Critical Monkey entry #1 - Twilight, or, Bella feels chagrined and Edward chuckles.

For my first entry in my personal Critical Monkey list, I thought I'd go big or go home, and tackle a publishing juggernaut of almost unprecedented size:

Twilight, by Stephenie Meyer.

Why I might hate it: Let's face it, a near-forty-year-old man is not the target demographic for a tale of high school vampire romance. Also, Stephen King hated it, and while his output may have waned over the years, the man's a born storyteller with a true grasp of the craft of writing, and I'm inclined to follow his lead on this one. And the absolute saturation of the media with any and all things Twilight-related sets my teeth on edge. I mean, c'mon, she's written five books, and she accounted for one in seven books purchased in the U.S. during the first quarter of 2009. No one is that good, and my experience is that the more overblown sales of a book are, the worse the book is (see also: Tuesdays with Morrie) (Better yet, don't).

Why I might like it: The movie version, although I went in preparing to hate it, was actually not that bad. Yes, the special effects outright sucked, and the paleface makeup was laughable, but it was a movie of surprising quiet moments and effective atmosphere. Not a great flick, and nowhere near as good as the Harry Potter films (to make an analogy to another pop-culture landmark), but I was entertained despite myself. And despite my recent rant, I'm really not against re-examining the vampire mythos. I never agreed with the classic "can't be seen in a mirror" bit, and nothing is above a little tweaking now and then.

The book itself: Yee-ouch.

I went in with an open mind, I really did. The movie, as I said, had its moments, and gave me hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a reason for the hype beyond, well, hype. But what the movie proved is that gorgeous scenery and charismatic actors can go a long way toward rectifying piss-poor dialogue and repetitive, mundane writing. And what Twilight (the book) proves is that success is not dependent on talent. Because quite frankly, Twilight is one of the most embarrassingly amateurish novels down the pike in a good long while. And while I am aware that this may come across like the crank who can't get into today's music and pines for the olden days, I cannot fathom Meyer's success.

The plot, for those seven people out of the loop, follows Bella Swan, a seventeen-year-old girl come to live with her father in Washington State. At her high school, she becomes instantly attracted to Edward Cullen, a mysterious teen described thusly:

His skin...literally sparkled, like thousands of tiny diamonds were embedded in the surface. He lay perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted incandescent chest, his scintillating arms bare. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut...A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal.

And it goes on like this, again and again, pages of purple. I could excuse a little over-enthusiasm on the part of Bella, but fully half the novel is given over to how perfect Edward looks. Which helps him, I guess, as his actual personality is that of a total ass. He makes a big show of how badly he feels for Bella, as she's in complete danger whenever he's around, but he shows no restraint and therefore dooms her anyway to satisfy his own emotional needs. Actually, he is a monster.

But then again, Bella is a conceited shrew, so that axiom that there is someone for everyone is likely true. Certainly no one else could stand to be around either of them for ten minutes. Bella is one of the least likable characters I can recall, a whiny neurotic who complains endlessly about how no one understands her, likes her, or appreciates her, yet is surround be people who understand, like, and appreciate her. I understand it's written from her point of view, but she comes across like a complete narcissist. And there's nothing that says your central character must be likable, but somehow I'm not getting the vibe that we're supposed to dislike her.

But luckily for the plot, there's far more to Edward than being a self-centered dimwit. It turns out he's also a 100+-year-old vampire! (Sure, vampires that glow rather than die in sunlight, but, yeah, vampires, sure, let's go with that.) Which strikes one as odd because, for a centenarian, he provides little proof that he's learned anything over the years. Edward may look 18, but he should behave slightly older, I think. When you compare him to, say, Claudia, the 60-year-old vampire in a six-year old body in Anne Rice's Interview With the Vampire, Meyer's complete and utter lack of insight into the effects of age and experience on the psyche become even clearer. Edward does not come across as old, or even learned, but rather like a goth emo kid affecting a quasi-arch manner of affected speech that would come across as painfully annoying if it weren't so devastatingly dull.

