Adrift (Choi Voi)

Directed by Bùi Thạc Chuyên
Global Film Initiative

At last year's Venice Film Festival, Adrift won the FIPRESCI (International Federation of Film Critics) Prize. With its lush scenery, layered characters, and startling soundtrack, it’s not hard to see why the film stood out to an international panel of jurors.

The film is in Vietnamese with English subtitles and is set in various Vietnamese locales, including Hanoi, Quang Ninh, and Hoi An. Jam-packed streets filled with tiny tuk-tuks and motorcycles are juxtaposed with lonely, gorgeous beach campfires at sunset. The sights and sounds of Vietnam play a large role in the film, but the characters and their ambiguous, conflicted emotions take center stage.

Our female protagonist Duyen (Do Thi Hai Yen) is a beautiful and happy newlywed. She admits to her friend Cam (Linh- Dan Pham) that she is content to have “settled” on a life that makes her happy. Cam is unable to hide the myriad of negative emotions that she feels in response to Duyen’s union with Hai (Duy Khoa Nguyen), a boyish cab driver. Cam’s physical expressions paired with her vague verbal musings make it hard for a viewer to discern the root of her negativity. Is it because she is ill? Jealous?

Tho (Johnny Tri Nguyen) is introduced when Duyen makes a delivery to him as a favor to Cam. The relationship that ensues between Tho and Duyen is chaotic, lovely, and not quite right. Likewise, Hai embarks on a friendship with a young neighbor that blurs the line between right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate. In both cases, there is a power dynamic at play, in which the female has been or could be victimized by one or multiple men. Cam seems to be exempt from this rule, as her character straddles the continuum of masculinity and femininity.

If you are seeking clarity, tidy conclusions, or even an a-ha moment, Adrift may leave you disappointed. Feel like spending the afternoon in a rain-soaked relationship kaleidoscope? Then this is the film for you.

Review by Rachel Muzika Scheib

Whom Not to Marry: Time-Tested Advice from a Higher Authority

By Father Pat Connor
Hyperion

After reading Whom Not to Marry by Father Pat Connor, a Catholic priest, I contemplated the different ways to approach this review. I could discuss the practical aspects of this book, but Maureen Dowd already addressed this in a July 6, 2008 op-ed in the New York Times. I could parody Whom Not to Marry, but Father Connor seems so earnest and well-meaning I couldn’t mock him in good conscience (and I’m not even Catholic). I could take a liberal stance and point out that this book is heteronormative, patriarchal, and antiquated. However, I’m much less offended by this instruction manual than I am by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider’s The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right. Connor at least encourages women to find someone who treats them with respect and kindness, rather than giving lessons on how to seduce men by playing hard to get.

Whom Not to Marry is based on Connor’s lecture that he shares with audiences of young women. He structures the book around 1 Corinthians 13:4-13, from the Bible: “Love is patient, love is kind...” If you’ve ever attended an American or Christian wedding, you’ve certainly heard this read, usually by a relative. I don’t want to be dismissive and say this is cliched, but Connor is certainly not introducing a new idea. Not to mention the fact that as a Catholic priest Connor has never been married himself, but gleans his experience from pre-marital counseling and presiding over ceremonies.

Full disclosure: I’m married and believe everyone should have the right to marry. At the same time, I respect that there are many people opposed to the institution of marriage. To enter into marriage should be an individual choice. This is the fundamental weakness of Whom Not to Marry. It assumes every woman wants to marry a man.

Another weakness of the book is that Connor does not criticize the institution of marriage, or at least the wedding industry in the U.S. I would never expect him to violate the tenets of his religion, but the book doesn’t account for social context. In many ways this book is ahistorical, and attributes failed marriages to women’s bad judgment, rather than considering the social pressure to marry quickly, traditionally, and with spectacle.

I don’t think I would actually recommend Father Connor’s Whom Not to Marry to anyone that I know. It’s very reminiscent of Good Housekeeping relationship advice columns that my grandmother may have clipped. Sweet and with the best intentions, but predictable and naïve.

Review by Claire Burrows

If You Like It Then You Should Be Able to Put A Ring On It

Directed by Cara Holmes and Ciara Kennedy



Adorable, DIY-style animation and quirky music start off this excellent and important film about marriage equality in Ireland. Cara Holmes and Ciara Kennedy cut and paste stories, images, protests, and facts into a clever, witty, and purposeful narrative.

Voice-overs and interviews are illustrated and screened, intercut or overlaid upon footage from rallies, photo montages, and title cards (which have a very on-trend hand-drawn look). These touches make the film more accessible and adhere to the filmmakers’ established aesthetic. I really respect the directors’ decision to use this style–it actually underscores the gravity of the issue. It’s a very watchable, warm, and likeable documentary, and will have wide appeal.

Full disclosure: I met Cara when we were both booked at Ladyfest Berlin a few years ago, and her band wrote a song about my zine. A couple of years after that, we were both on the bill at Ladyfest Cork, which became the hen do before my UK civil partnership with my wife Sarah. Sarah and I actually staged a mock wedding as part of our comedy show at the festival, using vows rewritten to address the illegality of our marriage in Ireland. We met with MarriagEquality, who were tabling at Ladyfest, and took badges back for our friends to wear while preparing for our ceremony in the UK. We knew some bills were being proposed, and things were looking pretty good in Ireland at the time–like this issue was moving ahead.

