorge.  A spot of indigestion is only to be expected.

In contrast, the Blandings crowd are an entirely unpredictable lot, and though they travel on a similar merry-go-round of broken engagements, misunderstandings and small domestic catastrophes, these things happen to a wider variety of people and are resolved in less foreseeable circumstances.  There’s also the fact that they are set in the countryside.  I do like domestic catastrophes involving farm animals.  And there is something intrinsically funny about a prizewinning pig.

Which leads me almost seamlessly to a book about which I still can’t quite form an opinion.  Stalking Fiona is by Nigel Williams, of fond Wimbledon stories memory (does that make it sound as though he’s dead?  He isn’t), and it’s the first non-comedy I’ve read by him.  Which doesn’t stop it from being funny – he can’t help but be funny, even when he’s not trying, though I suspect he was trying in this case.  And yet it’s not quite funny enough to count as a comic thriller: I’m fairly sure it’s intended as a straight thriller.  And the problem there is that it’s not quite tight enough to be a straight thriller.  It sets up lots of questions, and by the last page they aren’t all answered.  In some genres that’s forgivable, but I think not here.  I enjoyed it, but I shan’t be racing out to find the sequel.

Well, the day has finally arrived and I can no longer say that I am 36.  Well, I was born at around 9:50pm, so I could wait to say I’m 37 until tonight, but that’s being a little ridiculous (although if you agree with the whole date and time thing,  you’ll make me exceedingly happy right up until 9:49pm).

Seriously, 36 was a wonderful year.  I feel that I’ve come into my own in my career and as a book blogger.  I have read 70 books since my last birthday and have reviewed 64. It would be hard for me to pick out a favorite from during that time, but the books that have stood out in my 37th year are The Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff, Gardens of Water by Alan Drew, The Last Queen by C.W. Gortner, The Autobiography of Henry VIII by Margaret George, The Witch’s Trinity by Erika Mailman, Trauma by Patrick McGrath, Songs for the Missing by Stewart O’Nan, Aberrations by Penelope Przekop, The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, and Sweetsmoke by David Fuller.

The best blogging experience I had personally revolved around Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield.  I bought this book for my husband, but read it first.  Little did either of us know that this would have a personal connection for my husband.  He was friends with Rob’s wife Renee.  We had a great time going through his pictures from that era and we posted one of Renee.  It always irritates me when there is no pictures in memoirs because I want to know what the people look like.  In this case, Danny was able to supply that for me.  It was also really neat to listen to the tape of his band singing The Beverly Hillbillies theme song to the tune of R.E.M.’s Talk about the Passion.  That whole experience was wonderful.

Best of all, I’ve met some of the most wonderful people last year.  From authors, to publicists, to my fellow book bloggers, to my readers.  I won’t name any because I don’t want to leave anyone out.  My life is richer because of you all.

I hope that everyone has a beautiful, beautiful day!

No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories by Miranda July

When I first started exploring other book blogs and reading related e-newsletters, Miranda July’s collection of short stories kept popping up. The author and her collection of short stories sounded intriguing to me, but for whatever reason it wasn’t something I thought about when I went to order books. I joined Audible this spring and I was delighted to see that they offered this book and that it was read by the author. Since she’s a performance artist, I knew that this was the way to go with this book and used a credit on it immediately. In the end, I was happy that I picked this up during my introductory period and didn’t pay full price for the credit I spent on it.

No One Belongs Here More Than You is a collection of stories, in most cases not much more than character sketches, about people who are socially awkward and who just don’t seem to fit in with their surroundings. They are desperate and candidates for therapy at best and institutionalization at worst. There were moments where I really loved her writing, but I never once cared about a single narrator. If anything, I was concerned for the safety of those who were unwittingly apart of their lives.

After about the fifth story they all started to blend together and I lost interest. Miranda July’s reading didn’t help. While I cannot say that she read in a monotone voice, there is something about its quality and the lack of emotion that added to my disinterest. While listening, I often wonder if I would have enjoyed this more if it were read by another person or if I read it myself. It’s possible that those factors may have elevated my opinion somewhat, but I doubt it would have been enough for me to recommend it as a whole. Quite frankly, this territory is better covered by Patrick McGrath.

Here is a sample reading by Miranda July provided on her website. If you are interested, the stories “The Man on the Stairs” and “Birthmark” stood out to me. Rent the book from the library and read those stories. Otherwise, I’d just pass.

*******

To buy this book, click here.

