Rocky road, one of those fabulous things you are sure must be American (who else throws so many calorie rich things into melted chocolate and calls it dessert?) but actually turns out to be European (or not; the origins remain unclear). Wherever it came from, it is definitely here to stay, and to my surprise I realised I'd never made it myself. While it is one of the easiest recipes to make, one of my colleagues actually had his 8 year old daughter make it for his birthday treat.
So, for a quick (but very rich) and easy (no baking involved) treat:
Ingredients
400 g chocolate (I used 200 g milk and 200 g dark)
250 g butter
100 ml golden syrup
Melt all these in a heatproof bowl over boiling water, until well combined. Then, you can add whatever you like, but classic ingredients include:
- crushed digestive biscuits
- raisins/sultanas/dried cranberries
- marshmallows
- nuts
For mine, I added:
200 g digestive biscuits (crushed)
100 g dried cranberries
about 10 marshmallows sliced into smaller bits
I left out the walnuts because I was planning to put in M&Ms, but then I forgot about the M&Ms, so the chocolate/filling ratio was not ideal. Will have to try again.
Anyway, line a tray with baking parchment. Stir the biscuits into the chocolate mixture, and then stir in any other ingredients you have until they are well covered in chocolate. Pour the mixture into your prepared tray and leave to set in the fridge for at least 3 hours, preferably overnight. Slice into small cubes (veeeery small cubes, it is very rich). The recipe makes quite a lot (depending on how small you cut them) so you could halve the ingredients for a more modest amount.
I wouldn't consider it a dessert myself, more something you have with a cup of tea after a long day (or during a film festival, which is where I handed out most of mine to grateful friends and other festival goers). Easy, quick and delicious!
Friday, 29 September 2017
Sunday, 17 September 2017
Devil's food cake
So after making my apple cake last week, I came to the horrible realisation that I'd never actually made a chocolate cake. Not a proper one, I have made cakes in which I added a load of cocoa powder, but that doesn't make it an 'official' chocolate cake. So I dove into Mary Berry's recipes, and decided to make one that was called 'Devil's food cake'. I'd never heard of this cake before, but after making it, I have an idea of why it's called that way. Read on, and you will know too.
To manage expectations; this cake did not turn out well. It must be Murphy's law, because just a couple of days earlier someone (my mom) told me that my cakes always turn out great and that I've never had a bad bake. Well...
I've put the recipe below, adding in italics the points where something went wrong with my cake, and how you could avoid making my mistakes in the future. And also how I could avoid making my own mistakes again, as I will be making this cake again, to do it properly.
Ingredients
for the cake:
50 g cocoa powder
255 ml water
100 g butter
275 caster sugar
2 eggs
175 g flour
teaspoon baking powder
teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
for the frosting:
175 g caster sugar
1 egg white
2 tablespoons hot water
Preheat the oven to 180 C. Grease two 20 cm sandwich tins and line the base with baking parchment.
Ah, yes. I went wrong on the first step. Now I usually don't include the 'grease and line your tin' bit, because it is so obvious that it is second nature. However, as it turned out I did not have two 20 cm sandwich tins. I had one 20 cm sandwich tin, and one 20 cm loose-bottomed tin. I did however have two 24 cm sandwich tins. So I used those, figuring that with all those raising agents, the cakes would come out pretty big anyway. I was wrong there.
Second, I had lots of little bits of baking parchment left over, and was too lazy to cut out one big piece to line the bottoms. Usually with cakes, if you have a small bit you can pull on, the rest comes out easily too. As you can probably guess now, I was wrong there too.
Blend the cocoa and water together until smooth and set aside.
Have you ever tried to blend cocoa and cold water? It is weird. Somehow the cocoa is extremely hydrophobic and wants to stay on top of the water, or in clumpy bits at the bottom. It looks pretty horrible:
Luckily, this bit resolves itself once you blend it together.
Mix the butter and sugar by adding the sugar gradually and beating well in between until the mixture is pale and fluffy. Add the eggs one by one until you have a smooth mixture.
Sift the flour with the baking powder and bicarbonate of soda.
Yes, I went wrong here. How? How could one possibly mess up this bit, you wonder? Carefully read the first word: sift. I never sift. I am a quick and easy baker, who does not sift her flour. Usually I get away with this, because you mix the flour in the with the rest, and the lumps get beaten to death. However, this cake was of the 'fold in' variety, so that did not happen. Also, the flour was pretty old and hard. So I had lumps. A lot of lumps.
Fold the flour mixture and cocoa-water mixture alternatively into the butter-sugar mixture until well blended. Divide the mixture between the tins and level the surface.
So at this point, I could see it would be a lumpy thing. I tried breaking up the flour lumps, but you cannot really put any force on the mixture, as 'folding' means 'try to work as quickly and lightly as possible or the air will escape from your cake and leave you with a horrible flat pancake'. So I managed to get a few of the larger lumps broken up, but most medium-sized lumps just bided their time at the bottom of the bowl. The irony is of course, that I still ended up with a pancake, because it could not rise properly. Anyway...
Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes until well risen (hah!). Leave to cool in the tins for a few minutes then turn out, peel off the parchment and finish cooling on a wire rack.
My cakes were not well risen. One had stayed exactly the same size, the other had somewhat doubled in height, but not nearly as much as one might expect with this amount of raising agents. Most likely because the tins I used were too large and because the lumps made the cake quite heavy. Also, all the lumps had gone to the bottom, so once I turned them out you could clearly see the cratery landscape I'd produced. And as you can probably guess from the first mistake I made; it was almost impossible to get the cakes out of the tins without breaking them. They stuck to the un-parchmented parts of the tins like frosting to a spoon. I incurred several breaks before I had them both out.
The frosting, on the other hand, was a breeze. Put the sugar, egg white and water into a heat-proof bowl and set over a pan of hot water. Whisk for about 10-12 minutes until thick, then sandwich the two cake halves together and put the rest on the top and sides. This stuff hardens out quite quickly, so work fast. Leave to set 'in a cool place, but not in the fridge' (apparently this is not a summer cake).
So, how did it turn out? Surprisingly good on the looks, but as predicted, very stodgy on the taste. The lumps (luckily!) did not turn into powdery flour explosions in your mouth, but were rather just hard chewy bits. If they'd been made of chocolate sprinkles, it might have been quite nice. As it is, my guinea pig friends were all pretty positive, but that may have been because I'd down-played it so much it could only be better than expected.
So, learning points:
- use the correct size tin as stated
- properly line your tins with baking parchment
- sift your flour before you add it.
Conclusion: the devil's food cake is devilish because it pretends to be a very easy run-of-the-mill cake, but then it tricks you into making all kinds of basic rookie baking mistakes that make your cake come out like a lumpy pancake.
To manage expectations; this cake did not turn out well. It must be Murphy's law, because just a couple of days earlier someone (my mom) told me that my cakes always turn out great and that I've never had a bad bake. Well...
I've put the recipe below, adding in italics the points where something went wrong with my cake, and how you could avoid making my mistakes in the future. And also how I could avoid making my own mistakes again, as I will be making this cake again, to do it properly.
Ingredients
for the cake:
50 g cocoa powder
255 ml water
100 g butter
275 caster sugar
2 eggs
175 g flour
teaspoon baking powder
teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
for the frosting:
175 g caster sugar
1 egg white
2 tablespoons hot water
Preheat the oven to 180 C. Grease two 20 cm sandwich tins and line the base with baking parchment.
Ah, yes. I went wrong on the first step. Now I usually don't include the 'grease and line your tin' bit, because it is so obvious that it is second nature. However, as it turned out I did not have two 20 cm sandwich tins. I had one 20 cm sandwich tin, and one 20 cm loose-bottomed tin. I did however have two 24 cm sandwich tins. So I used those, figuring that with all those raising agents, the cakes would come out pretty big anyway. I was wrong there.
Second, I had lots of little bits of baking parchment left over, and was too lazy to cut out one big piece to line the bottoms. Usually with cakes, if you have a small bit you can pull on, the rest comes out easily too. As you can probably guess now, I was wrong there too.
Blend the cocoa and water together until smooth and set aside.
Have you ever tried to blend cocoa and cold water? It is weird. Somehow the cocoa is extremely hydrophobic and wants to stay on top of the water, or in clumpy bits at the bottom. It looks pretty horrible:
 |
| Weird lumpy cocoa-water mixture. |
Luckily, this bit resolves itself once you blend it together.
Mix the butter and sugar by adding the sugar gradually and beating well in between until the mixture is pale and fluffy. Add the eggs one by one until you have a smooth mixture.
Sift the flour with the baking powder and bicarbonate of soda.
Yes, I went wrong here. How? How could one possibly mess up this bit, you wonder? Carefully read the first word: sift. I never sift. I am a quick and easy baker, who does not sift her flour. Usually I get away with this, because you mix the flour in the with the rest, and the lumps get beaten to death. However, this cake was of the 'fold in' variety, so that did not happen. Also, the flour was pretty old and hard. So I had lumps. A lot of lumps.
Fold the flour mixture and cocoa-water mixture alternatively into the butter-sugar mixture until well blended. Divide the mixture between the tins and level the surface.
So at this point, I could see it would be a lumpy thing. I tried breaking up the flour lumps, but you cannot really put any force on the mixture, as 'folding' means 'try to work as quickly and lightly as possible or the air will escape from your cake and leave you with a horrible flat pancake'. So I managed to get a few of the larger lumps broken up, but most medium-sized lumps just bided their time at the bottom of the bowl. The irony is of course, that I still ended up with a pancake, because it could not rise properly. Anyway...
 |
| Lumpy lumpy cake mixture. |
Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes until well risen (hah!). Leave to cool in the tins for a few minutes then turn out, peel off the parchment and finish cooling on a wire rack.
My cakes were not well risen. One had stayed exactly the same size, the other had somewhat doubled in height, but not nearly as much as one might expect with this amount of raising agents. Most likely because the tins I used were too large and because the lumps made the cake quite heavy. Also, all the lumps had gone to the bottom, so once I turned them out you could clearly see the cratery landscape I'd produced. And as you can probably guess from the first mistake I made; it was almost impossible to get the cakes out of the tins without breaking them. They stuck to the un-parchmented parts of the tins like frosting to a spoon. I incurred several breaks before I had them both out.
