Book vs. Film: The Hunger Games

I missed the hysteria, and overwhelming popularity, of The Hunger Games the first time around and when I originally saw the trailers for the film I had never even heard of the books — but despite being seriously intrigued by the films, sticking to my usual rule of always reading the books first, I knew I must get my hands on those books asap.

From the moment I opened the book I was hooked; drawn into this distorted, bleak vision of a not-so-distant future. Suzanne Collins said she was inspired to write the book after a late-night spent flicking between the news channel documenting the latest on the war — where young men and women are risking their lives for their country, and a channel showing the latest reality show — where young men and women are humiliating themselves for 15 minutes of fame. Somewhere in between the channel hopping, and tiredness, Collins said the lines became distorted. The war and the reality show became one, and The Hunger Games was born. 

For those who haven't read the books, or seen the film, it's set in a future vision of North America, known as Panem, which is separated into 12 districts and each year two 'tributes', a boy and girl aged between 12-18, from are chosen to represent their district in a fight to the death that is televised for people's enjoyment. The very idea of it seems so fitting right now considering the number of reality shows our tv screens are flooded with, and I'm sure we've all heard someone say 'What will they come up with next? Kids fighting to the death!?' 

The great thing about Collins' writing is that she doesn't sugar-coat a thing; she gives it to you straight — and the social commentary is eerily accurate: the poor run the world, the rich own it kinda thing.

The protagonist, Katniss Everdeen, is one of my favourite characters for a long time — she is loyal, fearless, brave, compassionate, and hard-working. She has her insecurities, and her issues that make her human and relatable, I defy anyone not to fall in love with her.  

Once I'd demolished the trilogy in a couple of days I was ready for the first film — and I was not disappointed. It was cast perfectly, the actors captured the intensity and nuances of their characters, and those you are supposed to like, you love and those you are supposed to dislike, you hate. So all is good there, then.

As with all film adaptations of popular novels, there is nowhere near enough room for detail, and sadly many of my favourite moments from the book were cut from the film. Normally this sort of thing really bothers me, but the direction and sublime acting was enough to make up for it. 

The film managed to recreate the desperation, rebellion, and edge-of-your-seat excitement that the book conveyed so perfectly. 

Director Gary Ross wasn't afraid to take the time to develop character relationships and build up the intense, gloomy atmosphere of the districts before unleashing the rip-roaring unrelenting atrocities of the games. He took risks, and it paid off. 

If you haven't yet read the books, I implore you too. They are a triumph. The world and characters than Collins creates is intoxicating and like nothing you've read before — she writes with such passion that you will go to sleep believing it's all real. The film is more exciting when you've read the books, and you will understand the characters more as some of the excluded details are crucial to our involvement of the story. 

A book review: 'The Butt' by Will Self

The Butt is an extraordinary, and strange, novel detailing the events following one man's flick of his cigarette butt of his apartment balcony that lands on top of the man below's head. What follows is a journey through a foreign land with bizarre customs, and even more bizarre laws. Could he really be guilty of attempted murder? Just for flickin' a butt?!

About two chapters into this book I began to think of George Orwell's 'six rules for writing' and in particular the second rule: 'never use a long word where a short one will do.' I'll repeat that 'never use a long word where a short one will do.' Boy oh boy were there some 'long' words in this book - and by long I mean I'm sitting there having to chew my way through sentences three or four times before it goes in. This made it annoying almost instantly as it was arduous trying to get through chapters and stops the flow of the story. There's nothing wrong with 'long' words, in fact most of them are poetic and beautiful but writing things like 'actualité' instead of 'truth' is plain ridiculous. Orwell would be most unimpressed.

To Self's credit, he is a genius at describing simple, every day things and making them sound unusual and exciting. I knew it was worth trudging through the long-winded chapters just to get a few descriptive gems at the end of it.

In terms of story originality and creative, this book would get a ten out of ten from almost everyone, but where it comes up short is in the delivery. There is no denying Self's writing ability, and sense of humour, but at the end of the book after we are forced to churn through chapter after chapter following the protagonist on a long, boring and pointless journey driving across baron land and finally arrive at our destination to be told by another character who arrived there much earlier that he 'had flown', I just thought well, bloody hell, couldn't we have flown too?

Will Self is an author I would always recommend but as for this book, it's not very high on my list of 'must-reads'. 