There seems, in my personal experience, to be an intolerable requirement for all human beings to establish, maintain, and praise the company of others. The majority, as individuals, have developed the idea that one may not find happiness within ones own company and must, therefore, join hands with strangers until they become brothers and share thoughtless assumptions to feel needed and, inevitably, accepted. The necessity for such kinship among people is understandable and, intrinsically, instinctual; however, more often than ever it seems one must denounce their ability to be an individual and, thus, embrace the idea of “belonging” and “being a part of” the group of socially acceptable men. They must forfeit a part of themselves, whether it be their interests and ideas or simply their awareness of themselves, and give over ownership of the individual. The “Outsider”, as it were, is truly alienated and frowned upon when he lacks the desire to join the group. Some call him anti-social, socially unacceptable, or, simply, depressed. The common assumption of one being alone being equal to one being lonely is more than a simple misunderstanding between sects of individual priorities, it is an unwillingness to allow the idea of the individual to fully develop within ones mind. There are men who are better off alone, better off without the ramblings and thoughtless perceptions of others insisting on what to care about and who to admire. Placing trust outside of oneself is handing the reins over to strangers, it’s absurd. It compels you further away from finding your own thought and your own ideals and forces you into a slavery of popular thought; the death of the freethinking mind.

There is a belief that creative minded individuals tend to be more reclusive. I will attest to that belief after witnessing what may come from a man when he is lost in his own thoughts. If that man were to, say, fall into the ranks of the unthinking and be persuaded to frequent social gatherings, he might lose, or simply overlook, that part of him that craves wild imaginings and multifaceted thoughts. He is, instead of creating, being formed into a man who is not a man. A man who has become a product of his environment, instead of his own existence.

When the Outsider is invited to spend an evening with acquaintances, he shudders. Not because he is embarrassed or is lacking social skills, but simply because he values his time alone more than the time spent accompanying others. In 1926, H.P. Lovecraft wrote in a letter that “The people of a place matter absolutely nothing to me except as components of the general landscape and scenery.” Due to the social standards set within our own time one who has the same view as Lovecraft will find it difficult and, at times, impossible to find his place in such a world. This can lead to a scenario where the man struggling to maintain a face within a faceless world falls out of both groups entirely, resulting in a loss of self. Roland Topor once wrote, “At what precise moment does an individual cease to be the person he – and everyone else – believes him to be?” This affirms the idea of forfeiting identity in the meaningless attempt of attaining one apart from the self. This is the idea of alienation of the “Outsider” brought about by those who are deemed acceptable. They believe in finding fault with one who would rather share his own company than theirs, they deem him to be a “wretched” and “pointless” human being not fit to belong on the stage they’ve built.

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“Martians – they were all Martians…They were strangers on this planet, but they refused to admit it. They played at being perfectly at home…He was no different…He belonged to their species, but for some unknown reason he had been banished from their company. They had no confidence in him. All they wanted from him was obedience to their incongruous rules and their ridiculous laws.”
- Trelkovsky in The Tenant

“I am not, as you will have observed, a man greatly enamored of his fellow human beings. I do not enter lightly into the foibles and whimsicalities of others, I do not suffer fools gladly, I seem able, in conversation, only to needle or be needled. My relationships, as a result, are few, and those few are tenuous, prickly sorts of arrangements, altogether lacking in the spontaneity and intimacy for which human beings, I’m told, have an instinctive need. I am aware of no such instincts in myself. But there is a type of dour and taciturn individual in whose company I can, I find, be at ease–men with strong, uncomplicated natures and no interest in chatter. Silent, stolid men.”
- Patrick McGrath, The Grotesque

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Currently Listening: Chroma Key – On The Page

“Tell me something stupid
Auction off my diary
Life is getting esoteric
Let me in your movie
Each time i walk out the door
Someone mixes metaphors
Life is so much cleaner on the page”

Trauma by Patrick McGrath

Trauma tells the story of Charlie, a divorced psychiatrist who specializes in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Charlie has spent his life taking care of his mentally ill mother and a brother-in-law who suffered from PTSD as a result of his tours of duty in Vietnam. After his brother-in-law dies, he ends his marriage, unable to cope with his guilt. After his mother dies, Charlie finds himself emotionally orphaned and without someone in his personal life to fix. What’s a psychiatrist to do living like that?

This novel takes place in New York City during the 70s and perhaps 80s. The Twin Towers are being built and viewed from many angles throughout the novel and are almost a character themselves, symbolizing stability in a city full of disillusioned Americans struggling to deal with the aftermath of the Vietnam War. I found this to be the best, most subtle, and thought-provoking commentary on our current war. The reader is free to draw one’s own conclusions or even not notice it at all because there is no break in the narrative to make a political statement. In the end, the novel is more timeless this way. While the story itself will always have a specific time and place in history, there is no blatant political commentary targeted at a 2008 audience that will interfere with readers 100 years from now.