The frosting, on the other hand, was a breeze. Put the sugar, egg white and water into a heat-proof bowl and set over a pan of hot water. Whisk for about 10-12 minutes until thick, then sandwich the two cake halves together and put the rest on the top and sides. This stuff hardens out quite quickly, so work fast. Leave to set 'in a cool place, but not in the fridge' (apparently this is not a summer cake).
So, how did it turn out? Surprisingly good on the looks, but as predicted, very stodgy on the taste. The lumps (luckily!) did not turn into powdery flour explosions in your mouth, but were rather just hard chewy bits. If they'd been made of chocolate sprinkles, it might have been quite nice. As it is, my guinea pig friends were all pretty positive, but that may have been because I'd down-played it so much it could only be better than expected.
 |
| Frosted devil |
So, learning points:
- use the correct size tin as stated
- properly line your tins with baking parchment
- sift your flour before you add it.
Conclusion: the devil's food cake is devilish because it pretends to be a very easy run-of-the-mill cake, but then it tricks you into making all kinds of basic rookie baking mistakes that make your cake come out like a lumpy pancake.
Sunday, 10 September 2017
Apple cake
It is that time of the year; schools have started again, the days are shortening, and Heel Holland Bakt is back on tv. HHB is the Dutch version of The Great British Bake-Off (which has also started again, but on one of the commercial British channels, so I can no longer watch it) and although not as good, it still gets you back into the baking spirit. So that is what I did, last weekend.
I'd made my family's apple cake recipe a while back (in 2014, even!), but this one came from a more distinguished source: Mary Berry herself. If she can't be on Bake-Off anymore, I can at least channel her baking spirit at home!
Ingredients
225 g butter
225 g muscovado sugar
225 g self-raising flour
(I just love this about cakes, just put the same amounts of butter, sugar and flour together, add some eggs, and ta-da: a cake!)
3 eggs (I used 4, but they were really small)
(baking powder)
100 g chopped walnuts
100 g raisins
400 g apples, cut in small pieces (I always keep the peel on, but you can take it off)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Preheat your oven to 180 degrees.
As ever, mix the butter, sugar, flour and (if you're using it) baking powder together in a bowl. I always mix the 'dry' stuff (flour, sugar and baking powder) together first, before I add the softened butter in small lumps. Then add the eggs, until you get a fairly standard cake mixture. Mix thoroughly for about two minutes. Finally, add the chopped walnuts and raisins, and give it a final mix. I also added some cinnamon at this point, but it's not in the 'official' recipe.
Pour half of the mixture into your prepared (buttered and lined with baking parchment) cake tin. Then pour the apples and cinnamon in a layer on top, spreading it out evenly. Finally, pour the rest of your cake mixture on top. Make sure the edges are made of cake mixture, not apple, or you will have apples poking out of the side of your cake (as I did).
To finish off, sprinkle the top with more walnuts and muscovado sugar. You can leave some lumps in the sugar, but not too big, as it will just give you a mouthful of rock hard sugar when you eat it.
Bake for about an hour and a half, until golden brown and firm (mine was done in an hour and 20 minutes).
Looking good, right? It tasted good, too! Very autumny, with the soft juicy apple and the chopped nuts. If I were to make it again, I'd add some more spices (maybe the 'speculaaskruiden', or just some cardamom and nutmeg), but other than that it was a good start to the baking season!
I'd made my family's apple cake recipe a while back (in 2014, even!), but this one came from a more distinguished source: Mary Berry herself. If she can't be on Bake-Off anymore, I can at least channel her baking spirit at home!
Ingredients
225 g butter
225 g muscovado sugar
225 g self-raising flour
(I just love this about cakes, just put the same amounts of butter, sugar and flour together, add some eggs, and ta-da: a cake!)
3 eggs (I used 4, but they were really small)
(baking powder)
100 g chopped walnuts
100 g raisins
400 g apples, cut in small pieces (I always keep the peel on, but you can take it off)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Preheat your oven to 180 degrees.
As ever, mix the butter, sugar, flour and (if you're using it) baking powder together in a bowl. I always mix the 'dry' stuff (flour, sugar and baking powder) together first, before I add the softened butter in small lumps. Then add the eggs, until you get a fairly standard cake mixture. Mix thoroughly for about two minutes. Finally, add the chopped walnuts and raisins, and give it a final mix. I also added some cinnamon at this point, but it's not in the 'official' recipe.
Pour half of the mixture into your prepared (buttered and lined with baking parchment) cake tin. Then pour the apples and cinnamon in a layer on top, spreading it out evenly. Finally, pour the rest of your cake mixture on top. Make sure the edges are made of cake mixture, not apple, or you will have apples poking out of the side of your cake (as I did).
To finish off, sprinkle the top with more walnuts and muscovado sugar. You can leave some lumps in the sugar, but not too big, as it will just give you a mouthful of rock hard sugar when you eat it.
Bake for about an hour and a half, until golden brown and firm (mine was done in an hour and 20 minutes).
 |
| Pretty pretty apple cake |
Looking good, right? It tasted good, too! Very autumny, with the soft juicy apple and the chopped nuts. If I were to make it again, I'd add some more spices (maybe the 'speculaaskruiden', or just some cardamom and nutmeg), but other than that it was a good start to the baking season!
Monday, 10 July 2017
Hag-seed
To make good on my promise to myself to read more from certain lovable authors, I ditched the John le Carré novel and started in another Atwood novel; Hag-Seed. Now this is not just any novel; Hogarth is doing a series of Shakespeare-retellings by contemporary authors in contemporary settings, and Hag-Seed was inspired by The Tempest. Or rather, not just inspired by, it is basically the story of The Tempest, including a thwarted theatre director, who aims at getting revenge through staging The Tempest. This sounds very forced, and it probably could have been in the hands of a lesser author, but the novel is actually brilliantly constructed.
Before we get into that, let me get this out of the way; I have never read The Tempest, nor have I ever seen a staging of it. It was one of those 'we won't go there' plays during my studies, and it isn't one of the plays that ever shows up at the local theatre (or not-so-local Shakespeare theatre). There is apparently a film version with Helen Mirren as 'Prospera', but I managed to miss that too.
So, no prior knowledge of the play or the story, although I did read up on the main plotlines and themes on Wikipedia (I found out in the end that there is a short synopsis at the back of the novel, but I'm one of those people who stays very far from the final pages of any novel). Also, the main theme is pretty obvious from the get-go; revenge. The main character, Felix/Prospero, has been thwarted out of his profession as artistic manager of a Shakespeare festival, and now that he has fallen low, he wants his revenge. After an exile of twelve years (not unexpectedly the same amount of time elapses in The Tempest), he finally sees his chance when his former enemies visit the prison in which he now works in a Literacy through Literature programme. It isn't hard to persuade the juvenile delinquents to work with him to get his revenge, and the end result is somewhat disturbing, but also a very entertaining read.
The 'actors' are asked to add their own thoughts, scenes and songs to the play, resulting in some very nice raps (I never thought I would ever write the phrase 'very nice raps'), which gives a triple layer to this retelling (the original play, the novel-as-the-play, and the 'modernized' version they perform). Again, this might have been very forced, but even though you can see what will happen way in advance, the plot never gets in the way of the story. One funny thing that happened was that I kept thinking the play was set in England, and it took about a third of the book to realise it was actually set in the US. Somehow, 'Shakespeare festivals' feel like something Britain-only, and the whole novel oozed Britishness to me. (And then it turns out that Margaret Atwood is actually Canadian, so I have been putting her novels on the wrong shelf of my bookcase for years!)
Anyway, it's a great read, maybe less so if you're not a Shakespeare/theatre geek like me, but even then the whole development of the main character and his young actors will still bring a smile to your face. Amazing, how something that should have been very heavy and deep with Literary Meaning, can still be so very light and pleasant.
Before we get into that, let me get this out of the way; I have never read The Tempest, nor have I ever seen a staging of it. It was one of those 'we won't go there' plays during my studies, and it isn't one of the plays that ever shows up at the local theatre (or not-so-local Shakespeare theatre). There is apparently a film version with Helen Mirren as 'Prospera', but I managed to miss that too.
So, no prior knowledge of the play or the story, although I did read up on the main plotlines and themes on Wikipedia (I found out in the end that there is a short synopsis at the back of the novel, but I'm one of those people who stays very far from the final pages of any novel). Also, the main theme is pretty obvious from the get-go; revenge. The main character, Felix/Prospero, has been thwarted out of his profession as artistic manager of a Shakespeare festival, and now that he has fallen low, he wants his revenge. After an exile of twelve years (not unexpectedly the same amount of time elapses in The Tempest), he finally sees his chance when his former enemies visit the prison in which he now works in a Literacy through Literature programme. It isn't hard to persuade the juvenile delinquents to work with him to get his revenge, and the end result is somewhat disturbing, but also a very entertaining read.
The 'actors' are asked to add their own thoughts, scenes and songs to the play, resulting in some very nice raps (I never thought I would ever write the phrase 'very nice raps'), which gives a triple layer to this retelling (the original play, the novel-as-the-play, and the 'modernized' version they perform). Again, this might have been very forced, but even though you can see what will happen way in advance, the plot never gets in the way of the story. One funny thing that happened was that I kept thinking the play was set in England, and it took about a third of the book to realise it was actually set in the US. Somehow, 'Shakespeare festivals' feel like something Britain-only, and the whole novel oozed Britishness to me. (And then it turns out that Margaret Atwood is actually Canadian, so I have been putting her novels on the wrong shelf of my bookcase for years!)
Anyway, it's a great read, maybe less so if you're not a Shakespeare/theatre geek like me, but even then the whole development of the main character and his young actors will still bring a smile to your face. Amazing, how something that should have been very heavy and deep with Literary Meaning, can still be so very light and pleasant.
Friday, 7 July 2017
The Bridge
The wonderous world of Netflix means that people who otherwise would only watch tv for very special moments (New Year's Eve, The Great British Bake-Off, and Sherlock) can now follow tv series they wouldn't usually be able to fit in their time or daily routine. For me, a great example is The Bridge, a Swedish/Danish series that is now in its third season. This season has been shown on Dutch telivision about half a year ago, but I only found out around episode 4, and there was no 'rewatch' online. But, the first two seasons were on Netflix already, so it was just a matter of waiting until the third would appear too.
Now I am not usually a detective/crime series person. And The Bridge is very detective-y, and with lots of blood splattering around to boot. The first season starts when a dead woman is found on the bridge between Copenhagen and Malmo (this American-made website doesn't let me put accent marks on letters), exactly in the middle, so half of her is in Denmark and the other half in Sweden. As it turns out, she is actually two women; half of her is Danish and the other half Swedish. The image of the two policemen pulling her body apart is one you get in the first ten minutes of the series, and it is just a small example of stuff to come.