When I saw If You Like It Then You Should Be Able To Put A Ring On It mentioned on a friend’s Facebook page, I immediately recognised Cara’s name and followed the link to the film. I felt really frustrated as I began watching; Ireland seems to have come no closer to legal and financial equality for queer couples who wish to marry.

Here’s a quote from one of the on-screen title sequences early on in the film:

In 2005, it was argued before the High Court that Katherine and Ann Louise had a constitutional right to equality: a right to marry, property rights, and family rights. They also argued that the failure to recognise their marriage breached their rights under the European Convention on Human Rights. To date their marriage is still not recognised. On Feb 23, 2007 the case was appealed to the Supreme Court. There is no known timeframe for the Supreme Court hearing.

If You Like It... goes on to introduce couples who’ve married elsewhere, shows footage from protests and rallies (including some awesome placards!), interviews representatives from several marriage rights organisations, and manages the difficult task of presenting different viewpoints (civil partnership as a stepping stone to full equality vs. ‘separate but equal’ compromise) toward a common purpose remarkably well. It also puts the campaign into the larger context of queer rights around the world generally, and provides links in the credits to the organisations and artists who contributed to the film.

The pace of the film is quite inspiring–it builds to a climax that offers hope to the queer community, and should galvanise new allies into action. In the end, I was heartened by both the message and its style of delivery.

The case mentioned above is still pending, and a civil partnership bill is working its way through the Irish government, but it’s a slow process. Major props to Holmes and Kennedy for helping speed things along with this outstanding short film.

Review by Chella Quint

I Am Love

Directed by Luca Guadagnino
Mikado Film



The story is simple—and familiar, at least to feminists: years after being plucked from her home, stripped of her individuality, and thrust into a loveless marriage, a woman is shocked back to life and inspired to flee. But from A Doll's House to Titanic, it's not so much about the story itself as it is about how it's told. The "doll" of I Am Love is Emma Recchi (Tilda Swinton), a Milanese transplant who, upon arriving from Russia years before, inherited both a husband and the wealth of his prosperous family business. Being the matriarch-in-waiting of the elite Recchi clan is a privilege for Emma, complete with a sprawling mansion and a slew of servants, but one that comes with the price of a stifling lack of privacy, not to mention the complete loss of her identity.

Of course, it's not clear that all this is going on in the film, at least not at first. The way director Luca Guadagnino decides to approach Emma's story is the opposite of obvious, even experimental at times. For the first twenty minutes or so, it's not even clear that it's Emma's story, as the camera maintains a cold detachment from everyone, even allowing objects to partially obstruct its view, like a hidden surveillance. As the Recchi clan gathers around the dining room table for a formal dinner, Emma fades into the background, almost more so than the family's servants. Then, after Emma meets her son's friend and potential chef Antonio (Edoardo Gabbriellini), a seemingly innocuous introduction, Guadagnino starts to ease us closer and closer to her, finally arriving at a crescendo of close-ups when she samples his food for the first time. The meeting of Antonio, who will soon become her lover, and the way it is shot, beautifully marks Emma's transition from a sterile, colorless life to something brighter, more vibrant, and more immediate.

Emma and Antonio's scenes together are a sensory assault, the robust, invasive music and the sounds of nature rising in counterpoint to a similar crescendo at Emma's most dramatic revelations. Their first kiss is impressionistic, and their love scenes are experiential rather than voyeuristic. While revealing, they are not graphic or gratuitous but sensual and deeply erotic. (Afterward, my friend remarked that Hollywood could take a couple of pointers from Guadagnino on how to shoot sex.)

I Am Love is terribly rich, and not just for its style. Although it is Emma's story, there is so much more going on in the film. Emma's children provide interesting foils for her: daughter Betta (Alba Rohrwacher) is following her heart into the arms of another woman, while son Edo (Flavio Parenti) is about to enter a marriage based mostly on sex. It is fascinating to realize, as the film progresses, just how much of their spontaneity and spirit was inherited from their mother.

In stories such as these, and throughout film history, the unfaithful woman is typically punished for her infidelity. When an unexpected tragedy befalls the Recchis at the height of Emma's affair, it seems that this will be her fate as well. Interestingly though, she takes this devastation as an almost needed inspiration to follow her heart and abandon her marriage.

I Am Love is certainly an experience. The director and cast are so deeply committed to inhabiting the film's world and telling its story that you can't help but get pulled right in with them. Like the best films, it makes you feel like you've been somewhere, or at least been through something, and it takes a while after the credits have rolled to readjust your eyes and return to the real world.

Review by Caitlin Graham

Le Code a Changé (Change of Plans)

Directed by Danièle Thompson
IFC Films



The French comedy of manners conjures up for me, an Anglophone, a bitchy Restoration drama rather than Molière. Jean Renoir’s heavy 1939 film The Rules of the Game, the iconic update of the genre, greatly dilutes the comic elements. Now, Change of Plans offers a lighter brew with only a dash of melancholy. The aristocracy is replaced by the bourgeoisie, the country house and servants disappear as a more modest yet comfortable life appears, a weekend becomes a dinner party, and women (and men) have real jobs. Nobody gets murdered, though there is an “accident” and a death from cancer. Importantly, the central characters—and there are quite a few of them—emerge relatively unscathed, as do the “rules” underlying the genre. In short, as director Danièle Thompson wished, I went away happy.