I have always enjoyed Patrick McGrath, the more Gothic the better. This novel isn’t his most Gothic, but he is in great form. It reads quickly and is entertaining and interesting. I prefer Asylum to this and all of his other novels, still I found the tension to be perfect. Even after mulling Charlie over for the past few days, I’m still not sure if he is a reliable narrator. To me, this is a good thing. This way I am able to look back on a novel both with trust and full of questions. Each view provides an interesting twist. Of course, the mother is always to blame which ever way you slice it, but that’s another story.

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To buy this book, click here.

Greetings from Gatlinburg, TN, located in heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. It’s beautiful here despite the rain and I’ve enjoyed seeing my parents (I haven’t see my mother on Mother’s Day for at least 10 years), siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews. The kids did a great job on the drive. Even if they hadn’t, it’s just nice being out of the Roanoke Valley.

Although we’ll be away from home for 9 days, I’m planning on getting some good reading in:

• Taking Lisa’s advice from Books on the Brain, I rented Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O’Nan from the library.
• I snagged the latest book by Patrick McGrath, Trauma on the way to the checkout desk I was at the library.
• The Story of Forgetting by Stefan Merrill Block, which I received through a trade with another Early Reviewer on LibraryThing.
• I picked up The Blood of Flowers by Anita Amirrezvani for under $5 at Barnes and Noble last week. I’ve been wanting to read this since I read a review by Divia on HistoricalFiction.org.
• Finally, I’m finishing up The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir. I’d love to say that I’m loving it, but it’s just okay. No offense to Last Night at the Lobster, but I shouldn’t be looking forward to my next book. I should be savoring this one. Sigh…

David MacKenzie, the Scottish director of Young Adam, brings us Asylum, a 2005 drama based on the novel of the same name by Patrick McGrath. The film was adapted for the screen by Patrick Marber, the screenwriter behind the tremendously enthralling Closer and the equally stunning Notes on a Scandal. It was with high hopes that I went into Asylum having discovered this, as the aforementioned films contained some of the best dialogue and most intriguing situations on screen in quite some time. Unfortunately, Marber’s gift for dialogue and enticing dramatic situations gets lost in the shuffle within the walls of this Asylum. It’s really a shame, too.

The good thing about Asylum is that the first thirty or so minutes, although rather tepid and uninteresting, are not all that bad. Suddenly, however, MacKenzie’s film establishes what could only be described as a frenzied and absurd pace with little or no direction, kind of like a car careening down a windy road with no brakes. At this suggestion, it might sound good. But the car is a real lemon and the hill essentially goes nowhere. Asylum attempts to tackle sexual obsession by playing a mind game with its audience, only somebody forget the “mind” within this game. Asylum is at once pretentious and brainless, a completely hollow “erotic thriller” with moments of such absurd hypertension that it becomes hard to watch without a finger on the fast-forward button.

Asylum is set in Britain in the very early 1960s. Most of the film takes place at a remote asylum that looks like it was built in the Victorian era, with enough dark and cringe-worthy corridors to make Hannibal Lecter feel reasonably at home. Unfortunately, MacKenzie only flirts with the setting here and, despite a few sweeping shots, we are left to imagine what it must be like for the characters to exist within their framework. Nonetheless, the film follows a psychiatrist, Max Raphael (Hugh Bonneville) and his wife, Stella (Natasha Richardson), as they are the new couple on the block at the asylum. Max gets a job at the asylum and Stella sits around the house attempting to adjust to the bland duties of whatever it is she is supposed to do. For some reason, we are not told why, she does not fit in very well and wanders through the courtyards aimlessly looking for someone….er, something to do.

Like any asylum in the movies, all is not well here. There is a creepy doctor, Peter Cleave (Ian McKellen) with resentment issues towards Max because Max took the promotion Cleave was supposed to get. Cleave is expected to serve as Max’s second in command at the asylum, a post that Cleave resents and certainly makes no bones about it. Fair enough. Meanwhile, Max and Stella appear to be suffering from a bland marriage, as would be the case. Stella eventually stumbles upon an inmate at the asylum, Edgar (Marton Csokas), who is working on some sort of glass house in their backyard after being deemed “safe” by Dr. Cleave. Naturally, Stella’s boredom leads her to a dangerous affair with Edgar and all hells breaks loose in the process. Events spiral out of control, some unintelligibly illogical and most downright silly. In the end, the inevitable happens and the film rolls the credits, mercifully.