What follows, of course, is a search for the killer. Because the bodies were found in both countries, the Swedish and Danish police have to work together. The Danish detective is Martin, a lovable man with an equally sweet wife and couple of kids. The Swedish detective is somewhat less lovable: Saga Noren is a distant, highly analitic, socially awkward stereotype of the mentally unstable detective. Only she isn't unstable. She has come to deal with her personal quirks in a very good way, and her superior, Hans Petterson, knows exactly how good she is, and what he can ask of her. Only Martin, warm and sociable, cannot quite cope with her at first. But inevitably, they become a great duo, and Saga Noren has become somewhat of a cult hero.
So why do I watch The Bridge, and not for example The Killing or Midsummer Night's Murders or Law&Order or CSI (although I did watch that for a while, about ten years ago). Well, partly because it isn't flashy American. They don't have a grainy photo of part of a fingerprint which they then enlarge 100 times to get a perfectly pixel clear image to run through their database to find the killer. They use their brain, they discuss theories around their photoboard, and they talk to a lot of people. Sometimes half of an episode is made up of Saga talking to possible suspects without them actually getting anywhere. But then, three episodes later, a small, seemingly insignificant detail during that conversation will move them in the right direction.
So, it's a social, intellingent series. But on the other hand, it is very modern. It is set in the here and now; they do use modern technology, and people behave in a way normal people would. It isn't the small, isolated world of British villages, this is big cities we're talking about, with homeless people, drug dealers, and all sorts of dark secrets. Added to that, this series isn't afraid to kill off it's main characters, so the fear you feel when people start shooting is genuine. This puts it smartly between the sleepy British detectives and the flasy American ones, in the middle of the real world.
I've just finished watching season 3, which I won't tell you too much about as it would inevitably contain spoilers. The overall theme though, is 'family', which is quite unusual for a detective (we generally get a bit of the detective's family life just to know why they are so distant/cold/tired/depressed, but not more than that), and it introduces a couple of great new characters which I have come to love. They're already busy developing season 4, so I hope we will see more of them, then.
The only downside is that there are only 10 episodes per season (still a lot more than in a regular Sherlock season, but still). Although, as they say, less tends to be more.
Now I am not usually a detective/crime series person. And The Bridge is very detective-y, and with lots of blood splattering around to boot. The first season starts when a dead woman is found on the bridge between Copenhagen and Malmo (this American-made website doesn't let me put accent marks on letters), exactly in the middle, so half of her is in Denmark and the other half in Sweden. As it turns out, she is actually two women; half of her is Danish and the other half Swedish. The image of the two policemen pulling her body apart is one you get in the first ten minutes of the series, and it is just a small example of stuff to come.
What follows, of course, is a search for the killer. Because the bodies were found in both countries, the Swedish and Danish police have to work together. The Danish detective is Martin, a lovable man with an equally sweet wife and couple of kids. The Swedish detective is somewhat less lovable: Saga Noren is a distant, highly analitic, socially awkward stereotype of the mentally unstable detective. Only she isn't unstable. She has come to deal with her personal quirks in a very good way, and her superior, Hans Petterson, knows exactly how good she is, and what he can ask of her. Only Martin, warm and sociable, cannot quite cope with her at first. But inevitably, they become a great duo, and Saga Noren has become somewhat of a cult hero.
So why do I watch The Bridge, and not for example The Killing or Midsummer Night's Murders or Law&Order or CSI (although I did watch that for a while, about ten years ago). Well, partly because it isn't flashy American. They don't have a grainy photo of part of a fingerprint which they then enlarge 100 times to get a perfectly pixel clear image to run through their database to find the killer. They use their brain, they discuss theories around their photoboard, and they talk to a lot of people. Sometimes half of an episode is made up of Saga talking to possible suspects without them actually getting anywhere. But then, three episodes later, a small, seemingly insignificant detail during that conversation will move them in the right direction.
So, it's a social, intellingent series. But on the other hand, it is very modern. It is set in the here and now; they do use modern technology, and people behave in a way normal people would. It isn't the small, isolated world of British villages, this is big cities we're talking about, with homeless people, drug dealers, and all sorts of dark secrets. Added to that, this series isn't afraid to kill off it's main characters, so the fear you feel when people start shooting is genuine. This puts it smartly between the sleepy British detectives and the flasy American ones, in the middle of the real world.
I've just finished watching season 3, which I won't tell you too much about as it would inevitably contain spoilers. The overall theme though, is 'family', which is quite unusual for a detective (we generally get a bit of the detective's family life just to know why they are so distant/cold/tired/depressed, but not more than that), and it introduces a couple of great new characters which I have come to love. They're already busy developing season 4, so I hope we will see more of them, then.
The only downside is that there are only 10 episodes per season (still a lot more than in a regular Sherlock season, but still). Although, as they say, less tends to be more.
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
Books to go
A couple of months ago, I read an interview (I can't remember with who, or where) that has been haunting me ever since. It was with someone aged around 60, who had decided to only read new books, and about once or twice a year reread a book that he already knew he loved. Because, as he reasoned, he read only about 20 books per year, and as he had only about 20 more years to live (at least, that was the number he was aiming for) that made a grand total of 400 books left to read in his entire lifetime. He felt sorry that he hadn't read more great novels when he had the time (in his teens, twenties, and generally before he had a job or children) and now he wanted to make every book worthwhile.
Imagine that! I mean, it is a noble idea, of course, and great planning on his side, but the whole depressing thought of knowing how many books you're still going to read in your life, basically means saying 'no' to a lot of books, and closing the door on so many reading experiences. And when you read a new novel that you absolutely love, you automatically go 'aw, but I won't ever read you again, because I don't have enough slots left for rereads!' Horrible thought.
But still, the man had a point. I mean, my situation is not nearly as dire, as I am only 31, read 40 books per year, so with his projected life expectancy I would still have 2000 books to go, but I too have spent time reading novels I didn't enjoy, didn't think were going anywhere, or just read out of politeness to the person who lend it to me. I am terrible at not finishing a novel; once I've started, I feel like I am committed to finish it, no matter how awful I think it is. (Non-fiction is different, by the way, I have about 10 non-fiction books laying around with bookmarks stuck somewhere in the first 50 pages that I'm not sure I will ever finish.) But all those non-enjoyable books take up a lot of time. Even more time than the good ones, respectively, because I automatically read less when I don't like what I'm reading, so it takes more time to finish them.
So, time for a change.
In 2015, I gave myself the challenge of reading 52 books, and of only reading books I hadn't read before. I didn't make the number, but I did read all new novels. This is a great idea in principle, but some of those novels I did not enjoy. Still, I kept reading, to reach my goal. New rule from now one: if I don't like a novel, or feel myself avoiding reading, I will stop reading that novel and start something else.
Next up; rereads. I like rereads, especially during busy periods when my mind is too distracted to dive into a complex new novel; rereads are like a familiar warm bath that relax my brain and don't care if I miss out on some smaller details because I already know the main plot. During the renovation and move, I read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, for example. Which is great, but too many rereads get in the way of new novels. So; rereads are only allowed when needed.
Finally, I have several authors who are my absolute favourite and whose every new novel that comes out I read immediately. Examples include Ian McEwan and David Mitchell. There are also some authors who would probably make it onto that all-time-favourite-have-read-everything-will-read-every-new-novel-that-comes-out list, but who I keep forgetting about, until I by accident read another one of their novels, go 'this author is great, I should read more by them!' and then forget about them again. Examples include Margaret Atwood and Graham Swift. So, third new rule; read more novels by potential to-love authors.
As always with literature, I will probably break any rule I make within half a year, but they do give me some comfort with the depressing 'the end is neigh!' feelings I have been walking around with for a while. And if you'll excuse me, I will now get back to my John le Carré, a novel that I felt was sagging a bit in the middle, but did not put down, for, er... reasons.
Imagine that! I mean, it is a noble idea, of course, and great planning on his side, but the whole depressing thought of knowing how many books you're still going to read in your life, basically means saying 'no' to a lot of books, and closing the door on so many reading experiences. And when you read a new novel that you absolutely love, you automatically go 'aw, but I won't ever read you again, because I don't have enough slots left for rereads!' Horrible thought.
But still, the man had a point. I mean, my situation is not nearly as dire, as I am only 31, read 40 books per year, so with his projected life expectancy I would still have 2000 books to go, but I too have spent time reading novels I didn't enjoy, didn't think were going anywhere, or just read out of politeness to the person who lend it to me. I am terrible at not finishing a novel; once I've started, I feel like I am committed to finish it, no matter how awful I think it is. (Non-fiction is different, by the way, I have about 10 non-fiction books laying around with bookmarks stuck somewhere in the first 50 pages that I'm not sure I will ever finish.) But all those non-enjoyable books take up a lot of time. Even more time than the good ones, respectively, because I automatically read less when I don't like what I'm reading, so it takes more time to finish them.
So, time for a change.
In 2015, I gave myself the challenge of reading 52 books, and of only reading books I hadn't read before. I didn't make the number, but I did read all new novels. This is a great idea in principle, but some of those novels I did not enjoy. Still, I kept reading, to reach my goal. New rule from now one: if I don't like a novel, or feel myself avoiding reading, I will stop reading that novel and start something else.
Next up; rereads. I like rereads, especially during busy periods when my mind is too distracted to dive into a complex new novel; rereads are like a familiar warm bath that relax my brain and don't care if I miss out on some smaller details because I already know the main plot. During the renovation and move, I read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, for example. Which is great, but too many rereads get in the way of new novels. So; rereads are only allowed when needed.
Finally, I have several authors who are my absolute favourite and whose every new novel that comes out I read immediately. Examples include Ian McEwan and David Mitchell. There are also some authors who would probably make it onto that all-time-favourite-have-read-everything-will-read-every-new-novel-that-comes-out list, but who I keep forgetting about, until I by accident read another one of their novels, go 'this author is great, I should read more by them!' and then forget about them again. Examples include Margaret Atwood and Graham Swift. So, third new rule; read more novels by potential to-love authors.
As always with literature, I will probably break any rule I make within half a year, but they do give me some comfort with the depressing 'the end is neigh!' feelings I have been walking around with for a while. And if you'll excuse me, I will now get back to my John le Carré, a novel that I felt was sagging a bit in the middle, but did not put down, for, er... reasons.
