Freddie vs. Short Reviews

You know what makes me feel super accomplished? Putting together IKEA furniture. An essay is just, “So what?”, because when you’re done, all you have is a slightly larger Word file on your computer, and you can never finish a story just the way you wanted it when you set out, but with IKEA, it’s like — hey, I made a table! And I can put my computer on it and type RIGHT NOW.

Um… yeah, short reviews.

Shaun of the Dead (2004) — Loved it. I’m working my way up to Zombieland, see, since the funny-zombie-movie genre seemed appealing. (Not gonna lie, I kind of want to make my own now. Maybe as a spoof of one of my favourite TV shows or books at the same time. C’mon… zombies at Hogwarts*? Sign me up!) Anyway, chronological order seemed fairest, so I started off with this Simon Pegg/Edgar Wright flick, since so many of my friends have recommended the heck out of it.

There’s some gore and blood, but it’s generously seasoned with broad humour that’s just subtle enough not to become a heavy-handed “EVERYONE IN SOCIETY IS REALLY A ZOMBIE. GET IT? BECAUSE OUR LIVES ARE MEANINGLESS VEHICLES FOR CORPORATE GAIN ETC.” I mean, if there really were a sudden outbreak of zombie-ism, it does seem likely that few people would notice or believe it at first. What would it take to get you to believe in zombies? Isn’t it easier to believe in a drug-addled delinquent or hipsters on a costumed zombie walk?

It sure takes a lot for Shaun (Pegg): still reeling over being dumped by his girlfriend for lacking drive, he and his layabout best friend, Ed, have to witness a zombie still “alive” after being impaled through the torso before they get what’s going on. Once they do, they naturally decide to embark on a rescue mission to save Shaun’s ex, her obnoxious arty roommates, Shaun’s mum, and Shaun’s resented stepfather. Which goes about as well as you can imagine, what with the living dead shambling about in mobs through the city streets.

Awesome.

When You Reach Me (Rebecca Stead, 2009) — Also loved it. I breezed through this slim novel in an hour or so. Every chapter is only a couple pages long, and each one draws you further into the mysterious plot. As the protagonist, Miranda, informs us, everything starts when some stranger punches Sal, her best friend, who immediately stops speaking to her. From then on, Miranda starts finding weird notes that seem to predict everything that’s happening to her. Throw in some preteen social problems, a mother studying for her appearance on a game show, and, my very favourite, characters who seem nice but are actually mean (and vice versa), and you’ve got yourself a story.

Since there’s nothing more I can tell you without spoiling the book, allow me merely to reassure you that this isn’t one of those stories that builds up a bunch of mysteries and never solves any of them satisfactorily. There’s an answer to every riddle here, never you fear.

The Coffin Dancer (Jeffrey Deaver, 1998) — ‘Mkay, I’m really digging these two characters, Rhyme and Sachs. This book is about a hired assassin — the eponymous Coffin Dancer — and there are lots of murderous shenanigans, crazy killers, Speed-style bombs etc., and yet I found myself tearing through the pages not to find out who survives and how they catch the killer but to read more scenes between Rhyme and Sachs and watch them finally patch up an unfortunate misunderstanding.

To hint that they do is not a spoiler, because despite all the gross killings and knife’s-edge danger, this is a very wish-fulfilment kind of book — everyone wishes they were a handsome super-detective like Rhyme who still attracts all the ladies despite being quadriplegic, or a hottie McHotHot former model like Sachs who also happens to be the only person smart and sassy enough to form both business and personal relationships with the solitary eccentric genius — so you know this plot you’ve seen a million times before (“Alas, he appears to like someone else… instead of asking him how he feels, I will assume he is in True Love and never speak to him again so as not to mar his happiness!” “Egad, she’s not speaking to me! For very angsty but ultimately stupid reasons, I will not speak to her either, so she will go live her life without me, which I know is best.”) is going to end the way it always does (“But — I love you!” “No, I love you!” “Oh, what fools we’ve been!”)

The mind-of-the-killer segments in this one were much more intriguing (I found) than those of The Bone Collector, and the final-twist moment at the end really did catch me by surprise this time. But I’m still picking up The Empty Chair not because I’m desperate for another thriller-fix, but because I want to spend more time with these fictional people in whom I’ve come to take an interest.

Along Came a Spider (James Patterson, 1993) — I admire James Patterson’s ability to string a plot along. He writes smoothly, and the pieces always fall neatly into place. That said, I couldn’t really get into the two books of his that I’ve read, this one and the first of the Maximum Ride series. I guess I feel like his stories are a little too slick — like they have all the elements to work in theory (Alex Cross, a black psychologist-cop and single dad, is forced to abandon an investigation into the horrific murder of a black family in his neighborhood in order to track the kidnapper of two rich white kids), but there’s something missing. Here’s Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water — where’s Heart?

I know when his characters are feeling up or down, but I just don’t seem to feel it with them, not the same way I agonized along with Sachs or shared Miranda’s confusion. I have a vague intellectual attachment to Alex — it sure would suck if the killer went after his kids — but no more than I have for the situation in general: yeah, it would suck if a killer went after anyone‘s kids. Your mileage may vary, of course.

Death of a Ghost (Charles Butler, 2006) — A teenaged boy named Ossian returns to his childhood haunt (ha ha ha — pun sadly intended) and finds himself plagued by the ghosts he vaguely remembers from when he was small. Only there’s a lot more to it than that, part of which seems to involve the faery realm and Celtic-flavoured human sacrifices.

Admittedly, the fact that I found this book confusing makes me like it more. I far prefer a confusing story, where the author at least has faith in my intelligence and patience, to a story in which the author feels the need to project every plot development three chapters ahead as though he or she is a portable GPS, and I am the most oblivious driver in the world . (“In four hundred metres, turn left at St. George Street. Turn left in two hundred metres. At St. George Street, one hundred metres from here, turn left. Turn left now. You are now turning left. Now you are on St. George St. You just turned left.”)

However, the constant shifts between times, places, and narrators did leave me somewhat high and dry at the end. Who and what are the main characters, really? It reminded me of Hexwood — only Diana Wynne Jones makes sure to coax you right back onto the solid wooden floor after she’s pulled that rug out from under your feet, while Butler kind of leaves you lying there wondering what just happened.

* Like, good ones, not Inferi that never actually do anything cool or moan “Braaaaiiiiins!” even once.