Everything important about Asylum is supposed to be in the details, yet the details are so incredibly obvious and clearly directed that little is left in the discovery. Scenes unfold sloppily and then come down to sudden endings without warning or purpose. Phones ring to end one scene and the phone call is imagined to completion in another scene, which is annoying instead of stylishly intellectual. Instead of demanding a lot of its audience and succeeding, Asylum demands its audience to check their brain at the door for most of the film, only to remind them that they might need it later to find their car keys. It’s a sloppy, illiterate mess of a film that loses major points for masquerading as something better.

The performances, sadly, are all so catastrophically over the top that it’s hard not to burst out in laughter when Sir Ian McKellan storms out of a room with pursed lips or when Natasha Richardson continues to wear lipstick that doesn’t suit her face. Asylum could have gone one of two ways, in my opinion. With a little amping up on the camp and toning down of the “serious actor” rhetoric that these performers tried to pull off, the story could have been an entertaining piece of pulp cinema. On the other side, with a diminishment of the silly ideologies – like the idiotic living arrangements that creep up suddenly involving Edgar and some bearded “assistant” – and a clearer path to discover, Asylum could have been an engaging erotic thriller. As it happens, however, it is neither of those two things despite trying to reach out with both hands at elements of the absurd and the stupid.

Asylum is an over-acted, over-directed, poorly written mess of a film. It is a high-class disappointment that is incredibly bland and tepid, save for a few sequences of accidental silliness. Sadly, even Sir Ian McKellan is made to look like a fool in this one. If only he could have channeled Gandalf and whisked us all away.

1/10

Patrick McGrath & Bradford Morrow (eds.) – The Picador Book Of The New Gothic (Picador, 1993)

Cover photograph: Simon Marsden

Were Poe to come across this collection he might perhaps be bewildered by the various accents and settings of the work, but he would certainly applaud the spirit animating them. This is the New Gothic.

Introduction – Patrick McGrath & Bradford Morrow

Jamaica Kincaid – Ovando
Martin Amis – Horrorday
Jeanette Winterton – Newton
Paul West – Banquo And The Black Banana: The Fierceness Of The Delight Of The Horror
Anne Rice – Freniere
Janice Galloway – Blood
Scott Bradfield – Didn’t She Know
John Hawkes – Regulus And Maximus
Yannick Murphy – The Fish Keeper
Lynne Tillman – A Dead Summer
Joyce Carol Oates – Why Don’t You Come Live With Me It’s Time
Robert Coover – The Dead Queen
Angela Carter – The Merchant Of Shadows
Bradford Morrow – The Road To Nadeja
Ruth Rendell – For Dear Life
Emma Tennant – Rigor Beach
Patrick McGrath – The Smell
Peter Straub – The Kingdom Of Heaven
John Edgar Wideman – Fever
Kathy Acker – J
William T. Vollman – The Grave Of Lost Stories

Hugh Lamb

A Tide of Terror
A Wave of Fear
Victorian Tales of Terror
The Thrill of Horror
Terror by Gaslight
The Star Book of Horror No. 1
The Star Book of Horror No. 2
The Taste of Fear
Return from the Grave
Victorian Nightmares (Reprinted as A Bottomless Grave: And Other Victorian Tales of Horror)
Cold Fear: New Tales of Terror
The Man-Wolf: And Other Horrors
Forgotten Tales of Terror
Tales from a Gaslit Graveyard
New Tales of Terror
Gaslit Nightmares
Gaslit Nightmares 2

Elizabeth Lee

Spine Chillers: An Anthology of Mystery and Horror

Julian Lloyd-Webber

Short Sharp Shocks

Anthony Masters

Cries Of Terror

Graham Masterton

Scare Care

Jim McGarry

Irish Tales Of Terror

Patrick McGrath & Bradford Morrow

The New Gothic

Chris Morgan

Dark Fantasies

Amy Myers

After Midnight Stories
The Second Book of After Midnight Stories
The Third Book of After Midnight Stories
The Fourth Book of After Midnight Stories
The The Fifth Book of After Midnight Stories

Bryan Netherwood

Medley Macabre
Terror!
Uncanny

Michael O’Shaughnessy

The Monster Book Of Monsters

Clarence Paget

26th Pan Book Of Horror Stories
27th Pan Book Of Horror Stories
28th Pan Book Of Horror Stories
29th Pan Book Of Horror Stories
30th Pan Book Of Horror Stories

Polly Parkin

12th Ghost Book

J. M. Parrish & John R. Crossland

The Mammoth Book Of Thrillers, Ghosts & Mysteries