Wednesday, 14 June 2017
A return to Postcrossing
With a new home comes a new address, and new possibilities for mail (snailmail, that is). While we've been receiving lots of letters in recent days (energy/telecom/governmental and move related), this flow of envelopes usually tends to dry out after the couple of weeks, when everybody actually knows you've moved and everything has settled down. Wasn't there some sort of solution to this... I pondered. That's right, Postcrossing!
So I went back to the website I'd visited so many times just a short while ago, and then it turned out that that 'just a short while ago' was actually a hiatus of three whole years. The last time one of my sent postcards had arrived was the 30th of August 2014. The last time I'd registered a postcard had been the 10th of October of that same year. If my Postcrossing stats were a heartbeat, my account had died a good while back:
Time flies when you're, err, to busy to have fun?
Time to rejoin the Postcrossing community, and get those postcards flowing again! My first three cards went, predictably, to Russia, Germany, and the USA. This was fine by me, als the last two countries have short travelling times, and cards are thus quickly registered, freeing up space for me to actually receive a card (I was at 858 sent and 860 received, strangely, so I needed two of my sent cards to be registered to actually receive a card from someone). Luckily, the person to draw my address for the first time in three years was also a German, so my mailbox was indeed happy for the first time in almost three years!
But sadly, that person immediately wondered why I hadn't been active on the website for so long, and was afraid I had quit. 'For so long' was at this point a mere two weeks, but it did make it very clear that active participation is a key ingredient to Postcrossing; you cannot just draw a couple of addresses, send the cards, and then forget about the whole project for a month. You need to stay at least a little bit active, otherwise, or people will wonder whether you will actually register their card, and then maybe not put as much energy and enthusiasm in what they'll send you.
So since then, I've drawn 5 more addresses, and I now have cards travelling to Belarus, Ukraine, Germany, China, and the USA. It brought back all the old thrills of trying to find the perfect card, trying to match it with the perfect stamp, and then trying to squeeze in as many words as possible to give the receiver a nice long message.
It's fun, but also quite a lot of work. I think I'll stay around 5 travelling cards at any time (my maximum is 26 at the moment, but that would mean actually setting aside a whole afternoon just to draw addresses and writing cards!), which lesses my chance of sending any to rare countries, but what is wrong with Germany, Russia, China and the USA anyway? And hopefully I will still receive great cards from all corners of the world.
So I went back to the website I'd visited so many times just a short while ago, and then it turned out that that 'just a short while ago' was actually a hiatus of three whole years. The last time one of my sent postcards had arrived was the 30th of August 2014. The last time I'd registered a postcard had been the 10th of October of that same year. If my Postcrossing stats were a heartbeat, my account had died a good while back:
 |
| Sad Postcrossing stats... see the little rise all the way to the right? |
Time flies when you're, err, to busy to have fun?
Time to rejoin the Postcrossing community, and get those postcards flowing again! My first three cards went, predictably, to Russia, Germany, and the USA. This was fine by me, als the last two countries have short travelling times, and cards are thus quickly registered, freeing up space for me to actually receive a card (I was at 858 sent and 860 received, strangely, so I needed two of my sent cards to be registered to actually receive a card from someone). Luckily, the person to draw my address for the first time in three years was also a German, so my mailbox was indeed happy for the first time in almost three years!
But sadly, that person immediately wondered why I hadn't been active on the website for so long, and was afraid I had quit. 'For so long' was at this point a mere two weeks, but it did make it very clear that active participation is a key ingredient to Postcrossing; you cannot just draw a couple of addresses, send the cards, and then forget about the whole project for a month. You need to stay at least a little bit active, otherwise, or people will wonder whether you will actually register their card, and then maybe not put as much energy and enthusiasm in what they'll send you.
So since then, I've drawn 5 more addresses, and I now have cards travelling to Belarus, Ukraine, Germany, China, and the USA. It brought back all the old thrills of trying to find the perfect card, trying to match it with the perfect stamp, and then trying to squeeze in as many words as possible to give the receiver a nice long message.
It's fun, but also quite a lot of work. I think I'll stay around 5 travelling cards at any time (my maximum is 26 at the moment, but that would mean actually setting aside a whole afternoon just to draw addresses and writing cards!), which lesses my chance of sending any to rare countries, but what is wrong with Germany, Russia, China and the USA anyway? And hopefully I will still receive great cards from all corners of the world.
Wednesday, 31 May 2017
Springwatch revisited
Spring is a time of renewal, and in the month of May I underwent one of the bigger forms of renewal one can get; I moved house. Or to be more precise; we moved house, in which 'we' also includes my boyfriend and 4 cats. Before the big move, we actually had to renovate quite a lot (removing the ceilings, putting in new ceilings, putting in a new stair, and what have you), so it was a bit of a hasty building/packing/moving scramble. But now all my stuff has been moved (if not unpacked or organised) and I can focus on other things again. Such as: spring! While we were busing inside, the world around us erupted into an explosion of leaves, insects, singing birds, and weeds. I could enjoy this by sitting outside in my garden (I now have a garden again! There are actual trees in it! And grass!), but apart from that one of my favourite ways of enjoying spring is by watching Springwatch.
To my horror I just found out I've only written about Springwatch once before, in 2012. It really has been too long. The format has stayed basically the same in those 5 years; a couple of biologist and non-biologist presenters, a setting in one of England's most beautiful wildlife preserves, lots of cameras on nests and nestboxes, and lots of natural drama. This year so far, one of the trending Twitter topics has been #fledgeorfall, concerning a jay nest that was sloping precariously downward (the relief came a day later; one chick fell and survived, the three others actually fledged). Also happening, in a tree or barn not close to you; peregrine falcons loosing their eggs, a woodpecker checking out a blue tit nest, stoats playing about in the sun, and kestrel snot on one of the camera lenses.
But it's not just pretty pictures. In between all of this great imagery, loads and loads of biological and conservational facts are dispersed at a high rate. As always, lots of the more 'general' biological stuff are things I start explaining to the person next to me, right when one of the presenters is actually saying about the same thing. But there is quite a lot of new research being preformed too. How many species of newt live in this pond? Do hedgehogs/mice/stoats live in this wall/hedgerow/barn? Peregrine falcon feed their chicks with an amazing 98 different species of bird, but where do they catch them?
Generally, this research involves catching the animals in question, weighing and tagging them, sometimes with a geolocator, and then releasing them again. This may disturb the animal in question for a short while, but in the end, I always think the disturbance is worth it, for every new bit of information we get about the natural world is an extra piece in the puzzle of trying to protect it. If we know that the peregrine falcons on Salisbury cathedral visit a nearby copse of wood to catch their food, we know we cannot just chop down all those trees, or the peregrine will suffer (lots of other animals will suffer too, but generally you need the 'poster child' animals to get conservation working). If we know that three different species of newt live in a pond, we cannot just fill it in to put a housing estate there. We need to protect what little of nature we have left, and knowing more about it will make it easier to do so.
I know I'm a bit of a nature fanatic, but if you're even the slightest interested in the natural world around you, do watch Springwatch. You can find it either on the BBC or one one of the many live feeds online. You will see a side of nature that is relatively close, but very unknown. Also, actually trying to name the bird or animal in view before the voice-over tells you what it is will make it more of a challenge, and will make you realise actually how many species of bird and insect and mammal are out there, and how much there is left for us to discover.
To my horror I just found out I've only written about Springwatch once before, in 2012. It really has been too long. The format has stayed basically the same in those 5 years; a couple of biologist and non-biologist presenters, a setting in one of England's most beautiful wildlife preserves, lots of cameras on nests and nestboxes, and lots of natural drama. This year so far, one of the trending Twitter topics has been #fledgeorfall, concerning a jay nest that was sloping precariously downward (the relief came a day later; one chick fell and survived, the three others actually fledged). Also happening, in a tree or barn not close to you; peregrine falcons loosing their eggs, a woodpecker checking out a blue tit nest, stoats playing about in the sun, and kestrel snot on one of the camera lenses.
But it's not just pretty pictures. In between all of this great imagery, loads and loads of biological and conservational facts are dispersed at a high rate. As always, lots of the more 'general' biological stuff are things I start explaining to the person next to me, right when one of the presenters is actually saying about the same thing. But there is quite a lot of new research being preformed too. How many species of newt live in this pond? Do hedgehogs/mice/stoats live in this wall/hedgerow/barn? Peregrine falcon feed their chicks with an amazing 98 different species of bird, but where do they catch them?
Generally, this research involves catching the animals in question, weighing and tagging them, sometimes with a geolocator, and then releasing them again. This may disturb the animal in question for a short while, but in the end, I always think the disturbance is worth it, for every new bit of information we get about the natural world is an extra piece in the puzzle of trying to protect it. If we know that the peregrine falcons on Salisbury cathedral visit a nearby copse of wood to catch their food, we know we cannot just chop down all those trees, or the peregrine will suffer (lots of other animals will suffer too, but generally you need the 'poster child' animals to get conservation working). If we know that three different species of newt live in a pond, we cannot just fill it in to put a housing estate there. We need to protect what little of nature we have left, and knowing more about it will make it easier to do so.
I know I'm a bit of a nature fanatic, but if you're even the slightest interested in the natural world around you, do watch Springwatch. You can find it either on the BBC or one one of the many live feeds online. You will see a side of nature that is relatively close, but very unknown. Also, actually trying to name the bird or animal in view before the voice-over tells you what it is will make it more of a challenge, and will make you realise actually how many species of bird and insect and mammal are out there, and how much there is left for us to discover.
Sunday, 23 April 2017
Teen flicks not suitable for teens
So one of the biggest relationship challenges these days is finding a Netflix series that you both like, and both haven't seen yet. For the past week, this was 13 reasons why (which has only 13 episodes, so we'll have to look for something else now...). I didn't realise how popular the series is until the memes and articles started to appear on my Facebook timeline; clearly, this series struck a note with more people.
So what is it about? A high school teenager, Hannah Baker, has killed herself. But before she did, she recorded 13 tapes with 13 reasons why she committed suicide. And those 13 reasons are 13 people, the 13 people who get the tapes, listen to them, and then send them to the next person on the list. The story starts when Clay Jensen receives the tapes, because he is one of Hannah's reasons. Clay is amazed that all the other people on the tape haven't bothered to come forward with some compelling evidence of crimes (minor and major), but of course, he too listens to the tapes in order or there would have been no series.