Because I tend to upending rules than deftly observing them, life has taken me, thankfully, to almost as few dinner parties as on full-fledged dates. This film might change my mind, since this dinner party includes a surreptitious kiss by the bathroom door rather than a strained date. A dinner has functioned before as a plot device for getting things moving (think David Hare’s Wetherby). In the current film, the characters knew each other at school and do not roll around on a stair landing, at least not on camera. Here, the dinner sets off quite a display of romantic fireworks, though miraculously only one divorce.

ML, a high-powered divorce lawyer, has people over partly to show off her new kitchen. Six of her guests are married couples, and her sister and the sister’s older co-worker are another, though ML doesn’t know it. Besides the kitchen designer, the other single guest is ML’s flamenco dance instructor, invited at the last minute because ML is down a woman. (No gay couples at this soiree.)

During the year after the dinner, ML’s unemployed husband—who makes bigos, a Polish meat stew, for the meal—starts working with the kitchen designer. A gynecologist-oncologist couple is headed toward the marital rocks way before the get-together. The wife is already having an affair and her irritation with her Jewish husband, the archetypal mensch, takes an ethnic turn in a conversation with the host, who drives her home from the party. Lucas, another attorney, who has driven his wife to dysfunction, comes to the party to recruit ML into his firm to beef up its divorce practice, and ends up “changing plans” for the good of all.

Some viewers will take away the message that innate humanity that can still emerge in capitalist relations, traditional marriage, and the economy’s privileged class, here more professional and managerial than haut. For me, the fun of this film comes from guessing which of the relationships survive and how this comes to pass. Just enjoy the mash up of professional discretion, romantic relationships, white lies, and intergenerational conflict.

I could have done with less self-referential film industry stuff—Roman Polanski’s recipe for bigos appears in the film credits. The film’s director, daughter of film director Gérard Oury and actress Jacqueline Roma, wrote the screenplay with her son Christopher Thompson (who plays Lucas), so maybe they are entitled. And, the film fulfills the critic Kenneth Burke’s criteria for the “comic frame,” which tells the viewer: “What he should try to get, how he should try to get it, and how he should ‘resign himself’ to a renunciation of the things he can’t get.”

Review by Frances Chapman

Half Life

By Roopa Farooki
St. Martin's Press

Love stories aren’t really my thing, but Roopa Farooki’s newest novel, Half Life, shows many shades of love in a way that warms the heart, wets the eye, and expands the mind. The book opens with Aruna Ahmed Jones’ seemingly crazy and impulsive decision to leave her year-old marriage. She does this quite literally by stopping mid-breakfast, throwing on a light jacket, and making her way through the Tube to London’s Heathrow International Airport where she hops the next plane to her hometown of Kuala Lumpur, and back into the arms of lifelong friend and ex-lover Jazz Ahsan. We soon learn that two years ago Aruna left Jazz in a similarly rushed and unexplained exit, and the story progresses by attempting to resolve the characters’ (and reader’s) unanswered questions about her ostensibly hasty retreats.

To go into any depth about the somewhat unsettling plot would be to reveal too much; indeed, I recommend the reader skip even the publisher’s description on the front cover flap and dive headfirst into chapter one. The core of this story revolves around the destructive nature of family secrets and the reparative qualities of truth. Half Life is full of subtle yet astute observations about the personal and social functions of one’s identity as a person of a particular class, gender, nationality, and mental health status—and exemplifies how all are historically and geographically situated. Without being too obtuse or heavy-handed, the story is, ultimately, about finding one’s authentic self while avoiding being a detriment to those one cares for deeply.

Language makes the ordinary extraordinary, and Farooki’s gift is in the ease with which she perfectly captures the complexity of a moment with a casual, pithy description. Literary hat tips are littered throughout with tender references to such masterful figures as the Bengali polymath Rabindranath Tagore, British poet Wilfred Owen, and Jacobean dramatist John Ford—all of whose influences can be readily felt while turning the book’s pages. Farooki is obviously a thoughtful writer, and the story is executed with well-planned precision. Half Life is penned in a visceral style similar to that of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies or Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows. Farooki’s witty wordplay constructs a melancholy emotionality that mirrors the interplay between the main characters. The ubiquitous sense of suspense maintains reader’s interest even after the elements of surprise are effortlessly divulged.

Half Life is a substantative beach read that is engaging as it is accessible. But be sure to slather on the sunscreen or find a cozy spot in the shade before cracking the spine. You might just find you’re unable to put this book down once you pick it up.

Review by Mandy Van Deven

Cross-posted at VenusZine

Falling Apart In One Piece: One Optimist’s Journey Through the Hell of Divorce

By Stacy Morrison
Simon & Schuster

I’m one of the many women who have been through divorce so I picked up Stacy Morrison’s memoir Falling Apart in One Piece, about her divorce, with interest. Because few of my friends and family members have experienced divorce, it’s been one long lonely road for me. How do people deal with the guilt? I’ve wondered. How do they stop worrying about their ex—even after they’ve fallen in love with somebody else?