You're so cool

All things considered, I think Quentin Tarantino's True Romance is my favourite love story of all time - more so than Romeo and Juliet, Noah and Allie, Sam and Molly, and definitely more so than that 200-year-old vampire and his weird girlfriend who keeps clutching at that 'gaping hole in her chest' (you all know what I'm talking about, don't pretend). 
I mean, for someone like me who ain't super crazy about all that lovey-dovey, 'all I need is you', flowers and heart-shaped chocolate stuff, this was always going to be the story for me. You know? Amid kung-fu films, cocaine, guns, Elvis, gangsters, car chases, pie-eating, and Brad Pitt thrown into the mix, there's romance. It's not too in your face, but it's there and it's bloody beautiful. 


Who says that stealing a pimp's cocaine and running across the country away from gangsters trying to get it back doesn't sound like the perfect opportunity for an intoxicating love story?


Hey, let's face it we're all suckers for a love story but give us something we can really believe in, and get behind - something we can invest ourselves in, and we'll feel a part of the story. Give us something that starts off hopeless, tragic even; give us something that everyone else is writing off as a ten minute fling, and we're hooked. 


Clarence and Alabama prove that love is enough. And not only that they prove that you can find love in the most unusual of circumstances, and once you've found it nothing is impossible. No matter the crazy obstacles that come your way, if you've got romance you've got everything. You've got the world at your feet. 


Clarence and Alabama prove that out of catastrophe comes love, no wait not love, romance. Out of catastrophe can come romance. Wild, exciting, beautiful, twisted romance. True romance. 

I had to come all the way from the highway and byways of Tallahassee, Florida to MotorCity, Detroit to find my true love. If you gave me a million years to ponder, I would never have guessed that true romance and Detroit would ever go together. And til this day, the events that followed all still seems like a distant dream. But the dream was real and was to change our lives forever. I kept asking Clarence why our world seemed to be collapsing and things seemed to be getting so shitty. And he'd say, "that's the way it goes, but don't forget, it goes the other way too." That's the way romance is... Usually, that's the way it goes, but every once in awhile, it goes the other way too. 

Pulp Fiction

This is a Robert Smith appreciation post

This is Robert Smith. I think he is (was) the most attractive man on the planet (even more so than, yes really, Tom Delonge). When I am sad I look at pictures of him. He makes me happy. 

Actually, this is a great time to point at that, in general, men who look like this are always welcome to initiate conversation with me - whether that may be on a bus, at a bar, in a pub, or just walking down the street. What I'm trying to say is, please do. Please. Please look like this, and please make conversation. Come say hi long haired goth boy. 

Oh, and p.s Yo I'm not that shallow - Robby S is pretty hilarious, intelligent, and talented so I'm not just after him for his outrageous mane and fabulous make-up. 

Book vs. Film: We Need To Talk About Kevin

Okay, so it only seems right to begin by saying that, yes, there is little point in 'comparing' books and films because they are mediums utterly alien from one another, but it's thursday evening and my insomniac tendencies are a good enough reason/excuse for me to do just that.

In the blue corner we have, what is undoubtedly, my favourite book of all time 'We Need To Talk About Kevin', aaaaanndd in the red corner we have, which is undoubtedly, one of the most disappointing films I have seen in a long time 'We Need To Talk About Kevin'. 

Where oh where to begin? Hmm, I know the development of the relationships between the characters. Without giving anything important away or spoiling it for those who have not had the gorgeous pleasure of reading Lionel Shriver's exquisite novel, I will simply say this: The power of this story hinges on the beautiful and meticulous development of the relationship between Kevin and his mother, and Kevin and his father. The manipulation that she wrote so intoxicatingly was ignored in the film - in my eyes, this was a huge mistake on the director's part. Due to this the film was left lacking in so many areas in comparison with the impact of the twists and turns of the book. 

The cinematography was stunning. The film itself was a beauty to watch - the lighting, the cut aways, the angles, the photography etc was all beautiful but no amount of fancy camera work can disguise a hollow screenplay. Honestly, there were so many moments where I felt as if I wouldn't have had a clue what was going on if I hadn't read the book. 

Of course, a book is afforded the luxury of infinity if it wants it - there is no limit to how long, and how detailed a novel may be. Whereas a film is relatively bound by limits, and we would be here all year if they were to include each detail of the book BUT that doesn't mean they shouldn't try. 