I won't get into the actually mechanics of vampirism here, as Meyer is well within her rights to alter such mythological creatures to her whim. It would not matter a whit if her tale was in any way interesting. But it's not. It's boring. Utterly mundane and uninspired. And much of that can be ascribed to the fact that absolutely nothing remotely of any interest happens beyond two unlikable people mooning endlessly over each other. If there is a junior Harlequin Romance imprint, consider this a perfect example of the form.

Meyer does her plot no favours with the sort of amateurish hack writing that should make a tenth grader's creative writing homework, not a published author from an established press. Meyer never met an adverb she didn't use, and as every character angrily, hungrily, happily, sarcastically, or leeringly haunts the pages, Meyer's lack of actual talent becomes quite clear. Hardly a page flips by without Edward chuckling, or Bella feeling chagrined. I don't often recommend an author consult a thesaurus, but the advice in this instance is apt.


"But wait a moment, Corey!" I hear you ask (I have very good hearing). "This is a book for young adults! Don't overthink this, it's written more simply for a reason!" Point taken. There is an established (although arguable) tradition of writing with a slightly broader style for novels aimed at the younger set. But I put it to you that there is a wide difference between simple and simple-minded. And after having recently read Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book, Cory Doctorow's Little Brother, and Arthur Slade's The Hunchback Assignments, I am more convinced than ever that writing for young adults does not mean writing stupid. And while some have paralleled the ascension of Twilight and its sequels with the Harry Potter phenomenon, it only goes so far as sales, as Potter, while not art, was an entertaining and often gloriously exciting series.


Twilight is a spectacular waste, insipid and vapid. It is insultingly poor, and how anything this incompetent was allowed to pass through an editor's hands and into the public sphere is distressing.


Verdict: MONKEY WOULD DIG A DEEP DARK HOLE AND BURY THIS THING IF HE COULD


On the next Critical Monkey: Sure, taking on Twilight is like boxing a mountain (doesn't really get you anything), but for my next exercise in self-punishment, I take on the full roundhouse kick of Chuck Norris and The Justice Riders. But not right away, I need to recuperate.

Critical Monkey begins! Earth quivers in anticipation!

Ah, July 2. The Canadian holiday is over, the American one is fast approaching...let's read some soul-churning, stomach-clenching books!

As I descibed in a previous post, the point of Critical Monkey is very simple: take a book (or author) you've always avoided, for whatever reason, and force yourself to read it. Then, post a review, link to it in my comments section, and once a month I'll post an update for all participants. We're going for seven reviews over the course of a year, to correspond to the seven stages of grief:

1. Shock (one review)
2. Denial (two reviews)
3. Bargaining (three reviews)
4. Guilt (four reviews)
5. Anger (five reviews)
6. Depression (six reviews)
7. Acceptance (seven reviews)

At the end of the year (July 2010), survivors who complete the full gamut will have a chance at fabulous (read: cheap) prizes. I'll figure that out as we go along, but there will be a signed copy of Shelf Monkey, because let's face it, that's all I really have to offer.

So let's get on it, people! I'm already prepping my review of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight. I finished it on June 30, and it took me most of Canada Day to untangle myself from the fetal position where I lay for upward of twenty hours, moaning softly to myself.

Will the review be positive? Stay tuned, interested readers.

Bulwer-Lytton winners announced!

Just too much of a joy for me to contain: this year's winners of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been announced.

For those unaware, Bulwer-Lytton (named after Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton, the originator of the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night") is an annual contest to see who can come up with the worst opening sentence to the worst novel never written.

This year's winner, from the mind of David McKenzie, "a 55-year-old Quality Systems consultant and writer from Federal Way, Washington":

Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin’ off Nantucket Sound from the nor’east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.

More winners and runner-ups can be found here.

Monkey droppings - Far North by Marcel Theroux

On today's menu: the apocalypse, with a side of artistic license.






Far North
by Marcel Theroux
HarperCollins Canada, 296 pages, $29.99

Science fiction, as a genre, has always suffered from a decided lack of scholarly respect. Yet while ‘literary’ authors may be wary to dive into the space battles of tomorrow, the same cannot be said of one of science-fiction’s subsets, the post-apocalyptic novel, which regularly attracts the heavyweights with its promise of heady themes and bleak world outlook.