Less literary and more chatty-confessional style—in vogue with the women’s magazines that Morrison has edited all these years (Mirabella and Marie Claire, for example, or, most recently, Redbook)—Morrison relates her tale like a woman sitting down over a cup of tea with a friend. Her story takes us to the heart of despair in the wake of divorce. Though Morrison’s husband didn’t abandon their son, he left her holding the bag for a house that was falling apart around her. Morrison soon realized that she was literally living a metaphor, the house a perfect symbol of her crumbling marriage.

What did I do wrong? Morrison wonders. How could I have believed in marriage, only to be fooled? How could marriage have been just the thing I needed, while my husband felt like it was sucking his soul dry? And, most importantly, How am I ever going to be a single mom? How am I going to afford it? How am I going to get rid of this damned house? Even as she takes a new job as Editor-in-Chief of Redbook Magazine, Morrison wonders if she’s a fraud. Can she promote marriage and family when her own has disintegrated?

Through all her financial struggles, loneliness, self-doubt, and desolation, Morrison works hard not to become bitter or angry, so that she and her former husband can be good parents to their son. She comes through it with hope for the future and a new-found respect for her own abilities to make it through anything.

Falling Apart in One Piece is neither a literary masterpiece nor a self-help manual, but it is another genre somewhere in between those two—a personal story of heartache, loss, and hope, told honestly and thoughtfully. Definitely worth reading for those who have been through divorce and want to understand their own muddled emotions.

Review by Jessica Powers

Women Without Men

Directed by Shirin Neshat
Indiepix



The story of director Shirin Neshat is almost as compelling as her first feature. Born in religiously conservative Qazvin, Iran, Neshat has been using visual art to explore gender relations under Islam for nearly two decades, traveling back and forth between the States and Iran to enrich her perspective. But because her work has been so politically outspoken, Neshat has been exiled from her native country since 1996.

A visionary as courageous as she is condemned, Neshat is perhaps the most likely candidate to direct Women Without Men, an adaptation of Shahrnush Parsipur's sweeping novel. The scope of Parsipur's story is both epic and intimate, juxtaposing the Western imperialist invasion of Tehran with the intertwining lives of four Iranian women during the tumultuous summer of 1953. To call such a project ambitious would be an understatement.

The connection between this political upheaval and the four characters in question is unmistakable; just as the people of Tehran have decided to come together and fight to maintain democracy, these four women have reached an impasse in their own lives. Nearing thirty and still unwedded, Munis (Shabnam Toloui) seeks to escape the oppressive hand of her older brother; Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a rape victim, must flee to avoid condemnation; long-time prostitute Zarin (Orsolya Tóth) is finally ready to leave the life behind; and middle-aged Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad) has grown weary of her stifling, loveless marriage. The greater struggle of the revolution provides a moving counterpoint to the individual struggles of these characters to achieve solace.

Both the book and the film use elements of magic realism to tell their story. In order to be free of her brother and reinvent herself as a revolutionary, Munis either fakes her own suicide or actually commits suicide and comes back to life; it's unclear which. While roaming the woods, Faezeh sees a surreal reenactment of her rape. Though the device isn't consistent, it still manages to be effective when used.

It helps that the film is beautifully shot, with careful compositions and a palpable tone and style. Neshat uses a metallic palette throughout, giving the film an appropriately imprisoning feel. The film is also remarkable for its avoidance of graphic imagery, with the exception of a disturbing scene in which Zarin scrubs herself raw in a public bath, but this is more to emphasize her diseased, nearly skeletal body, and needless to say, this lone image has a lingering impact.

In fact, it is Zarin's story that ends up being the most effective, while some of the others seem a bit heavy-handed at times. Fakhri's husband chides, "A woman hitting menopause shouldn't be flirting anymore," while Munis' brother declares, "A woman's body is like a flower. Once it blossoms, it quickly withers away." It's not that these sentiments aren't believable, but pairing them with a sheer lack of sympathetic male characters makes it all seem intentionally exaggerated.

From the film's final disclaimer, it seems that Neshat's primary objective was to focus on the revolution, but the way Women Without Men unfolds makes the political aspect of the story more of a backdrop than a feature. It is quite poignant, however, to realize that, in the end, our four main characters have been afforded a rebirth of some kind, even if it's through death, while the Iranian people have failed to achieve the one for which they've so bravely fought.

Review by Caitlin Graham

Entangling Alliances: Foreign War Brides and American Soldiers in the Twentieth Century

By Susan Zeiger
NYU Press

When men are shipped out to foreign locations to engage in wartime activities, it seems inevitable that they will become romantically and sexually involved with foreign women. In Entangling Alliances, Susan Zeiger explores this phenomenon, examining governmental, military, and societal responses to American soldiers’ desires for sex, companionship, and marriage while engaged in combat overseas. She argues that the changing ways Americans treated war brides over the course of the twentieth century demonstrates shifting American sensibilities regarding foreign policy, race, and gender. More than anything, because war brides involved an exchange of women across cultural and national boundaries, American discourse about war brides was ultimately about what constituted American manhood, men’s relationships with women, and the role of the nation in its relationship to other countries.