This series was pretty mesmerising; the first tapes are about some minor things, and you start to wonder whether Hannah is just a big drama queen if she killed herself for some stupid teenage mishaps. But there are references to bigger, more serious things, and with each tape the reasons get heavier and heavier. The images are pretty graphic (the last 4 episodes come with a viewer warning), and at some point I found myself wondering whether what I was watching was still actually suitable for teenagers. Despite the graphic material it most definately is, for it serves as one big warning against the destructive behaviour teenagers can wreck amongst their peers; slut shaming, gay shaming, sending nude pictures around, but also more serious crimes as assault, theft, and rape. The school ('Liberty High') is one of the most stereotypical American high school since Grease; the jocks and cheerleaders are at the top of the pecking order, and everybody else is a loser, a nerd, a weirdo, or a combination of all three. But finding themselves in a perilous situation draws kids from several groups together, and the series gives great insight into the thought processes of these characters; will they be loyal to the group, or will they throw somebody under the bus just to save their own skin?
In a similar vein, but of much lower quality (both in plot and acting) was the film I saw last week; Before I fall. This could best be described as 'Groundhog Day set in yet another stereotypical American highschool'; one of the most popular girls does nothing as one of her classmates is bullied and ultimately commits suicide, and as penance she has to relive the day over and over again, until she realises how she can get out of it. Yet again, almost every character except for the main character was pretty unlikeable; the popular girls are mean backstabbers, the popular guys are entitled drunks, and the unpopular kids are so weird and desocialized that it is almost impossible to feel sorry for them. On the bright side; both stories do contain a likeable friend character who stands by the protagonist even when things get tough.
(On a sidenote; both 13 reasons why and Before I fall are based on books. It feels like it is almost impossible to find a film or series based on an actually original story anymore; to play it safe, to be assured of good returns, production companies seem fixed on only pouring money in projects in those projects that have already been successful on paper.)
So looking back on both, I am in doubt; is this good watching material for teens? The message is pretty clear, but does it work out that way? If I had watched these series when I was around 15, I would probably have identified with the nerdy smart kids, mainly because there are no 'normal' teenagers in these series. Everything is black-and-white; you are either a very popular sporty type, or a non-popular loser type. Most teenagers will identify with the second category. What these stories tell us, is that you can only act and influence the story line when you are with the popular crowd, or when you are prepared to make yourself very unpopular and break all social norms. Helping someone and just being a 'normal' person is practically impossible. So most characters stay on the sideline, knowing what is going on but not acting, afraid of being called out, of becoming a loser, of losing their reputation. The main characters in both the series and the film do act, of course, or they wouldn't be the protagonist, but it has pretty devastating consequences for both of them. Easier to be an onlooker, to not get involved, to stay safe. Not really the message angsty teens should be getting, in my opinion.
Let's hope that the overly stereotypical depiction of high school will help teenagers who watch this stories realise that the characters, their actions, and the results are overly black-and-white too, and that in real life it is possible to help someone without falling down the social ladder into loser-zone. Otherwise, series and films like these generate exactly the opposite effect of what they intend to do.
So what is it about? A high school teenager, Hannah Baker, has killed herself. But before she did, she recorded 13 tapes with 13 reasons why she committed suicide. And those 13 reasons are 13 people, the 13 people who get the tapes, listen to them, and then send them to the next person on the list. The story starts when Clay Jensen receives the tapes, because he is one of Hannah's reasons. Clay is amazed that all the other people on the tape haven't bothered to come forward with some compelling evidence of crimes (minor and major), but of course, he too listens to the tapes in order or there would have been no series.
This series was pretty mesmerising; the first tapes are about some minor things, and you start to wonder whether Hannah is just a big drama queen if she killed herself for some stupid teenage mishaps. But there are references to bigger, more serious things, and with each tape the reasons get heavier and heavier. The images are pretty graphic (the last 4 episodes come with a viewer warning), and at some point I found myself wondering whether what I was watching was still actually suitable for teenagers. Despite the graphic material it most definately is, for it serves as one big warning against the destructive behaviour teenagers can wreck amongst their peers; slut shaming, gay shaming, sending nude pictures around, but also more serious crimes as assault, theft, and rape. The school ('Liberty High') is one of the most stereotypical American high school since Grease; the jocks and cheerleaders are at the top of the pecking order, and everybody else is a loser, a nerd, a weirdo, or a combination of all three. But finding themselves in a perilous situation draws kids from several groups together, and the series gives great insight into the thought processes of these characters; will they be loyal to the group, or will they throw somebody under the bus just to save their own skin?
In a similar vein, but of much lower quality (both in plot and acting) was the film I saw last week; Before I fall. This could best be described as 'Groundhog Day set in yet another stereotypical American highschool'; one of the most popular girls does nothing as one of her classmates is bullied and ultimately commits suicide, and as penance she has to relive the day over and over again, until she realises how she can get out of it. Yet again, almost every character except for the main character was pretty unlikeable; the popular girls are mean backstabbers, the popular guys are entitled drunks, and the unpopular kids are so weird and desocialized that it is almost impossible to feel sorry for them. On the bright side; both stories do contain a likeable friend character who stands by the protagonist even when things get tough.
(On a sidenote; both 13 reasons why and Before I fall are based on books. It feels like it is almost impossible to find a film or series based on an actually original story anymore; to play it safe, to be assured of good returns, production companies seem fixed on only pouring money in projects in those projects that have already been successful on paper.)
So looking back on both, I am in doubt; is this good watching material for teens? The message is pretty clear, but does it work out that way? If I had watched these series when I was around 15, I would probably have identified with the nerdy smart kids, mainly because there are no 'normal' teenagers in these series. Everything is black-and-white; you are either a very popular sporty type, or a non-popular loser type. Most teenagers will identify with the second category. What these stories tell us, is that you can only act and influence the story line when you are with the popular crowd, or when you are prepared to make yourself very unpopular and break all social norms. Helping someone and just being a 'normal' person is practically impossible. So most characters stay on the sideline, knowing what is going on but not acting, afraid of being called out, of becoming a loser, of losing their reputation. The main characters in both the series and the film do act, of course, or they wouldn't be the protagonist, but it has pretty devastating consequences for both of them. Easier to be an onlooker, to not get involved, to stay safe. Not really the message angsty teens should be getting, in my opinion.
Let's hope that the overly stereotypical depiction of high school will help teenagers who watch this stories realise that the characters, their actions, and the results are overly black-and-white too, and that in real life it is possible to help someone without falling down the social ladder into loser-zone. Otherwise, series and films like these generate exactly the opposite effect of what they intend to do.
Sunday, 16 April 2017
The Handmaid's Tale
I loved The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer, which I read for some of my medieval literature classes. They are funny, to the point, highly descriptive of the society he found himself in; like a window on life as it was 700 years ago.
My most recent read, The Haindmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, could well be a lost Canterbury tale, only not set in a distant past, but in a strangely familiar parallel present. The US as we know it no longer exists, but has been overthrown in a religious rebellion during which the government was shot, the Constitution suspended, and ordinarily life made impossible. Although this is not true for everybody; it is mostly the women who suffer. They are not allowed to have jobs or property (including money) anymore, and must function as breeding machines or servants for the Commanders, the leaders of this group of religious rebels. From the flashbacks the main character has, this must all have taken place some time during the nineties, which in a weird way always gives me some sort of relief; the time described has already passed, so this will not come to pass.
Which is of course nonsense; the whole rebellion as it is described is thought out very carefully, and with a few smartly planted attacks and actions, the whole system collapses. And nobody really riots, or resists. And those that do resist are hanged publicly. So people fall into place, and into step, and try to forget the memories and ideas they used to have, and try to become the automated robots they have to be in order to survive in this new world.
To avoid any confusion, let me be clear on one thing; this religious group is in no way islamist. They are a Christian group, calling themselves the Sons of Jacob, who follow the Bible to the letter (the letter that they find suits their purposes best, of course, as the book has some internal conflicting passages). So no more abortions, alcohol, etc. Breeding is a woman's main purpose, and the protagonist (Offred, who is owned by Fred, thus Of-Fred) is kept as a Handmaiden by one of the Commanders, as his own Wife cannot conceive anymore. Monthly, he tries to impregnate her, to bring the declining population numbers up to scratch. This reads as awful as it sounds. But strangely enough, this is not the bit about the book that is most disturbing. What haunted me the most, apart from how easily everything changed, was the way the main character tried to brainwash herself, how much she tried to fit in in a society that she despised. Because there was no other way, except suicide, which she of course contemplates on several occasions.
Just as The Canterbury Tales shed light on daily life in the Middle Ages, so does Margaret Atwood analyze our society, and how little is needed to change it. The protagonist's mother was an avid feminist, but Offred took many things for granted, things that the generation before her had to fight to gain. The central message to us may be; if you don't know what you stand to loose, you won't fight as hard to keep it. It is a fascinating read, I was surprised to see it written in 1985, for it could be written yesterday given how relevant its themes still are. It is a thorough analysis and warning to us all.
My most recent read, The Haindmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, could well be a lost Canterbury tale, only not set in a distant past, but in a strangely familiar parallel present. The US as we know it no longer exists, but has been overthrown in a religious rebellion during which the government was shot, the Constitution suspended, and ordinarily life made impossible. Although this is not true for everybody; it is mostly the women who suffer. They are not allowed to have jobs or property (including money) anymore, and must function as breeding machines or servants for the Commanders, the leaders of this group of religious rebels. From the flashbacks the main character has, this must all have taken place some time during the nineties, which in a weird way always gives me some sort of relief; the time described has already passed, so this will not come to pass.
Which is of course nonsense; the whole rebellion as it is described is thought out very carefully, and with a few smartly planted attacks and actions, the whole system collapses. And nobody really riots, or resists. And those that do resist are hanged publicly. So people fall into place, and into step, and try to forget the memories and ideas they used to have, and try to become the automated robots they have to be in order to survive in this new world.