Writers as lauded as Margaret Atwood, P.D. James, and J.G. Ballard have routinely explored the world that lies just a plague, oil shortage, or nuclear blast away from ours. Cormac McCarthy recently won the Pulitzer Prize (and, more profitably, an Oprah endorsement) for The Road, a gruesomely bleak foray into the hell-blasted landscape of our future.

Marcel Theroux would appear to have the chops to successfully take on the subject. A British author and broadcaster, and son of celebrated American author Paul Theroux, he has carved a career for himself with well-received novels such as The Paperchase, earning himself the 2002 Somerset Maugham Award in the process.

Far North is Theroux’s attempt to present the Earth after society has all but given up the ghost for reasons left tantalizingly unclear, although there is talk of blighted areas and poisonous animals. His narrator is Makepeace, possibly the last person living in a settlement in northern Russia.

Humanity has reverted to a nomadic lifestyle where suspicion of one’s fellow man is the wisest choice of action. Makepeace understands that while there is nothing so friendly as a well-fed man, “take away his food, make his future uncertain, let him know that no one’s watching him, and he won’t just kill you, he’ll come up with a hundred and one reasons why you deserve it.” After Makepeace witnesses the sheer impossibility of a plane flying overhead, the notion that there may be a world still evolving takes hold. Makepeace sets out to discover the plane’s origins, and quickly discovers a world “fading to nothing, like the words of a vital message some fool had laundered with his pants and brought out all garbled.”

Theroux guides Makepeace’s journey with a steady hand, slowly revealing both the state of humankind and Makepeace’s surprising nature with a deliberate, unforced caution. While lacking the stark, hypnotic beauty of McCarthy’s prose, Theroux is an able craftsman, and Far North engages in its depiction of mankind’s survivors kept cowed and under thumb through “the patterns of older gods…terror and mercy, like twin shadows of an old totem that gets fed with blood.”

However, a marked lack of urgency drastically hampers Theroux’s imaginings. Makepeace’s world may be winding down, but this ramping inertia unfortunately transfers to the story, resulting in scenes that feel stale where they should excite.

There are some late-act developments that beggar belief, including a McGuffin of a mysterious elixir and the reemergence of a person important to Makepeace’s past. The last fifty pages pile on the coincidences, as if Theroux did not trust his world to be fascinating on its own.

There is enough good (and some excellent) in Far North for it to warrant a look, especially for aficionados of ‘end-of-the-planet’ scenarios. Yet for a novel encompassing the climax of mankind, Far North is quietly anti-climactic.

Originally published (expurgated version) in the Winnipeg Free Press, June 28, 2009.

A literary contest for all us haters

Hey, who wants a challenge?

As some readers of this blog may know, I participate in Yellowknife blogger extraordinaire John Mutford's Canadian Book Challenge, wherein competitors blog reviews of Canadian novels over the course of a year. John asks for thirteen entries (one for each province, natch), and those who complete the challenge are eligible for a variety of prizes, mostly symbolic and of very little cash value. It's a tonne of fun for readers, and also a way to promote Canadian efforts.

Well, at the risk of being deemed a copycat (or copymonkey, as the case may be), I have decided to run a similar contest open to anyone who happens across this blog. But only similar in construction, but rather different in content.

Here's my bit...

I, as I assume most people who read this blog are, am somewhat of a book snob. I don't pretend to read only the 'classics' of the Western canon, but there's a lot of crap out there I go out of my way to avoid. See? Right there, snobbery. Bad monkey! Bad!

So I have decided to launch Critical Monkey, a little contest designed to make us confront our fears, and read those we otherwise actively ignore. These do not have to be authors who are typically derided in literary publications; choices can be books you simply have never wanted to read for whatever reason. Never read a Charles Dickens, but always felt bad? Now's your chance to try him on for size. Have you avoided Margaret Laurence because a lousy teacher force-fed you The Stone Angel and squeezed everything good out of it (guilty!)? Time to make her acquaintance. Anything you like. Even Harlequin romance novels. I double-dog dare you to try.