During World War I, the military preached sexual abstinence while devising methods to keep American soldiers and local women apart, in particular African-American soldiers and white European women. The army’s response to marriage requests vacillated until an official policy was handed down that marriage was a personal, not military, question. Meanwhile, domestic policy concerns in the U.S. triumphed over an internationally-oriented political outlook; xenophobia for newcomers was inevitable and Americans wondered if these foreign women could become good American wives. Though many predicted the demise of these marriages, evidence reveals that the majority made it.

In World War II, military policy differed depending on location. It encouraged marriage in Great Britain and Australia, both Allied countries with similar cultural backgrounds to white middle-class America. Likewise, American society welcomed these brides, suggesting that American women should emulate their domesticity and loyalty to husbands. Alternatively, the military encouraged prostitution, rather than marriage, in both Italy and the Philippines, while American society viewed these war brides as less desirable immigrants. Zeiger argues that both policies—encouraging prostitution or marriage—“shared... the intention to preserve and extend male control over women.” She also points out that though many of these local women showed independence and an assertion of personal freedom by going out with American men, sometimes against their family’s wishes, their stories “end with marriage and dependence.”

Race played a huge role in war bride stories post-WWII and throughout the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Congressional policy actively limited brides from Asian countries, outright barring Japanese spouses for several years, while all interracial couples faced social discrimination and, occasionally, found that their marriages were not legal when they moved from one state to another.

Zeiger argues that the conflicts in Korea and Vietnam saw the “demise” of the war bride as a phenomenon considered and debated by the American public. The military did not provide transport to war brides the way they did in WWI and WWII, and it actively encouraged prostitution rather than marriage, extending its WWII policy of creating red-light districts where prostitutes were regularly examined by medical officials and given “safe” ratings to prevent the spread of venereal disease. Korean and Vietnamese wives were not written about widely in the American press and they have not written about their post-war experiences in America, the way war brides from earlier eras have done. They have been, Zeiger writes, “all but invisible in American culture.” Demographic information suggests that these Asian war brides tend to be isolated, even in comparison to other Asian immigrants though they have sponsored family members to come to the U.S., unlike earlier war brides. Though Asian war brides were an untold story, there was a lot of media attention paid to the mixed-race children left behind in Vietnam and, sometimes airlifted out and brought to the U.S. Zeiger argues that the story of Amerasian children, and the efforts to bring them to the U.S. allowed Americans to re-conceptualize the war, seeing both Amerasian children and American soldiers as victims in the story. “The American nation becomes father and, also, paradoxically, child. Vietnam, the mother, the war bride, is not part of this reconciliation.”

Entangling Alliances is a compelling read, illuminating twentieth century social struggles encountered by men and women on both domestic and foreign soil over questions of gender, race, and nationality. Though Zeiger argues that the war bride phenomenon died out with the Korean and Vietnam wars, clearly, soldiers still took wives and fathered children with Korean and Vietnamese women. More recently, stories of male American soldiers marrying Iraqi women have been exploited in the media. Because Zeiger only covers the period from WWI up through the Vietnam War, she leaves a perplexing question unexplored: What has happened with female soldiers and local men in the conflicts that the U.S. has engaged in the last twenty years? Have female soldiers, like male soldiers, engaged in romantic and sexual conquests with non-U.S. citizens? I suspect their experience has been radically different than their male counterparts.

Review by Jessica Powers

The Danish Girl

By David Ebershoff
Penguin Books

The Danish Girl is like a multilayered Flemish painting or tapestry. On the surface, it’s the story of the marriage of two painters, Clara and Einar. However, Einar Wegener was the first male to undergo successful gender affirming surgery. And The Danish Girl is also the story of a search for one’s true identity, and how one navigates that struggle within the boundaries of a relationship.

The novel opens in Copenhagen in the 1920s and the author has painted a rich landscape of the country and culture at the time, which I found almost as interesting as the storyline. We meet Clara and Einar after they have settled into a domestic routine, of sorts: two painters living in Copenhagen trying to make a living through their art. Known for his landscapes, Einar is the more acclaimed and successful of the two, while Clara finds herself painting portraits of well-known businessmen and society types. Clara is a young, willful, and wealthy California heiress who fell in love with Einar while enrolled in art classes at the Royal Academy, where he is a teacher. Despite being six years her senior, Einer was shy and awkward, and Clara pursued him somewhat relentlessly.

As the novel progresses, we discover that Einar has been encouraged by Clara to occasionally dress in women’s clothes when her female subjects are delayed or unable to make their sitting appointments. Einar is a slender, pretty man who is described as "beautiful" in the novel. Clara senses that Einar has a love of all things feminine, and starts to encourage him to dress as a woman, who they start introducing as Einar's distant cousin Lili to their friends. At first, this is a secret game between the pair, but as Einar needs to dress as Lili more and more, the dynamic in the marriage changes, making Clara increasingly uncomfortable. Clara believes that part of loving someone is doing whatever you can do to make them happy, and although she is ambivalent about Einar’s need to dress as Lili, her paintings of Lili start to garner her praise and acclaim in the art world.

