We Need to Talk About Kevin

I’ll keep this straightforward.

The Book

Book is good. Story: fictional school shooting in America. Seven students, a cafeteria worker and an English teacher murdered. Two years after the event, the murderer’s mother tries to come to terms with her son’s deed by writing a series of letters to her absent husband.

Eva forces herself to be honest about her ambivalence and self-doubt. She questions her innate ability to be a mother. She recounts the unpleasant experience of raising a child who was callous from birth. How much of what Kevin became was biological, and how much of it was her doing? Can a mother be blamed?

This is the story of a family, and its dissolution. I was hooked from the start. The letter-style narrative works wonderfully. Eva’s voice is eloquent and intelligent. Yet the limitation of seeing only through her eyes charges the unfolding events with possible layers of meaning.

Lionel Shriver is excellent with words. I grew deeply envious of her ability to select the opportune word at the opportune time. She was fancy, but appropriately so. She was wordy when it fit and sparse when needed. Her vocabulary is fearsome, but her timing impeccable. She also has a gift for capturing nuance and personal interaction in a way that is refreshing and realistic.

We Need to Talk About Kevin raises a whole lot of questions, obviously, and doesn’t force any answers down your throat. I found the novel overwhelmingly touching, disturbing and marvellous.

8/10

NB. If the psychology of the story fascinates you, look up “callous-unemotional” as a childhood diagnosis. It seems to be an emerging topic of discussion.

-

The Movie

I had high hopes, but frankly the movie disappointed me. Perhaps because the book was so rich, the movie seemed fragmented and inadequate. Tilda Swinton was good as Eva, but had little emotional variation. John C. Reilly’s acting felt forced to me. The dialogue was so sparse that at times, it came off awkward. The cinematography was slow, artsy, spaced with plenty of pauses and close-ups of objects in the scene. I feel that they could have compressed some of those artsy bits and added more substance to the film. The story is told in alternating flashbacks and present-day, but isn’t too difficult to follow.

 

Casting for Kevin and Celia was altogether good, although Kevin was a little overplayed. Ezra Miller’s Kevin really relished all the stuff he did, whereas in the book he seemed subtler, colder and more restrained. In the end, the denouement felt somewhat rushed. But I’m sure those who watched the movie before reading the book would disagree.

5/10

 

Being an ABC (sort of) and why your well-meaning questions come off as ignorant…

This is an issue that is often on my mind, but I never thought I’d write a post about it.

An ABC, also known as an Australian-Born Chinese (although I suppose it would work if you were American-, Armenian or Antarctic-born as well) is a person of Oriental ethnicity who was born and raised in Australia.

Technically, I’m not an ABC. I was born in Malaysia and migrated with my parents to Australia at the ripe old age of 9 months. When I travel to Malaysia, I go to pig out on laksa, shop, and sightsee. All sense of coming home is at the end of the trip, when the plane descends into the green and brown patchwork of Melbourne’s far northern suburbs, when I’m in a car with a heater and five seatbelts, whizzing down the Eastern freeway with a vibrant blue sky overhead…it seems there’s no city in the world where the colours are as vibrant as in Melbourne. Not to me, anyway.

I would proudly call myself a Melbournian. And why shouldn’t I? My life is here. I went to the local primary school, one of perhaps six Chinese kids in the year level. I jog the neighbourhood streets. I sprint to the milk bar in PJs when I’m halfway through making a cake and run out of milk. I make the long haul from the south-eastern suburbs into the city. I complain about the trains. I’ve memorised the city grid. I attend university as a local student. I work and volunteer. I take road trips into the country. I roll on the beach.

I know we’re supposed to have come a long way. Even in a few short years. Back when I started Prep, I had my fair share of 6-year-old white boys calling out “Ching Chong” when I walked by. I wonder if that still happens in primary school now…? I’d like to think not. (My mum told me several things to say in reply…I wish I’d had the courage to follow her advice.)

As an Asian in a western country, I still experience the odd racist slur–hurled from a passing car, or muttered in a crowded place. But thankfully, those experiences are rare. More common is the subtle racism often exhibited by people who just couldn’t care less, or even those trying to be nice.