To avoid any confusion, let me be clear on one thing; this religious group is in no way islamist. They are a Christian group, calling themselves the Sons of Jacob, who follow the Bible to the letter (the letter that they find suits their purposes best, of course, as the book has some internal conflicting passages). So no more abortions, alcohol, etc. Breeding is a woman's main purpose, and the protagonist (Offred, who is owned by Fred, thus Of-Fred) is kept as a Handmaiden by one of the Commanders, as his own Wife cannot conceive anymore. Monthly, he tries to impregnate her, to bring the declining population numbers up to scratch. This reads as awful as it sounds. But strangely enough, this is not the bit about the book that is most disturbing. What haunted me the most, apart from how easily everything changed, was the way the main character tried to brainwash herself, how much she tried to fit in in a society that she despised. Because there was no other way, except suicide, which she of course contemplates on several occasions.
Just as The Canterbury Tales shed light on daily life in the Middle Ages, so does Margaret Atwood analyze our society, and how little is needed to change it. The protagonist's mother was an avid feminist, but Offred took many things for granted, things that the generation before her had to fight to gain. The central message to us may be; if you don't know what you stand to loose, you won't fight as hard to keep it. It is a fascinating read, I was surprised to see it written in 1985, for it could be written yesterday given how relevant its themes still are. It is a thorough analysis and warning to us all.
Friday, 31 March 2017
Last Orders
As I am a big fan of Man Booker Prize winners, and discovered I really liked the writing of Graham Swift (I was sure I'd written a blog post about Mothering Sunday, but it turns out I only mentioned that novel in my 'Books of 2016' list, where it came second), reading Last Orders, the novel that won Swift the Man Booker in 1996 seemed like the most logical next step. It took me a while to get it, because apparently the Groningen book shop is not that big on Swift (I've been waiting for Wish you were here to come in for about 3 weeks now). But there it was at last, pint glass featured prominently on the cover. I'd already read somewhere that the Booker win was a bit controversial, as Swift seemed to have borrowed the main plot line from William Faulkner, but since I've never read As I Lay Dying (although now I want to), this didn't really bother me too much.
So, Last Orders. It's about beer, a lot of it, but it's mostly about men. Their relationships (friendships, fathers and sons, wives), their professions, their lives, their pastimes. The main plot takes place in one day, as Ray, Lenny, Vince and Vic drive from London to Margate to scatter the ashes of their friend and father; Jack. During the drive, each of them has a series of flashbacks to earlier events, mostly concerning the other three, Jack, their children, or their wives. It is as if Jack's death has brought upon them the need to take score of their lives, to see what life (and Jack) has brought them.
Now the perspective screwed me up a bit in the beginning. Some chapters are titled after the point of view character (Ray, Vince, Mandy), and some are named after the location the group is in. But all of those 'location' chapters are also voiced by Ray. It took me a while to figure that out, also because I tend to remember characters by the first letter of their name, and I kept mixing up Vic and Vince (same thing that happened with Jude and JB in A Little Life). Because of this, it took me a while to get into the novel. However, it feels as if Swift was prepared for that, because the relationships are confusing in the beginning, but gradually become clearer and clearer as we get to know the characters, their stories, and their relationships better. And there is a lot to know.
This is a very heavy, multi-layered novel, although it doesn't feel that way when you read it. However, I felt not everything was developed to the fullest. There are some interesting parallels; Jack the butcher and Vic the undertaker, both 'used to handling bodies', who have their shops on opposing sides of the same street. But this is merely a statement, something said in passing, but not taken any further. The same is true for all the children Jack seems to 'adopt' in his life; Vince is his true adoptive son, but he adopted Ray during WWII, and Lenny's daughter Sally in her childhood. But the connections between these people, or what they meant to Jack, are never really worked out. We get glimpses, and other characters' thoughts on it, but that's that.
Nevertheless, it is a great novel to read. The plot is pretty predictable, but that is not what such a novel is about. It's about the language, the hidden meanings, the short chapters in between that throw a whole different light on a scene, a person, or a memory. The whole story can tilt or shift with just one sentence. However, compared to Mothering Sunday, Swift had not fully developed the style of writing that I loved so much in the latter novel. This felt familiar, as Ian McEwan won the Man Booker with Amsterdam in 1998, which is also great, but no where near his masterpieces Atonement and Saturday in style and plot and nuance (I know I keep blabbing on about McEwan, but he just happens to be my favourite author). So in a way, this felt like discovering the roots of Swifts writing style, and I will now try to follow his development through to his last novel. That is, if the book shop decides to cooperate.
So, Last Orders. It's about beer, a lot of it, but it's mostly about men. Their relationships (friendships, fathers and sons, wives), their professions, their lives, their pastimes. The main plot takes place in one day, as Ray, Lenny, Vince and Vic drive from London to Margate to scatter the ashes of their friend and father; Jack. During the drive, each of them has a series of flashbacks to earlier events, mostly concerning the other three, Jack, their children, or their wives. It is as if Jack's death has brought upon them the need to take score of their lives, to see what life (and Jack) has brought them.
Now the perspective screwed me up a bit in the beginning. Some chapters are titled after the point of view character (Ray, Vince, Mandy), and some are named after the location the group is in. But all of those 'location' chapters are also voiced by Ray. It took me a while to figure that out, also because I tend to remember characters by the first letter of their name, and I kept mixing up Vic and Vince (same thing that happened with Jude and JB in A Little Life). Because of this, it took me a while to get into the novel. However, it feels as if Swift was prepared for that, because the relationships are confusing in the beginning, but gradually become clearer and clearer as we get to know the characters, their stories, and their relationships better. And there is a lot to know.
This is a very heavy, multi-layered novel, although it doesn't feel that way when you read it. However, I felt not everything was developed to the fullest. There are some interesting parallels; Jack the butcher and Vic the undertaker, both 'used to handling bodies', who have their shops on opposing sides of the same street. But this is merely a statement, something said in passing, but not taken any further. The same is true for all the children Jack seems to 'adopt' in his life; Vince is his true adoptive son, but he adopted Ray during WWII, and Lenny's daughter Sally in her childhood. But the connections between these people, or what they meant to Jack, are never really worked out. We get glimpses, and other characters' thoughts on it, but that's that.
Nevertheless, it is a great novel to read. The plot is pretty predictable, but that is not what such a novel is about. It's about the language, the hidden meanings, the short chapters in between that throw a whole different light on a scene, a person, or a memory. The whole story can tilt or shift with just one sentence. However, compared to Mothering Sunday, Swift had not fully developed the style of writing that I loved so much in the latter novel. This felt familiar, as Ian McEwan won the Man Booker with Amsterdam in 1998, which is also great, but no where near his masterpieces Atonement and Saturday in style and plot and nuance (I know I keep blabbing on about McEwan, but he just happens to be my favourite author). So in a way, this felt like discovering the roots of Swifts writing style, and I will now try to follow his development through to his last novel. That is, if the book shop decides to cooperate.
Sunday, 12 February 2017
Juliet, Naked
Whenever I stand in front of my bookcases thinking 'I have nothing to read', I feel a bit like one of those stereotypical women who have tried out a dozen outfits and decide that they have 'nothing to wear'. I have over 200 books in my house, surely, I have more than enough to read? The point is, of course, that I don't have the book that I want to/need to read right at that moment. About once or twice a year I get into a weird mood, book-wise; a mood in which I just cannot find the book that fits. Usually, I then reread novels I have already read. Getting started in a new book would only spoil the new book because I will invariably not 'get into it', and throw it aside after a couple of chapters. Rereading familiar stories is a safer bet.
After finishing The Sellout, which put me in a bit of a gloomy mood, I was looking for something lighthearted. Interestingly, I do not own many lighthearted novels. Even the ones that I do have, such as the Jasper Fforde novels, or anything by David Nicholls, have a serious literary undertone. I usually take to rereading Bridget Jones's Diary, but the new film has put me somewhat off. So my safest bet was Nick Hornby.
I love almost everything Nick Hornby has written, be it novels, short stories, reviews, or screenplays. You have probably seen a movie adaptation of one of his novels (High Fidelity or About a Boy) or one of the films he actually wrote (An Education, Wild, Brooklyn). I own all of his novels with the exception of How to be Good, for reasons I cannot explain. This time, I settled on Juliet, Naked.
Now I mentioned that I was looking for something lighthearted, and Nick Hornby may not be the first person that comes to mind. Almost all of his novels are populated by characters that are lonely, suicidal, depressed, and generally unsure what direction their life is supposed to take (A Long Way Down, one of my other favourites, is a good example: four people meet at the top of a building because they all planned to commit suicide by jumping off it). So why call it lighthearted? Because he brings these subjects with a funny note, not ha-ha funny but with a lightness and an irony that cannot help but bring a smile to your face. His novels deal with very heavy subjects, but they do not feel heavy, they feel light and manageable.
Juliet, Naked centers around Duncan and Annie, a couple in their late thirties living in a small seaside town in the north of England. Duncan is a great fan of Tucker Crowe, a has-been singer from the eighties who has mysteriously disappeared after his last album, Juliet. Annie is not that big of a fan, but for the past fifteen years she has let herself being dragged along in Duncan's obsession. However, when Tucker suddenly releases a new album, Juliet, Naked, their opinions clash and they both have to reconsider what it is they want out of life. Needless to say, things don't end that well between them. Breaking up a fifteen year relationship because of a music album? This is all very real in a Nick Hornby novel.
However, the Duncan/Annie story is just half of the novel. The other half is about Tucker himself. And this is where the novel got a bit more personal than Nick Hornby's other novels. Tucker, by now, is in his late fifties, no longer an alcoholic, no longer an artist, and basically living off the latest wife that thinks she will be able to sort him out and put him back to rights. He has a six year old son, who is constantly worried that his father will suddenly drop dead on him. This existential angst somehow creeps into Tucker's mind too, especially when more and more of his forgotten children try to find their way back into his life. Tucker Crowe is by far the oldest main character a Nick Hornby novel has ever had, and the whole feeling of 'my youth is now truly over' permeates throughout the novel. When he wrote it, he was nowhere near sixty, but he is advancing upon that age pretty quickly now. The Tucker Crowe storyline felt, upon rereading, as one of his most realistic and heartfelt in all of his novels.
So did I get my lighthearted distraction novel? In a way, yes. But somehow, the 'I don't know what I want to read' mood hasn't been lifted, so I will continue to reread until I find myself looking for something new. I may end up diving into The Hunger Games or Harry Potter just to snap out of it, but for now I'll stick to one of my favourite David Mitchells. Desperate times...
After finishing The Sellout, which put me in a bit of a gloomy mood, I was looking for something lighthearted. Interestingly, I do not own many lighthearted novels. Even the ones that I do have, such as the Jasper Fforde novels, or anything by David Nicholls, have a serious literary undertone. I usually take to rereading Bridget Jones's Diary, but the new film has put me somewhat off. So my safest bet was Nick Hornby.