The subject matter of The Danish Girl could have been treated as a spectacle, or voyeuristic experience, but it is treated sensitively by the author. The author sensitively renders Einar’s sometimes painful experiences with his changing identity, and we experience the distinct worlds of these two separate individuals. I was surprised to discover that this novel was first published in 2000. The story is especially topical given that transgender experiences are now being discussed on shows like Oprah, which signifies that the issue has become mainstream, or at least an acknowledged part of our cultural dialogue.

The Danish Girl is being made into a movie that is scheduled for release in the United States in 2011. Nicole Kidman will star as Lili. If reading is supposed to take you on a journey of the mind and expand your understanding of the world, The Danish Girl is certainly deserving of high praise.

Review by Gita Tewari

Savor the Moment

By Nora Roberts
Berkley Trade

Sometimes when I finish a book, I can't help but feel that the experience has made me better in some way. Maybe that sounds really cheesy, but it's true. That's one of my favorite things about reading great classic literature: it just leaves you awestruck. I loved the wildness of Wuthering Heights, the subtle, brilliant emotions of Jane Eyre, the intricate story of A Tale of Two Cities, and the straight-up genius wit of Les Liaisons dangereuse.

There are modern writers who can move me, too, like in My Sister's Keeper. Avid readers know this. This is why we read. And then there are some books that, after you read them, you feel like part of your brain has been lobotomized. I give you Nora Roberts' Savor the Moment.

Maybe that sounds harsh, but I think it's justified. I like Nora Roberts, I really do. I've read almost all of her books. I've come to expect a formulaic, predictable story from her, but I'm okay with that. Hell, that's precisely why I read the romance genre in general. What I'm not okay with her trying to sell me shit. And I'm sorry, but that's what she's doing in this Bride Quartet series.

I wasn't particularly kind to the last installment in this series, Bed of Roses, but again, I was justified. Emma was effing annoying, and the way that Roberts expected the reader to accept that her behavior was rational and not insulting to all women was insulting to all women. I had hopes that the rest of the books would be better because my biggest problem with Bed of Roses was Emma's perfect life. Laurel, the heroine in Savor the Moment, is not perfect. But does Roberts delve into Laurel's issues in any depth? Does Roberts show us anything about Laurel outside of her love for the hero, Del? No. Seriously, folks, she doesn't. Laurel apparently has a background that I would have liked to learn about. But I never got that chance.

Come on, Nora. It's bad enough that you're writing four books about freakin' weddings. As if the wedding industry in this country isn't absolutely ridiculous in the way that they put all the focus on one day, you give us four women who make their livelihood out of catering to these self-absorbed people.

Not only that, but you present them in a really annoying way. These women never make freakin' mistakes. Ever. They always know exactly how to talk down a bride, or exactly which flowers they'll like, or exactly what cake they'll want. Every. Single. Time. Throw in some screw-ups every once in a while and we'll talk.

The worst is Mac, the photographer. This woman sounds like the kind of photographer that makes me hulk out. In the first book she did a pregnancy session where she made the pregnant lady get naked. Anyone who knows me knows I hate those kind of pictures with a passion that will never die. And I'm sorry, Nora, but it sounds like Mac has little to no imagination as a photographer. The bride is a florist? Let's shoot her in a garden! The groom is an English teacher? Let's shoot him with books! The couple met as children and shared a fondness for cookies? Let's shoot them with cookies! Please. I know wedding photographers that do amazing, amazing work and never result to that unimaginative shit.

But your worst transgression is the complete and utter failure to portray these women in a real way. They are obsessed with weddings, and even when the four friends are together, all they talk about is work or relationships. Oh, yeah, and sex. These women never shut up about sex. When they have it, they have to make mention of it. When they're not having it, they make mention of the others having it. Seriously, I don't know women like this. Don't they ever talk about important stuff? Current events, the economy, feminism, celebrity gossip, books they've read, etc? Nope. Just men. And weddings. And sex with men.

Look, I get that you've got a theme here. Each woman in this series needs to get a man in each installment of the series. But for the love of God, what is wrong with dating for a while? Emma and Laurel were with their respective men for about two months tops before they're distraught over whether or not the men want to be with them forever. For fuck's sake, what is the rush? Why can't a couple admit that they're in love more than five minutes before a marriage proposal?

As you can tell, I did not like this book. At all. But I will still read the last book, because I'm a masochist. And an optimist. Parker, the last heroine to be paired up, has the potential to be more multidimensional than all her man-crazy friends. She also comes across as truly independent and strong. But Nora, you've gotta step it up. You're getting lazy, here. Don't think we haven't noticed.

Review by Lindsey Simon

Cross-posted at The Bookshelf

MILK - HERE Arts Center: New York, NY (5/1/2010)

Directed by Jessica Bauman

Emily DeVoti’s provocative two-act play, MILK, opens in a spare farmhouse kitchen. It’s 1984. Ronald Reagan has just been elected US president and local newscasters seem to have nothing good to report. Meg (played by Jordan Baker), a former mathematician who loves precision and order, and her husband Ben (Jon Krupp), a former investigative reporter, are sitting at the table and talking, but it’s the kind of tense conversation that can quickly turn from controlled anger to fierce argument.