As a student and a volunteer in different hospitals, I’ve had so many people ask me where I’m from. Sometimes six times in one day. Some days I loathe this question. If I were fair-skinned, brunette and brown-eyed, would I be fielding the same barrage of curiosity? Probably not. I never know how to answer. Often the conversation goes like this:

Person I’ve just met: So, where are you from, sweetie?

Me: Oh, I’m from (insert home suburb), just down the road.

Person: Yes, but where are you really from?

Me: Oh…uhhh….well….I was born in Malaysia, but I grew up here.

Person: Oh, that’s lovely! Me and my husband, we’ve been to Malaysia twice, you know! And we loved it both times. We just love the people there, and the place, and the food–oh, the food! It’s a wonderful country.

Me: Um…thanks.

“WHERE AM I REALLY FROM?!?!” For your information, sweetie, I really am from just down the road. I have an abiding adoration of the English language, I read voraciously, I pore over the same paper that you pore over on Sunday mornings over your mid-morning brekky. I actually have tried to learn how to pronounce Welsh names, ’cause I think they’re absolutely beautiful. So honestly. What right do you have to make me feel less like an Australian, just because I have olive skin and almond-shaped eyes?

The thing that gets me angriest is when white kids exclude us because they just see as as a ‘bunch of Asians.’ To them, we are an indiscriminate mass of squinty eyes and yellow skin. We’re not even worth seeing as individuals. And yes, I have definitely experienced this.

I don’t care if I sound grumpy and whiny. I feel that I deserve it. After all, being an Asian-looking girl means I’m automatically put into a box, stamped and stereotyped. It is one of the most difficult moulds to break out of, and I hate it. I am not only the sum of what I look like, and I do have something splendid to offer society. Just watch me.

Yeah! *punches air*

It’s not you, it’s me…

Oh dear. I’ve been absent lately. I haven’t been paying much attention to you. I’ve neglected you, forgotten you, and hardly visited. I’m sorry, Blog. It’s not you, it’s me.

Unfortunately, I’ve been a bit caught up with job applications and clinical placements. The interruptions of real life have meant that reading and watching stuff has slowed down a little, which makes for a Grumpy Grace. But don’t despair. I’m behind on a bunch of posts and reviews, but they are on the way!

In the meantime, here are some things I’ve been doing!

1. Skydiving

If I had to describe it in three words: Cold. Windy. Surreal.

Didn’t get a photo, but here’s a generic one where you can pretend it’s me :-P

For the record, Sydney Skydivers is a pretty decent place to do a tandem skydive if you’re looking. They were super friendly and easygoing. We rocked up to inquire about availability and as it was nearing the end of the day, they insisted on taking us up right there and then. Training was simple (almost non-existent…), and we were up in the air in less than half an hour. With the special deal it was only $255 per person but their regular prices are not much steeper. Photos or a video are $99.

Goal #31 completed!

2. Eating

1 & 2. Pancakes at Pancakes on the Rocks. The savoury ones were great (I liked the potato pancake!) and very affordable. We totally over-ordered and couldn’t finish our drinks.

3. Hot Cross Bun and Gin & Tonic Macarons from Zumbo’s in Pyrmont

4. Mango Beer at Bavarian Bier Cafe

5. The famous meatballs at Cafe Sopra in Potts Point!

6. Risotto with mussels at Cafe Sopra

7 & 8. Din Tai Fung: Hot and sour soup, tofu with pork floss and century egg, xiao long bao

9. Green tea soft serve at some random bar!

10. Gourmet hot dogs at Stitch Bar

11. Red wine and pretzels at the Baxter Inn, a cosy hidden place behind an alleyway. Felt like we’d stepped through into the 1800s

12. Chocolate souffle!

 

3. Walking - Bondi to Coogee Coastal Walk

This was a great way to spend an afternoon in Sydney! I highly recommend it. Start at Bondi Beach and just follow the boardwalk along the cliffs as far as you like. You can stop wherever and lie in the grass for a bit, as we did. Heaps of joggers and walkers use the walk but it’s never squashy and the views are excellent. Allow half an hour by train + bus from the city and then at least 2 hours for the walk, depending on whether you’re going to do a return walk.

