Where Books and Civilizations Go to Die
Jan. 6th, 2007 06:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogBusy morning for an in-town Saturday. I've been having that lethargic about-to-come-down-with-something feeling since the middle of yesterday, so I put off a bank run and library visit until today, along with a couple of other stops. As a self-incentive for getting 'tall done, I planned on making it to an afternoon showing of Children of Men if I finished everything on time. Things went smoothly enough that, when I finished my stuff at the library just up the road from the AMC theater, I was running a good half hour early for the 1:20 show. I wound up devoting most of those minutes to some nostalgiazing, since today happened to be the start of the Audubon Library's used book sale.
I've never been a stranger to events like this. The hometown library growing up used to do them, but we acquired even more old books through the annual rummage sale at our church. My mother was one of the quintessential Church Ladies who put these things on, so she always got dibs on any good stuff she saw coming in and had pretty much eternal leave to take any unsold leftovers she liked when they were done. Over the years, we probably picked up as much useless junk at them than we managed to give away.
Audubon's isn't that much different, although some of their books are much newer and nicer. The selection is still completely jumbled-up (if I recall, the Brits actually refer to these events as "jumble sales"), the pearls surrounded by way too much swine, and the chances to make fun of other peoples' taste are just brimming.
Unusual, perhaps, for these events was seeing several big boxes of vinyl LP records on the center table. Though we no longer own a working turntable, I retain a morbid fascination for the albums themselves, particularly their covers. Facing out from the box- the first thing most people would see coming in the door- was a copy of the Carpenters' Close to You album. I discreetly moved it to the back to as not to scare the shoppers. (Yes, I did own it when I was 11. Shut up.) There were many of that genre and vintage, but only one or two approaching the qualities of the immortal Why'd They Bother Bin. I almost bought an album of Frankie Yankovic polkas just for its cover cheesiness (so obscure there's not even an image of it on Google), or any number of educational albums like this one-
- which looks like something either out of a liberal Democrat's campaign literature or a kiddie porn site. Possibly both.
Then I found a sad piece of someone's childhood. See, kids, back when there were records with big holes in the middle (see "45"), we treasured them and toted them just like you do your jewelcases and iPods. Decca records even invented a keepsake holder for your favorite dozen of them- a far more pristine but empty version can be had, as can most of my childhood, on eBay-
- but the one on the table was full. Not just of records, but of memories. The owner- female, the handwriting suggested- had lovingly recorded the A and B-side titles, composers, even serial numbers onto the index on the inside cover. And what a mix- half a dozen Doors and Zombies singles, but at least one Disneyland Records compilation of something from the Mickey Mouse Club. The sleeve of the first single's page, surrounding the label, was filled with autographs and notes from friends. I so wanted to buy this just to try to return it to the probably-my-age owner, who might have been saddened beyond belief to find her past relegated to a 25-cent bargain table.
I moved on to the hardcover books, where other memories awaited, including my second grade science book-
"Come back next week, Timmy, and we'll learn how to mix silicone to send Mary into puberty five years sooner!"
- any number of original Hardy Boys books, some Barrons review guides from Regents exams I actually took, and way more Dan Brown and Danielle Steel books than should ever be allowed in one room at the same time on account of the danger of spontaneous combustion.
In the end, though, I walked out with nothing other than memories- well, other than the borrowed DVD (Spinal Tap, speaking of spontaneous combustion) and book (Bryson's latest, with a freakin TYPO IN HIS OWN BOOKCOVER BIO, idiots). I then moved along to the movie stop, where my memories of P.D. James's book were also in for some serious regurgitation.
----
This is not a date movie.
But it's a damned powerful one, and illustrative of an anti-Utopia that, in its own way, is even sicker than Orwell's simply because it is so real, and close to today's world in time and likelihood, compared to 1984's predictions or even to James's own original 1992 projections of things 20-years-hence from then. Her evil oppressor is known as the Security Police; Cuarón uses the far more familiar moniker of Homeland Security. Its technology, its propaganda, its abject violence seem far closer to today's time than anyone would ever want to admit. Only the lack of babies really sets it apart.
Though the credits give a "based on" credit to James, it's Cuarón's vision and, thus, his story (literally, as well, he having co-written the screenplay). Other than a few character names and many broad-brush strokes, there's little of the original novel in this depiction, and that's fine, for both are compelling, and ultimately uplifting, and even oddly funny, in their own respective ways. Michael Caine is worth the price of admission all by himself, and Chiwetel Ejiofor makes yet another appearance proving there is nothing beyond his range. The soundtrack (particularly the cover chosen for this entry) is awesome and fitting, as well. And the camera work ranks among the best of any I have ever seen- never has a splotch on a lens said as much as several of them did toward the climax of this film.