I love almost everything Nick Hornby has written, be it novels, short stories, reviews, or screenplays. You have probably seen a movie adaptation of one of his novels (High Fidelity or About a Boy) or one of the films he actually wrote (An Education, Wild, Brooklyn). I own all of his novels with the exception of How to be Good, for reasons I cannot explain. This time, I settled on Juliet, Naked.
Now I mentioned that I was looking for something lighthearted, and Nick Hornby may not be the first person that comes to mind. Almost all of his novels are populated by characters that are lonely, suicidal, depressed, and generally unsure what direction their life is supposed to take (A Long Way Down, one of my other favourites, is a good example: four people meet at the top of a building because they all planned to commit suicide by jumping off it). So why call it lighthearted? Because he brings these subjects with a funny note, not ha-ha funny but with a lightness and an irony that cannot help but bring a smile to your face. His novels deal with very heavy subjects, but they do not feel heavy, they feel light and manageable.
Juliet, Naked centers around Duncan and Annie, a couple in their late thirties living in a small seaside town in the north of England. Duncan is a great fan of Tucker Crowe, a has-been singer from the eighties who has mysteriously disappeared after his last album, Juliet. Annie is not that big of a fan, but for the past fifteen years she has let herself being dragged along in Duncan's obsession. However, when Tucker suddenly releases a new album, Juliet, Naked, their opinions clash and they both have to reconsider what it is they want out of life. Needless to say, things don't end that well between them. Breaking up a fifteen year relationship because of a music album? This is all very real in a Nick Hornby novel.
However, the Duncan/Annie story is just half of the novel. The other half is about Tucker himself. And this is where the novel got a bit more personal than Nick Hornby's other novels. Tucker, by now, is in his late fifties, no longer an alcoholic, no longer an artist, and basically living off the latest wife that thinks she will be able to sort him out and put him back to rights. He has a six year old son, who is constantly worried that his father will suddenly drop dead on him. This existential angst somehow creeps into Tucker's mind too, especially when more and more of his forgotten children try to find their way back into his life. Tucker Crowe is by far the oldest main character a Nick Hornby novel has ever had, and the whole feeling of 'my youth is now truly over' permeates throughout the novel. When he wrote it, he was nowhere near sixty, but he is advancing upon that age pretty quickly now. The Tucker Crowe storyline felt, upon rereading, as one of his most realistic and heartfelt in all of his novels.
So did I get my lighthearted distraction novel? In a way, yes. But somehow, the 'I don't know what I want to read' mood hasn't been lifted, so I will continue to reread until I find myself looking for something new. I may end up diving into The Hunger Games or Harry Potter just to snap out of it, but for now I'll stick to one of my favourite David Mitchells. Desperate times...
Monday, 6 February 2017
The Sellout
I don't read a lot of American novels. This is not a genuine hardline decision or anything, it just happens to be that almost all of my favourite authors are British writers. This is probably a style thing, or maybe a culture thing. When I took American literature classes in university, I was told the early American writers tried to radically break away from the British style of writing to create their own cultural legacy (same is true for theatre, painting, music, etc). And while reading something, I usually have a pretty good idea whether the author is a Brit or an American (in my opinion: too much show, not enough tell). And 'American' doesn't mean I'll automatically dislike it; I have read some American classics that I liked, and Richard Yates is one of my favourite authors. But to be honest, I never would have read The Sellout if it wouldn't have been the first American novel to win the Man Booker Prize. I always read the Man Booker Prize winner, so I simply had to read this novel too.
The Sellout was written by Paul Beatty, as he said in interviews, because "he was broke". This is probably meant satirically, as every scrap of text I've ever read about The Sellout mentioned the word 'satire' in one of the first three lines. However, I didn't really get all of the satire. Or in other words; I found this book to be more dark and sad than satirical, probably because I don't live in the US and missed a lot of the cultural references. But to me, it felt like a seriously dark novel, with a dark message.
So what is it about? In the prologue we meet the protagonist, who faces trial in the Supreme Court because he has been keeping a black man as a slave. The 'satirical' part of this is that the protagonist himself is also a black man. And that his father has been indoctrinating him on black history and black rights all his life, and that he has been 'resegragating' his hometown of Dickens (and keeping the slave) to enforce black rights. This is basically what the novel deals with; a black man, living on a farm in the middle of a city, resegragating busses and schools and painting a white line around where his hometown used to be to make everything better for everyone. Sounds like a tragic hero to me, but apparently, it was all meant to be satirical. I don't think I had one proper laugh while reading this novel, I just felt sorry for almost every single character in it, but most of all for the protagonist.
Some reviewers have compared Beatty to Mark Twain, but that must just be because of the racial thing, because Mark Twain's writing had a sharpness and a wit to it that I failed to see in The Sellout. But again; maybe I'm just missing a lot of cultural references and subtext an American reader would get.
It's funny, I've visited the US twice now, and the thing that struck me most both times is how different it is from Europe. When I visited China or Jordan or Mozambique, I noticed the similarities, the things that connect us, even though our cultures are so very different. In the US, where you somehow expect things to be very similar, it's the differences that stand out. I think I can group The Sellout with those differences; this is a novel I as a European don't understand in the way an American would. And that is probably why I didn't like it very much. This was only the second novel I've read this year, and it took me a really long time to get through. Not because the reading was hard or because the subject matter was so heavy, but because it didn't grip me. I couldn't really be bothered to find out what would happen next. And that must be a death sentence to any good story.
For the first American novel to win the Man Booker it is an apt choice, because this is by far the most 'American' American novel I've read in a long time. But in a way, that made it less like a Man Booker winner to me.
The Sellout was written by Paul Beatty, as he said in interviews, because "he was broke". This is probably meant satirically, as every scrap of text I've ever read about The Sellout mentioned the word 'satire' in one of the first three lines. However, I didn't really get all of the satire. Or in other words; I found this book to be more dark and sad than satirical, probably because I don't live in the US and missed a lot of the cultural references. But to me, it felt like a seriously dark novel, with a dark message.
So what is it about? In the prologue we meet the protagonist, who faces trial in the Supreme Court because he has been keeping a black man as a slave. The 'satirical' part of this is that the protagonist himself is also a black man. And that his father has been indoctrinating him on black history and black rights all his life, and that he has been 'resegragating' his hometown of Dickens (and keeping the slave) to enforce black rights. This is basically what the novel deals with; a black man, living on a farm in the middle of a city, resegragating busses and schools and painting a white line around where his hometown used to be to make everything better for everyone. Sounds like a tragic hero to me, but apparently, it was all meant to be satirical. I don't think I had one proper laugh while reading this novel, I just felt sorry for almost every single character in it, but most of all for the protagonist.
Some reviewers have compared Beatty to Mark Twain, but that must just be because of the racial thing, because Mark Twain's writing had a sharpness and a wit to it that I failed to see in The Sellout. But again; maybe I'm just missing a lot of cultural references and subtext an American reader would get.
It's funny, I've visited the US twice now, and the thing that struck me most both times is how different it is from Europe. When I visited China or Jordan or Mozambique, I noticed the similarities, the things that connect us, even though our cultures are so very different. In the US, where you somehow expect things to be very similar, it's the differences that stand out. I think I can group The Sellout with those differences; this is a novel I as a European don't understand in the way an American would. And that is probably why I didn't like it very much. This was only the second novel I've read this year, and it took me a really long time to get through. Not because the reading was hard or because the subject matter was so heavy, but because it didn't grip me. I couldn't really be bothered to find out what would happen next. And that must be a death sentence to any good story.
For the first American novel to win the Man Booker it is an apt choice, because this is by far the most 'American' American novel I've read in a long time. But in a way, that made it less like a Man Booker winner to me.
Sunday, 29 January 2017
Sherlock
As mentioned a while back, Sherlock is one of only a handful of programmes that I actually watch on TV. For those not in the know; Sherlock is a television series about Sherlock Holmes, a detective living at 221B Baker Street and solving crimes together with John Watson. If that all sounds familiar, that is kind of the point. The episodes are 1.5 hours and three a season, after which we have to wait two years for the next season. Why so long? The main characters are played by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, and they have been quite busy over the past few years, traipsing around New Zealand pretending to be hobbits and dragons, for one thing.
So it is rather a long wait. But it is worth it. The makers (Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss) have really brought the nineteenth century Sherlock Holmes to life, with all his weird habits and personality, but in a very modern coat. Watson's diary has become a blog, where the old war veteran (still Afghanistan, ironically) gives his accounts of Sherlock's work (who likes to communicate more by mobile phone). The opium addiction is still there, in a modern sense, as is the ignorant police detective and the busy landlady, with a sharp feminist touch. The episode titles refer to Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories, but often with a twist. A Study in Scarlet becomes A Study in Pink, The Sign of Four becomes The Sign of Three, etcetera. Plot-wise the episodes are only very losely based on the originals, but that's fine. We have the proper characters in a modern-day setting, it wouldn't do to keep everything else the same.
There are many Sherlock Holmes adaptations around these days, so what makes this one special? The big obvious thing is the Cumberbatch-Freeman connection. They have an undeniable chemistry, not just in character, but they clearly get along very well (the Internet has found enough material for slash fiction to last us at least a decade). But the rest of the cast is well-picked too. Gatiss himself plays an elitist, arrogant Mycroft, while Martin Freeman's real-life girlfriend plays Mary, his kick-ass wife in the series. They just work together. Apart from the great cast, the storylines are just brilliant. It is one of those series that takes its viewers extremely seriously. The cases are difficult and mysterious (and we only get the difficult and mysterious ones, because all the mundane ones are waved aside with a 'boring!' by Sherlock), and there are several plot lines spanning multiple seasons, so characters keep resurfacing where you don't expect them. The images are grey and dark and a bit gritty, but not in an overdone way. This is still very much modern day London.
Now all of this sounds great. And all of it is true, for the first three seasons. The fourth season came out on the first of January, and I am sad to say that episode 4.01 was the worst I have ever seen. It didn't grip me in any way, even with the harrow plot twist at the end. I won't spoil too much, as this is a series easily spoiled, and you won't see what is coming until it is right in front of you.