–

We stayed 4 nights in Sydney at Original Backpacker’s in Kings Cross–a busy area but not as dodgy as people made it out to be. Accommodation was affordable and clean, but a little noisy. It was easy to get around the city…we mostly walked everywhere, even all the way to Chinatown.

Reviews to come in upcoming posts. Stay tuned :)

 

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

A composition of poignant essays by Jean-Dominique Bauby, who was editor of the French Elle before he suffered a massive stroke at the age of 43.

Bauby’s stroke made him a prisoner in his own body: a victim of locked-in syndrome. Unable to move, talk or even bathe himself, Bauby’s only means of communication was blinking his left eye.

And that’s how he composed this book. In the spaces of isolation that inevitably befell him each day (particularly Sundays–the Sunday chapter was one of my favourites), Bauby meticulously constructed essays in his mind. Then, with the help of an assistant who would run through the French alphabet in order of frequency, he wrote Diving Bell by blinking. One painstaking letter at a time.

I think its conciseness adds to the eloquence of Bauby’s writing. His tales sparkle with wit. Reading this book, I forget that he was bound to an inert, putty-like body. I forget that I would be stunned to behold him, unable to even hold his head up in a chair. His expression gnarled and saggy. In one chapter, Bauby fails to recognise, and is then horrified by, his reflection. The reader shares in his horror and dismay.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly was published two days before Bauby’s death in 1996. It became a bestseller and has been turned into a movie (albeit with some twists on the truth).

Some reviewers have remarked that Bauby was not an admirable man–that his reflections reveal him as materialistic, career-orientated, unfatherly. I don’t feel that I can judge a man through his book; I can only judge his writing. And his writing is moving, thought-provoking and imbued with liveliness…all the more astounding given his situation. A struggle and a triumph against overwhelming odds that can only commend my admiration.

5. Read and review at least one book per month (12/32).

This picture irritates me.

Not a very good quality photograph, I know–sorry! This is the cover of The Age’s Good Weekend last weekend (March 31, 2012). Normally I love flipping lazily through the Good Weekend on Saturdays and this travel edition was no exception. I was most excited to discover Crumpled City Maps–how did this go un-invented for so long?! Then I spent a good hour poring over the list of 100 Extraordinary Travel Experiences compiled by proficient globetrotters, which included the Papase’ea Sliding Rocks in Samoa :-D Plus a whole bunch of things I can’t yet afford.

But was I the only one who felt irked by the cover photo? Blonde lady in white capris and tanned, long-haired lover are led down a tide-washed beach by a compliant escort of local Fijians who lug their Louis Vuitton bags whilst bearing winning smiles…

Not really my idea of a holiday.

Last Saturday was also my mum’s birthday, which warranted a brunch and some pampering!

Happy birthday Mum!

We brunched at Cafe Moretti in Glen Waverley, which is one of my favourite places for a coffee and catch-up. It’s affordable, has a bountiful menu, and the ambience is modern and unpretentious. The only downside I’ve found is that a few of the wait staff are a bit abrupt. We ordered the Eggs Atlantic and the Fluffy Pancakes with Berry and Vanilla Ice Cream, and two lattes–one regular, one green tea. The green tea was interesting but I’ve had it twice and I think that’ll do me for a long time. It’s very sweet :-P

Then we both got manicures and pedicures for the very first time, which means I can cross off items #39 and #56 on my list!

39. Get a manicure and pedicure for the first time. (31/2/2012)

56. Take my mum out somewhere to get pampered. (31/3/2012)

Feels a little cheap to be ticking off two in one go, so I’ll take my mum out for some more pampering next year. Totally not an excuse to get myself a massage too…!

My hand looks a little…weird. I picked a dusky rose pink sort of colour. It was Betty Draper inspired :-)

The Help

I know I’m late to the party. The book has been out since 2009 and the movie since last year.

I ordered my copy of The Help online and, as soon as it arrived, read through it easily in a few days. It is a damn easy read–one of those books that you can’t stop picking up (in between classes and at traffic lights).