Things are bad, very bad. A drought has made dairy production virtually impossible, and land that’s been in Meg’s family for centuries is now on the cusp of foreclosure. On top of this, their college-aged daughter—who is never seen but is referenced at key moments in the play—wants to be an actress and their fourteen-year-old son Matt (Noah Robbins) wants material things his parents cannot possibly afford: name-brand sneakers, CDs, a bedside color TV, and stylish clothes, among them. Worse, there’s a city slicker on the prowl, and he’s made no bones about wanting to “help” Meg and Ben ease their financial woes. Ben thinks it’s good idea, "a gift from God"; Meg doesn’t.

Ben wins.

By the time businessman James (Peter Bradbury) and his teenaged daughter, Veronica (Anna Kull), arrive on the scene—in a private plane, no less—things have deteriorated even further. But James couldn't care less about the family’s personal difficulties. Instead, he’s turning his managerial acumen to improving the farm’s productivity. Although he knows nothing about cows, he hatches a plan that, on paper, will foster unprecedented growth and save the day: importing “wild, hairy, horned” bulls to impregnate the many heifers dotting the pastoral landscape.

As you have probably guessed, things don’t pan out as James—or Ben or a reluctant Meg—expect. While the second act of the play is far weaker than the first, the excellent cast, including Caroline Baeumler as Auroch, a talking bovine the Program Notes describe as “quite possibly the last living wild cow,” briefly explore a number of evocative themes including monetary pressures; urban versus rural lifestyles; marital fidelity; self-sacrifice; coming of age; and the festering ache that often accompanies keeping silent about things that matter.

In fact, by the time Veronica tearfully confides her father’s secrets to Matt, the pathos is so intense that James instantly morphs into someone less repugnant. In the end, while we may revile Matt politically, DeVoti renders him a multidimensional personality who is deserving of compassion.

There are no easy answers in MILK. Indeed, as the world changes, some customs and practices inevitably become obsolete and are replaced by newer rituals and activities. The key is figuring out which pieces of cultural and personal history to retain and which to let go.

At one point, Meg looks into a bucket of unpasteurized milk and declares that “the pure stuff, it corrupts so easily.” Maybe so. MILK asks its viewers to think about what’s negotiable and what isn’t. Regardless of what is ultimately decided, one thing is certain: after watching this well-executed play, urban audiences will think about cows in a whole new way.

Review by Eleanor J. Bader

**MILK will be performed at the HERE Arts Center through May 22nd.

Photo of Jordan Baker and Carolyn Baeumler by Jim Baldassare

How to Get Divorced by 30: My Misguided Attempt at a Starter Marriage

By Sascha Rothchild
Plume

It’s not like someone would seek out this book looking to find advice on how to damage their marriage, but it definitely piques the curiosity of anyone trying to understand how easily a marriage can go awry. How to Get Divorced by 30 is Sascha Rothchild’s personal tale of her short-lived marriage. Surprisingly, it’s not a man-bashing book picking on her ex-husband (some of his faults are mentioned, but not focused upon). Instead, Sascha tells her story by explaining how the various events, influences, and personal insecurities in her own life led to her choosing a relationship that seemed to fill her needs, but resulted in feeding her flaws.

Sascha’s unabashed honesty about herself, especially exposing her quirky personal demons, is highly admirable. Regardless of whether you agree with her viewpoints, you can’t help but revere her accurate self-assessment and the courage it took to write this book. You also can’t help but relate to her inner struggles with self-perception, including weight, looks, and identity. It’s normal for women to have insecurities in these areas, but Sascha takes the exploration further by discovering how her insecurities led to poor relationship choices. Looking to resolve her issues, she’d try to find a sense of security through relationships.

We all tend to choose a partner who counteracts our shortcomings in some way or another, which is why you can’t help but relate to the author. However, what is most interesting about the book is how she focused on the fact that her unhealthy relationship with herself was not only the root cause of her divorce, but also the cause of her marriage (and other failed relationships) in the first place.

By the end of the book you feel like you know Sascha personally. Her influence will cause you to stop and reflect on your own life, the relationships you’ve had, and how your own insecurities may have caused problems in ways you never before realized. I assure you this is a good thing. If we could all look at ourselves with blatant honesty (not harshness nor kindness, just what is) then we would all be better people. We spend too much time pretending to be what others think we should be, lying to ourselves, and trying so hard to measure up that we lose sight of our own needs and happiness. That’s what happened to Sascha.

By sharing her journey of self-discovery (and divorce) Sascha helps readers to more truthfully look at their own lives. Meanwhile, the read is an excitingly entertaining journey. Be prepared to finish the book in one sitting. It’s a fast read, but mostly because you can’t put it down until you've finished it.

Review by Sarah Eve Nichols-Fulghum

How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly

By Connie May Fowler
Grand Central Publishing

The title of Connie May Fowler’s novel How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly comes close to saying it all. It is the story of a 35-year-old woman’s inner struggle for independence and self-acceptance, which she slowly succeeds at achieving over the course of one single day—the summer solstice of 2006.

The novel takes place in the hot, sticky forests and savannas of northern Florida, and it starts as one imagines the weather might feel. Slow moving, but full of detail, the reader learns about the immediate situation Clarissa finds herself in, as well as her surroundings.