But what went wrong? In my opinion, the BBC fell into the trap it set for itself when it marketed Sherlock, amongst many other series, as "Real drama". The BBC has been producing a lot of drama series over the past few years, and now they've thrown them all (costume drama, Dr Who, Eastenders and the rest) on one big piled and marketed themselves as the drama channel. But Sherlock has been wonderfully drama-free so far. Sherlock can be an absolute ass to Watson, but he doesn't go moping about that to someone else. He just lets it slide, or has a good comeback. But in the fourth series, everything became very soap seriesy. Including 'I never want to see you again!' shout-outs in the middle of dark streets. Luckily, in the second and third episodes, things got back to normal a bit, but still; somehow it doesn't feel the same anymore. It is as if the world of television has creeped into this nice little cocoon that Sherlock has always been, as if the laws of drama series have imposed themselves upon the script.
Moffat and Gatiss have announced that the fourth season will be the last for now, but that they keep the possibility of a fifth season open. I hope they take a nice long break, generate new ideas for the fantastic characters they have created, and bring back the old Sherlock in style; drama-free, intelligent detective work. Until then; the first seasons are on Netflix, ready for (re)watching!
So it is rather a long wait. But it is worth it. The makers (Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss) have really brought the nineteenth century Sherlock Holmes to life, with all his weird habits and personality, but in a very modern coat. Watson's diary has become a blog, where the old war veteran (still Afghanistan, ironically) gives his accounts of Sherlock's work (who likes to communicate more by mobile phone). The opium addiction is still there, in a modern sense, as is the ignorant police detective and the busy landlady, with a sharp feminist touch. The episode titles refer to Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories, but often with a twist. A Study in Scarlet becomes A Study in Pink, The Sign of Four becomes The Sign of Three, etcetera. Plot-wise the episodes are only very losely based on the originals, but that's fine. We have the proper characters in a modern-day setting, it wouldn't do to keep everything else the same.
There are many Sherlock Holmes adaptations around these days, so what makes this one special? The big obvious thing is the Cumberbatch-Freeman connection. They have an undeniable chemistry, not just in character, but they clearly get along very well (the Internet has found enough material for slash fiction to last us at least a decade). But the rest of the cast is well-picked too. Gatiss himself plays an elitist, arrogant Mycroft, while Martin Freeman's real-life girlfriend plays Mary, his kick-ass wife in the series. They just work together. Apart from the great cast, the storylines are just brilliant. It is one of those series that takes its viewers extremely seriously. The cases are difficult and mysterious (and we only get the difficult and mysterious ones, because all the mundane ones are waved aside with a 'boring!' by Sherlock), and there are several plot lines spanning multiple seasons, so characters keep resurfacing where you don't expect them. The images are grey and dark and a bit gritty, but not in an overdone way. This is still very much modern day London.
Now all of this sounds great. And all of it is true, for the first three seasons. The fourth season came out on the first of January, and I am sad to say that episode 4.01 was the worst I have ever seen. It didn't grip me in any way, even with the harrow plot twist at the end. I won't spoil too much, as this is a series easily spoiled, and you won't see what is coming until it is right in front of you.
But what went wrong? In my opinion, the BBC fell into the trap it set for itself when it marketed Sherlock, amongst many other series, as "Real drama". The BBC has been producing a lot of drama series over the past few years, and now they've thrown them all (costume drama, Dr Who, Eastenders and the rest) on one big piled and marketed themselves as the drama channel. But Sherlock has been wonderfully drama-free so far. Sherlock can be an absolute ass to Watson, but he doesn't go moping about that to someone else. He just lets it slide, or has a good comeback. But in the fourth series, everything became very soap seriesy. Including 'I never want to see you again!' shout-outs in the middle of dark streets. Luckily, in the second and third episodes, things got back to normal a bit, but still; somehow it doesn't feel the same anymore. It is as if the world of television has creeped into this nice little cocoon that Sherlock has always been, as if the laws of drama series have imposed themselves upon the script.
Moffat and Gatiss have announced that the fourth season will be the last for now, but that they keep the possibility of a fifth season open. I hope they take a nice long break, generate new ideas for the fantastic characters they have created, and bring back the old Sherlock in style; drama-free, intelligent detective work. Until then; the first seasons are on Netflix, ready for (re)watching!
Saturday, 21 January 2017
Survival mode
So these last two weeks I've been running on what I call 'survival mode'. This sounds very dramatic, but what it basically means is that I've been busy. Really busy. Not just with work stuff (although I do go quite a bit over the amount of hours agreed to when I was employed) but also with a lot of social things. Late nights, little sleep, lots to do, and not a lot of time to just sit back and relax.
So at some point during such busy times, my 'survival mode' kicks in. This means shutting down of all processes not strictly necessary, and focusing on the 'essentials'. During this time, I turn into the most efficient planning machine known to man ('efficient' seems to be a word people use a lot to describe me at any time, but it may be a bit disconcerting during survival mode): doing the things that need doing in the most logical and least time consuming order, delegating when possible, and letting everything else just fall by the wayside. This can take extreme forms: I find myself not taking off my shoes because I know I have to leave the house again in an hour's time, and taking them off and putting them back on again just takes too long. Or I will ask people to do the most mundane things for me (throw away used coffee cups) because it saves me a trip. Usually, when I catch myself doing those things, I can laugh at myself and tell myself I'm taking things a bit too far.
But the scarier part of this goes on inside my head, and I usually don't realise that until it's over. What happens is that I can only think in terms of actions. What do I need to do? How much time does it take? How important is it compared to the other things I still have to do? Is it dependent on the outcome of something else? Can I delegate it? What will people think if I don't do that thing? It's all about planning the next step, the next move. Things such as feelings or ideas, creative processes or general opinions just disappear from my head all together. I can look at angry people in amazement: who can waste time and put energy into something as mundane as being angry or annoyed? I waste no time in idle chit-chat, and talk about work stuff even during lunch breaks, because why would I spend time talking about someone's private life? When people ask me what I think of something, I can make up an opinion off the top of my head, but it's generally a then-and-there thing, not something I've been mulling over for a while. And even when I sleep, my head doesn't waste any time; I basically stop dreaming. Now I usually dream a lot, and quite vividly too, but I know I've entered survival mode when that stops.
Reading back the above, this sounds quite scary, but when I'm in survival mode, I don't realise that. I just keep on going. It's when I get out of it, and start having opinions, discussions, dreams, and conversations about movies or politics or holidays again that I realise; I have been removed from the real world. I was there, I took part, but I in my head I was somewhere else.
Basically, what it boils down to, is that I've been too busy. Not too stressed, because I don't suffer from the situation and can get out if it pretty quickly, but just doing too many things in a too short period of time. I haven't taken enough 'me time' (oh, how brattish that sounds). Generally I'm pretty good at focusing on the here and now, and taking time to read or write or just sit and think, but there are times when this 'mindfull' state of being is just not possible. Yes, I just wrote about 'mindfullness', and to get really new-agey, I have a quote for you:
When you are depressed you are living in the past
When you are anxious you are living in the future
When you are at peace you are living in the present
This is by Lao Tzu, and it doesn't really completely apply to my survival mode, but I still try to remind myself of it every now and then.
This morning I woke up with my head full of dreams, intentions to be creative (write, bake, blog) and the energy to take a long walk. To be sure, I have left my survival mode and am back in the real world. And I don't think my survival mode is a bad thing per se, because it gets me through the (sometimes unavoidable) busy times, being able to do everything I want without forgetting essential things or actions or people, but I prefer the creative, active, opinionated me. And after such a busy period, in the sharp contrast to the survival mode me, I like this me even better.
So at some point during such busy times, my 'survival mode' kicks in. This means shutting down of all processes not strictly necessary, and focusing on the 'essentials'. During this time, I turn into the most efficient planning machine known to man ('efficient' seems to be a word people use a lot to describe me at any time, but it may be a bit disconcerting during survival mode): doing the things that need doing in the most logical and least time consuming order, delegating when possible, and letting everything else just fall by the wayside. This can take extreme forms: I find myself not taking off my shoes because I know I have to leave the house again in an hour's time, and taking them off and putting them back on again just takes too long. Or I will ask people to do the most mundane things for me (throw away used coffee cups) because it saves me a trip. Usually, when I catch myself doing those things, I can laugh at myself and tell myself I'm taking things a bit too far.
But the scarier part of this goes on inside my head, and I usually don't realise that until it's over. What happens is that I can only think in terms of actions. What do I need to do? How much time does it take? How important is it compared to the other things I still have to do? Is it dependent on the outcome of something else? Can I delegate it? What will people think if I don't do that thing? It's all about planning the next step, the next move. Things such as feelings or ideas, creative processes or general opinions just disappear from my head all together. I can look at angry people in amazement: who can waste time and put energy into something as mundane as being angry or annoyed? I waste no time in idle chit-chat, and talk about work stuff even during lunch breaks, because why would I spend time talking about someone's private life? When people ask me what I think of something, I can make up an opinion off the top of my head, but it's generally a then-and-there thing, not something I've been mulling over for a while. And even when I sleep, my head doesn't waste any time; I basically stop dreaming. Now I usually dream a lot, and quite vividly too, but I know I've entered survival mode when that stops.
Reading back the above, this sounds quite scary, but when I'm in survival mode, I don't realise that. I just keep on going. It's when I get out of it, and start having opinions, discussions, dreams, and conversations about movies or politics or holidays again that I realise; I have been removed from the real world. I was there, I took part, but I in my head I was somewhere else.
Basically, what it boils down to, is that I've been too busy. Not too stressed, because I don't suffer from the situation and can get out if it pretty quickly, but just doing too many things in a too short period of time. I haven't taken enough 'me time' (oh, how brattish that sounds). Generally I'm pretty good at focusing on the here and now, and taking time to read or write or just sit and think, but there are times when this 'mindfull' state of being is just not possible. Yes, I just wrote about 'mindfullness', and to get really new-agey, I have a quote for you:
When you are depressed you are living in the past
When you are anxious you are living in the future
When you are at peace you are living in the present
This is by Lao Tzu, and it doesn't really completely apply to my survival mode, but I still try to remind myself of it every now and then.
This morning I woke up with my head full of dreams, intentions to be creative (write, bake, blog) and the energy to take a long walk. To be sure, I have left my survival mode and am back in the real world. And I don't think my survival mode is a bad thing per se, because it gets me through the (sometimes unavoidable) busy times, being able to do everything I want without forgetting essential things or actions or people, but I prefer the creative, active, opinionated me. And after such a busy period, in the sharp contrast to the survival mode me, I like this me even better.
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