But that’s not to say it isn’t well written and complex. Stockett has a lively, inventive voice and isn’t lazy with her words–she isn’t afraid to use language as a tool to flavour her already interesting story with added nuance, humour and wit. I’m not surprised that The Help strikes that rare balance of being concise and yet articulate: Stockett was rejected dozens of times whilst trying to publish this book, and went through multiple revisions of her manuscript.

The Help is about African American housemaids in Jackson, Mississippi during the early 1960s. The story is told from the perspectives of three women: Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan, a twenty three year old white college graduate who dreams of being a writer; Aibileen, who has raised seventeen white kids but lost her own son two years ago; and Minny–sassy, brave, mother of a flock of children and wife to a threatening husband.

When Skeeter gets it in her head to write a book about the lives of ordinary maids in southern USA, she approaches Aibileen, and later Minny, to tell their stories.

The story is populated largely by female characters who are well-developed and not entirely predictable. Celia Foote is probably one of my favourite side characters–white trash, genuine to the bone, utterly likeable, she stands up as a foil to the obvious nemesis, the intolerably pretentious and hypocritical Hilly Holbrook. Whilst Hilly does sometimes border on one-dimensional, most of the other characters are complex, believable and do unexpected things.

The Help is a good reminder that the prejudices that are most insidious are those that go least noticed; those that masquerades as morals.

Some have complained that the African American slang used by Minny and Aibileen is forced and belittling. Naturally, being a Malaysian Chinese Australian, I have minimal understanding of African American slang, I can’t dispute or confirm this. To me, the slang sounded natural and rhythmical in my head.

I watched the movie same day I finished the book and enjoyed it. All the characters were well cast. Emma Stone–I’m starting to become a real fan of her–played Skeeter with sensitivity and liveliness. Viola Davis as Aibileen–quite amazing, really made you love her…Acadamy Award nominated for the role. Octavia Spencer as Minny–probably most like the picture of Minny I had in my head. Hilarious. Allison Janney as Skeeter’s mum. Bryce Dallas Howard (a ridiculously manly name) as Hilly Holbrook–random fact, she played Gwen Stacy in the Spidey films.

But of course in a movie you can never do as much as in a book…and so everyone felt a little flat, a little stereotyped. Scenes felt somewhat skimmed, though overall the writers stayed impressively true to the book. If you want to enjoy the movie more, I recommend you watch it before reading the book.

Both book and movie recommended.

Book: 8/10

Movie: 7/10

This post relates to Goal #5. Read and review one book per month (11/32)

On Rereading Books & To Kill a Mockingbird

The last time I read this classic was in Year Nine, back in the good ol’ days of Presbyterian Ladies’ College. I didn’t like it very much. Maybe it was because we had to study it. More likely, I suspect, my brain was not very well developed for my age and I lacked the higher executive functions to appreciate Harper Lee’s work.

One thing I have discovered is that it is almost always worth revisiting a book. Something you found an utter bore may, years later, resonate with you. It just goes to prove that the story you read from a book is not the story the author laid out with her pen…it is an internal story, created by you in your mind, from the author’s words. What one derives from a story depends as much on the expansiveness of the reader’s internal world as it does on the writer’s.

The Great Gatsby, for instance, only became one of my favourite books on second reading. The first time through I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

I had a quiet Labour Day Holiday this year and did something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time–I picked up Mockingbird. And read it. And I couldn’t put it down. I really enjoyed it.

I was glad I reread it.

This post relates to two of my 101 goals:

13. Reread To Kill a Mockingbird. (12/3/2012)

5. Read and review at least one book per month (10/32).

Jennifer’s $450 Mars crystal neck cream and why that means the world can’t be right

An article today reports that Jennifer Aniston spends about $400 a day to maintain her fine looks. This adds up to about US$141,000 a year.

Breaking it down…

• Laser peel surgery – $295 per session
• Euoko Neck Cream, made with crystals from the planet Mars (?!?!) - $450
• Mila Moursi Rejuvenating Serum – $350
• Haircut with Chris McMillan – $600
• Hair highlights – $320
• Private yoga sessions – $900/week
• Nutritionist – $300/hour
• And much more…

Just to get things straight: I’m not a Jen-hater. I adored Friends to the point where I wailed like a baby in the final episode. I thought she showcased her great comedic skills as Rachel and was hilarious as a sex fiend in Horrible Bosses.