For me, the beauty and power of this story - and what made it unique - was the detail. (Slight spoiler alert) the way in which Kevin chose his victims down to the nth degree, and planned his attack for weeks in advance making sure not a hair was out of place. This was all crucial to the ending. This was an insight into the mind of this so-called monster, but in the film we saw none of that. In the film the victims were but a mention. 

In the book you feel torn between two sides - should you sympathise with Kevin? Should you feel sorry for the mother, or should you think she could have done better as a parent? Was Kevin just born evil, or is it deeper than that? 

If you ever get the chance to read the book by Lionel Shriver please, please do. I urge and implore you to read it as it is quite simply an incredible and powerful book. It will tear you to pieces, reduce you to tears and leave you open mouthed with astonishment and fear. The characters are portrayed and developed so fantastically, and the storyline grows naturally and believably. Unlike the film, that felt fragmented and lacking with no real explanation as to what was going on and why. It just seems like a crap mum with a bratty kid who loses it one day and kills a load of kids at his school, when in reality it is so, so much more complex and exciting than that. 

You know, sometimes I just think certain things are not meant to be put into film - they just don’t translate onto the screen, and this is one of them. You need the words to grasp the story and escape into the world. Of course, this completely works both ways - could you imagine Pulp Fiction as a novel? No, wouldn’t work. Film is an extraordinary medium when done well, and (apart from a good book) there is little better than a great film. For now I think I'll just stick with Tarantino, my old faithful....

English is so bad at describing what it means to grieve. We use words like bereft or bitter or sad, or we say we have a broken heart. But none of these really get at the nuances. The words don’t seem to capture each exquisitely painful feeling.
For example, there should be a word, maybe borrowed from German, a language so good at expressing complicated mental states in a single lengthy word with many chewy consonants, for when you miss someone so incredibly, achingly much, when that person pervades every thought, every interaction, every waking moment, but you also loathe them. Because they treated you badly, or because they were too weak to be honest with you. Because you were betrayed. And because you loathe them, you hate yourself for missing that person so intensely. For missing the laughter they inspired; for wishing for the easy intimacy that you built. You hate yourself for knowing that they aren’t worth so much sadness, that such an outlay of mental energy is entirely wasted and useless. But you feel it anyway, and you cry in the shower or into your pillow or anytime something reminds you of that person. Which is all the time. There should definitely be a word for that.
There should also be a word, maybe from the French, who do existentialism so well, for the feeling of disconnection you cultivate when you walk through the streets with your headphones on, sad songs blasting into your ears loudly enough that you can pretend you are alone. You pass by other people almost without seeing them, since you can’t hear them. You walk by shops and offices on the sidewalk, going somewhere or maybe not going anywhere in particular, feeling like the music in your ears is a soundtrack to your sadness. This song makes you think of that person; that song comes close to capturing how lonely you are without them. You isolate yourself physically because you feel so isolated inside; surrounded by people, you are still alone, because you have been abandoned by that one person who made you feel somehow less alone.
English is also missing a word for how it feels when you know that person has moved on so quickly. When you find out you weren’t as important as you thought you were. When you realize that they were acting selfishly instead of caring about you, or when you understand that you didn’t really come into it at all for them, they were just doing what they needed to do. Maybe it should come from Russian, because the Russians know despair. You thought you were finally getting over them. You could almost go an hour, if you were busy with something really important, without thinking about them. Then you see a Facebook post or hear some gossip from mutual friends, and you realize you weren’t over it. Not even close. You realize you were still holding out hope that you would get back together, that there would be some way to repair the damage, to be happy again. When that hope is crushed, the fragile Jenga tower of your life tumbles down. There should be a word for that kind of defeat.
And there should also be a word for when you’re just so tired of being sad, for when you are tired of being lonely but somehow don’t know how to stop. When you’re tired of crying, tired of thinking about that person, tired of missing them. You can’t yet make yourself recognize all the bad things; remembering how you’ve been done wrong doesn’t help. But the hurt over the good things, the things you still miss so much, is a dull twist in your stomach now, instead of a gaping hole in your chest. You don’t know how to turn that off, don’t remember how to be happy. But you sort of remember happiness as it existed before that person, and you want that so desperately. You want to stop this misery that drags at your ankles and eyes and insides. You know it will take time, but sometimes just the fact of being tired of crying makes you cry. Maybe we could co-opt a word from Japanese for that, since melancholy is a specialty of theirs.
There should be an English word for all these feelings of grief. And I desperately wish they existed now, just so I could tell you, next time you ask, how I’m doing in only four words, instead of all these.