While Clarissa is in the kitchen of her sixteen-room, century-old house, her husband of seven years is outside taking photographs of naked women. He is an artist, and Clarissa is a bestselling author who hasn’t written anything in more than thirteen months. Instead of writing, she focuses her creative energies into meticulously detailed daydreams about the death of her husband.

Fowler makes it clear from the start that Clarissa is in a loveless, emotionally destructive marriage. While her husband works on his “art,” he lives off of Clarissa’s money and treats her like she's worthless. Coming from a childhood with an abusive mother and no father, Clarissa realizes she is a doormat, but doesn’t know how to overcome it. Luckily, on that summer morning, a switch flips inside of Clarissa's mind when she realizes how trapped she is. What she experiences afterward not only inspires her to write again, but inspires her to change her life, to “learn to fly” in more ways than one.

The novel focuses on Clarissa’s journey, but is told from the perspective of many. Clarissa’s house is haunted by the family who once lived (and died) there. There is a grounded angel and a carnival of dwarfs in town, and several of Clarissa’s inner voices prod her into taking action instead of waiting for things to happen. Every character she happens across that day seems to help to remind her that she is worth something.

Fowler does an admirable job of making a story that’s been told original and exciting. Clarissa’s story culminates with a storm, which picks up the pace considerably. This is welcomed after the slow, winding road the novel has gone down up until that point. The transformation she goes through is satisfying, but mainly because she is so insecure (almost unbelievably so at times) throughout the majority of the novel. Her situation is extreme, but her lack of confidence in herself and the decisions she makes is relatable. People need validation in their lives, and, thankfully, once Clarissa receives it she moves on.

Review by Jill Hindenach

Chloe

Directed by Atom Egoyan
Sony Picture Classics



A retread of Anne Fontaine’s 2003 film, Nathalie, I walked out of the theater feeling rather disappointed with Chloe.

Julianne Moore plays Catherine Stewart, a successful gynecologist who is married to a college professor named David (Liam Neeson). After David misses a flight home, Catherine looks through his phone and finds a rather questionable photo. Catherine then becomes consumed with the suspicion that David is cheating on her. After a chance meeting with Chloe (Amanda Seyfried), a young escort, Catherine decides to hire her to seduce her husband, ostensibly to determine what makes him tick and turns him on. Chloe accepts the assignment with alacrity, sharing with Catherine the explicit details of her rendezvous with David.

It is at this point that I began scratching my head. If Catherine thought she had proof of David’s extramarital dalliances, why didn’t she just confront him outright? Or hire a private detective to look into his activities? Or go through his things and check credit card statements, emails, and call records to uncover more evidence? Isn’t that what usually happens in real life when women think their husbands are double dipping? Unfortunately, this isn’t the only poor—or poorly explained—choice Catherine makes.

To up the confusion factor, Catherine’s behavior toward Chloe is often inexplicably maternal. She advises her to get checked for STI’s, expresses concern over Chloe’s health simply because Chloe sneezes, and all but kisses her boo-boo when Chloe takes a spill on her bike and skins her knee.

Chloe enjoys being nurtured and obviously views Catherine as a mother figure. This is impressed as she repeatedly tries to give Catherine a hairpin that belonged to her real mother. Telling viewers about Chloe’s mother could have provided this limp story with some interesting wrinkles; however, Chloe’s back-story is never properly explored. How she ended up becoming a call-girl and exactly what drives her obsession with Catherine is left unexplained.

None of the characters are suitably fleshed out, for that matter. We know David is a flirt, but Liam Neeson’s anemic performance would have you believe that his behavior is merely reflexive. The fact that Catherine seems halfway willing to accept that meager explanation makes it even harder to understand her choices. The couple have obviously had problems in their marriage in the past but we never find out exactly what they were or how (or even if) they got resolved.

And what’s up with their son? Michael (Max Theiriot) feels an obvious hostility toward his mother and his trips to a therapist’s couch are alluded to several times, but this character never comfortably inhabits the world of this story. Throwing all of Michael’s footage on the floor and making a few changes to the story would have helped this film immensely.

To make matters worse, the filmmaker’s decision to violate the show-don’t-tell rule further undermined this enterprise. Newsflash! Stories told by unreliable narrators pack more of a punch when the audience initially believes what it’s been told. Moviegoers should never be able to anticipate plot twists.

Properly executed, Chloe could have been an erotic thriller par excellence. Instead, the filmmakers never actually decide what they want this film to be. Is this movie simply a portrait of marriage where the thrill is gone or a glimpse into a career woman’s mid-life crisis? Is it an indictment of prostitution—a trade where workers are purchased, used, and ultimately discarded—or a metaphor for how some mothers collude with father-daughter incest? Maybe this movie is treatise on how sexual passion and jealousy are almost always inextricably linked.

Chloe, manages to be all of these things and none of these things. It is undone by its slack pacing, under-developed characters, depressive tone, and somewhat implausible story. If you are a fan of any of the featured actors, I would suggest that you wait until this film becomes available on DVD. Chloe just isn’t worth the price of full admission.

Review by Ebony Edwards-Ellis