Why am I proposing this? Two reasons. One, I'm kind of a masochist, and feel I should be punished. Two, I do feel the slightest bit bad about judging an author without having actually read anything by said author. How does that make me any different than religious fanatics who burn copies of Harry Potter? I'll be damned if I'm going to get lumped in with that lot.

So, let's be clear; I am asking for blogged reviews of any novel you've avoided in the past. I'd like real reviews, not Amazon.com-type two-line hate rants. If you despise what you've read, then good, but let's get a sense as to why. And if you turn out to actually like it? Well, I guess you've grown up a bit now, haven't you?

And I am not suggesting you go out and buy novels you suspect you will hate. Please, use your libraries and second-hand stores. Go easy on yourself. I know from experience, paying full price for a hardback James Patterson can take years off your life.

Now, while John opted for an obvious yet daunting thirteen entries, I am choosing to go easier on you. God knows, you may read some awful stuff, so let's not punish you into a coma. Instead, I chose a nice lesser number of seven, graded by the seven stages of grief:

1. Shock (one review)
2. Denial (two reviews)
3. Bargaining (three reviews)
4. Guilt (four reviews)
5. Anger (five reviews)
6. Depression (six reviews)
7. Acceptance (seven reviews)

By the end, those who have finished this grueling course will find themselves spiritually cleaner, and emotionally more well-rounded. And you'll be able to proudly hold your head up and say, "Yes, I have read Dan Brown, thank you, and this is why he sucks!"

Prizes? I am unsure as of this writing as to what the prizes will be. I'd like to have a number of prizes to send to deserving winners, but I'll let you know as we go. There will be a personally autographed copy of Shelf Monkey for one lucky winner (and I, while a participant, am exempted from receiving a prize), and hopefully more as we go on. I get a lot of free copies of books, so I'll start hoarding, depending on how successful this is. I'm betting on "not very," but I'd like to be surprised.

So, if you want to play, the start date is July 2, 2009 (give me the holiday first), and will end on July 2, 2010. Place links to your reviews in the comments section of this blog. I will update once a month with everyone's progress.

And put the logo on your sites. Tell your friends. Misery loves company, and all that.

So, c'mon! Who's with me? Let's put our money where our mouths are! Grab the logo at the beginning of this post, and tell all your friends. Let's push our personal boundaries! Let's boldly go etc.

I've got my first pick all lined up: coming in the month of July, expect a review of Stephanie Meyer's Twilight, a novel surely on the front lines of the I-love-it/I-despise-it battleground.

Will a thirty-something Canadian man find value in a book aimed at pre-teen girls?

Stay tuned...

In today's little tidbit of absolutely appalling news, or, people don't get that Shelf Monkey wasn't meant to be taken seriously.....

This may be the most disgusting thing I've heard all week, but then again, it's only Monday, and I'm sure another all-out assault on common sense by Glenn Beck/Sarah Palin/Sean Hannity/take-your-pick-they're-all-the-same is just around the corner.

From The Guardian:

In a scene which appears to have been lifted straight out of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, a group of Christians in Wisconsin has launched a legal claim demanding the right to publicly burn a copy of a book for teenagers which they deem to be "explicitly vulgar, racial [sic], and anti-Christian".

The offending book is Francesca Lia Block's Baby Be-Bop, a young adult novel in which a boy, struggling with his homosexuality, is beaten up by a homophobic gang. The complaint, which according to the American Library Association also demands $120,000 (£72,000) in compensatory damages for being exposed to the book in a display at West Bend Community Memorial Library, was lodged by four men from the Christian Civil Liberties Union.
...
The legal challenge follows a lengthy campaign by some West Bend residents to restrict access to teenage books they deemed sexually explicit from library shelves, which was eventually thrown out at the start of June."

I can't even begin to describe how disgusted I am at this.

Thanks to Bookninja for the info.

This week in disturbing imagery

I present, the heroic Redekop:

and the deeply unsettling Redekop.

*shudder*

*NOTE: I'll have better posts soon, I promise. I'm having a bit of down time at the moment.