However, this article was a concrete reminder of what a ridiculous sum of money famous people actually make. It kind of says something about our world when the people we lavish with our admiration are those who work in the entertainment industry. Actors, singers, musicians, socialites. We festoon them with our attention and our moolah.

I’m not saying that the entertainment industry doesn’t have its role. I’m the last one to give up my movies, TV shows, books and music. But it has become a statement of our society that these are the people we look up to, who we uphold as successful, as role models, as ideal human beings.

The other day, I think someone was talking to me about how civilisation has come a long way and, in general, our world is “good.” I think I agreed with them. But this was a bit of a reminder to me that most of the time it’s the things we regard as normal, that we overlook, gloss over, regard as harmless–those are the insidious things that keep us from bettering the world we live in.

I’m sure you can think of at least one other person more deserving of all that money and celebrity.

6 Writing Tips From John Steinbeck

1. Abandon the idea that you are ever going to finish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.

2. Write freely and as rapidly as possible and throw the whole thing on paper. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usually found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconscious association with the material.

3. Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn’t exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person and write to that one.

4. If a scene or a section gets the better of you and you still think you want it—bypass it and go on. When you have finished the whole you can come back to it and then you may find that the reason it gave trouble is because it didn’t belong there.

5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you, dearer than the rest. It will usually be found that it is out of drawing.

6. If you are using dialogue—say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.

And yet, 12 years earlier…

“If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.”

From The Atlantic (12 March 2012) @ http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/03/6-writing-tips-from-john-steinbeck/254351/

A month in Samoa

Hi! In January of this hallowed Twenty Twelve I spent 4 weeks in the humble, humid country of Samoa. We spent most weekday mornings at Tupua Tamasese Meaole Hospital, Samoa’s main hospital. The rest of our time was divided between visiting the markets, cooking curries for dinner, riding utes and vans and taxis to so many beautiful beaches and waterfalls, taking a ferry to Savai’i island, dancing on a rockin’ boat, eating at the only Chinese restaurant in town, singing, and sneaking into resorts for some poolside lazing.

Samoans are known for their relaxed way of life, their strong family bonds, and their friendliness. Every time I got into a taxi, the driver asked me enough questions to find out where I was born, how old I was when I moved to Australia, what I studied and how many siblings I had. People smile and nod on the street. Whole families camp out next to the hospital bed of their sick relative. The whole town shuts down on a Sunday–you can’t exchange money, top up your sim card, or even visit a bank. It was bizarre and refreshing.

I learnt so many things from Samoa, medical and non-medical. My skin discovered a new dimension of blackness. I was inspired by the internal medicine doctors. I was forced to slaughter cockroaches (equipped with a thong, a can of Mortein, and wads of toilet paper…with large quantities of screaming, trembling and wailing). I survived some of the worst gastro I’ve ever experienced. And I was able to glimpse a very different way of life: a people who’ve never known any other way to spend their Sunday afternoons than sitting in the grass, watching the odd car pass through their quiet village. Bet they’ve never heard of Mark Zuckerberg…and they’re better off for it.

^ Traditional-style Samoan huts, known as fale–open to the air on all sides, but with curtains that you can pull down.

^ Veggie market. They had weird-shaped lettuce!

To Sua Ocean Trench: climb down the ladder and swim in the brilliant saltwater pool that shifts with the tides!

^ Lalomanu Beach. Postcard perfect beauty.

^ You can’t visit Samoa without watching a fafafine (ladyboy) show. Classic!

^ Getting lost in the wilderness on Savai’i island. I think we were trying to find a dormant volcano. We never found it.

^ One of the famous pork buns sold at the hospital. Pretty similar to the Chinese BBQ pork bun, and almost as tasty. I hope it wasn’t this that gave me gastro. In hindsight, it looks a bit dodge.

^ Even in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I am a lady.