I do have the benefit of being able to compare the film to the James original, since we've owned it in hardcover since it came out. Amazingly, this is not a repeatable event, since that edition is out of print, as are all but one or two cheapie paperback editions reissued just in the past year to coincide with release of the film. I've no idea why Knopf is so stingy with some of its best material; after all, if all else fails, there are always used book sales at libraries for them to go to.
I've never been a stranger to events like this. The hometown library growing up used to do them, but we acquired even more old books through the annual rummage sale at our church. My mother was one of the quintessential Church Ladies who put these things on, so she always got dibs on any good stuff she saw coming in and had pretty much eternal leave to take any unsold leftovers she liked when they were done. Over the years, we probably picked up as much useless junk at them than we managed to give away.
Audubon's isn't that much different, although some of their books are much newer and nicer. The selection is still completely jumbled-up (if I recall, the Brits actually refer to these events as "jumble sales"), the pearls surrounded by way too much swine, and the chances to make fun of other peoples' taste are just brimming.
Unusual, perhaps, for these events was seeing several big boxes of vinyl LP records on the center table. Though we no longer own a working turntable, I retain a morbid fascination for the albums themselves, particularly their covers. Facing out from the box- the first thing most people would see coming in the door- was a copy of the Carpenters' Close to You album. I discreetly moved it to the back to as not to scare the shoppers. (Yes, I did own it when I was 11. Shut up.) There were many of that genre and vintage, but only one or two approaching the qualities of the immortal Why'd They Bother Bin. I almost bought an album of Frankie Yankovic polkas just for its cover cheesiness (so obscure there's not even an image of it on Google), or any number of educational albums like this one-
- which looks like something either out of a liberal Democrat's campaign literature or a kiddie porn site. Possibly both.
Then I found a sad piece of someone's childhood. See, kids, back when there were records with big holes in the middle (see "45"), we treasured them and toted them just like you do your jewelcases and iPods. Decca records even invented a keepsake holder for your favorite dozen of them- a far more pristine but empty version can be had, as can most of my childhood, on eBay-
- but the one on the table was full. Not just of records, but of memories. The owner- female, the handwriting suggested- had lovingly recorded the A and B-side titles, composers, even serial numbers onto the index on the inside cover. And what a mix- half a dozen Doors and Zombies singles, but at least one Disneyland Records compilation of something from the Mickey Mouse Club. The sleeve of the first single's page, surrounding the label, was filled with autographs and notes from friends. I so wanted to buy this just to try to return it to the probably-my-age owner, who might have been saddened beyond belief to find her past relegated to a 25-cent bargain table.I moved on to the hardcover books, where other memories awaited, including my second grade science book-
"Come back next week, Timmy, and we'll learn how to mix silicone to send Mary into puberty five years sooner!"- any number of original Hardy Boys books, some Barrons review guides from Regents exams I actually took, and way more Dan Brown and Danielle Steel books than should ever be allowed in one room at the same time on account of the danger of spontaneous combustion.
In the end, though, I walked out with nothing other than memories- well, other than the borrowed DVD (Spinal Tap, speaking of spontaneous combustion) and book (Bryson's latest, with a freakin TYPO IN HIS OWN BOOKCOVER BIO, idiots). I then moved along to the movie stop, where my memories of P.D. James's book were also in for some serious regurgitation.
----
This is not a date movie.
But it's a damned powerful one, and illustrative of an anti-Utopia that, in its own way, is even sicker than Orwell's simply because it is so real, and close to today's world in time and likelihood, compared to 1984's predictions or even to James's own original 1992 projections of things 20-years-hence from then. Her evil oppressor is known as the Security Police; Cuarón uses the far more familiar moniker of Homeland Security. Its technology, its propaganda, its abject violence seem far closer to today's time than anyone would ever want to admit. Only the lack of babies really sets it apart.
Though the credits give a "based on" credit to James, it's Cuarón's vision and, thus, his story (literally, as well, he having co-written the screenplay). Other than a few character names and many broad-brush strokes, there's little of the original novel in this depiction, and that's fine, for both are compelling, and ultimately uplifting, and even oddly funny, in their own respective ways. Michael Caine is worth the price of admission all by himself, and Chiwetel Ejiofor makes yet another appearance proving there is nothing beyond his range. The soundtrack (particularly the cover chosen for this entry) is awesome and fitting, as well. And the camera work ranks among the best of any I have ever seen- never has a splotch on a lens said as much as several of them did toward the climax of this film.
I do have the benefit of being able to compare the film to the James original, since we've owned it in hardcover since it came out. Amazingly, this is not a repeatable event, since that edition is out of print, as are all but one or two cheapie paperback editions reissued just in the past year to coincide with release of the film. I've no idea why Knopf is so stingy with some of its best material; after all, if all else fails, there are always used book sales at libraries for them to go to.