In which your blogger ruminates on the nature of courage. Hint: he uses precisely none of the characters in this book as examples. Welcome back to Twilight, guys and dolls.
Plot: Alice has another vision. Your blogger contemplates Einstein's definition of insanity. He decides to modify it as follows: "The definition of insanity is repeating the same action multiple times in a row and expecting it to not suck every time." And yes, Stephenie Meyer, we are talking about you. Alice draws the family room in Bella's childhood home. The vampires hold a conference call. Edward is coming to get Bella. Your blogger is certain that Edward will bring much-needed energy and dynamism to the proceedings. In other news, your blogger recently came into posession of a lovely bridge and is selling timeshares. Anyone? Anyone? Bella points out, somewhat rationally, that the tracker is attempting to hurt her through loved ones. Jasper, naturally, uses his deux-ex-mindcontrol to calm her panic. Your blogger refuses to dignify this craptastic plot-device with humor. It is disturbing, invasive, and generally horrible. Anyways, Alice answers the phone, then hands it to Bella. The tracker is on the line. He has kidnapped Bella's mother, and instructs her to ditch the bodyguards and return home. Bella writes a letter declaring her never-ending love for Edward and decides to do just that. Finis.
Rant: So, vampires can hear shifts in an individual human's heartrate from across a crowded room, but can't eavesdrop on a cellphone conversation? Makes perfect sense, according to the entirely consistent rules of the world we've seen established over the preceding two-hundred pages of tightly plotted literature. Or not. Good job, Stephenie Meyer. Don't blame yourself. After all, you're only a woman, and therefore can't be trusted to utilize logic and rationality under pressure. Oh wait, no, that's just the protagonist you've spent years of interviews trying to establish as a feminist icon, when in reality she's the embodiment of everything wrong with American gender relations and patriarchal society as a whole.
I hate idiot plots. And this turd-pit of a chapter features THREE of them. Lets give out some awards...
In third place, the Bronze medal, we have the Cullen family. For their continued inability to turn overwhelming numerical and future-telling advantages into victory, for their consistent refusal to forcibly protect the humans who are Bella's weaknesses, for their failure to dynamically impose their will on any situation except Bella's emotional state, we award the Cullens bronze.
In second place, the Silver, the one and only (thank God) Bella Swan. For her willing conformity to the worst stereotypes of her gender, for her stupid acceptance of her own death when surrounded by a small army of superhumans who have already declared their endless loyalty, for her embracing of existential ennui when faced with the horrors of mild inconvenience in an otherwise perfect life, and most of all, for her inexplicable affection towards one Edward Cullen, the comittee awards Bella silver.
And (drumroll please), in first place, the Gold-Medal winning Grand Champion, the Tracker. For his cowardly targeting of innocent teenagers, for his complete lack of personality, for his idea of a challenge involving the manipulation and intimidation of humans posessing one tenth of his physical power, the comittee has the honor of presenting him the Gold Medal.
How many more chapters do I have to read?
Monday, August 27, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Twilight, 20
In which…. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Welcome back to Twilight, kids.
Plot: The title of this section is a misnomer. Flat-out lie, really. The chapter has no plot. It exists only through the sheer grandeur of its pointlessness. Your blogger, however, has created a pattern for these reviews and feels obligated to enliven things through relentless mockery. So…
Bella wakes up. In a hotel in Phoenix. The vampires order food and wait for things to happen. Things do not happen. Bella tries to remember how she got to the hotel. Your blogger tries to remember what evil spirit posessed him to suffer this parade of inanity. Bella hangs out with the vampires. Jasper, who you may recall keeping his distance from Bella out of fear that he might go all feeding-frenzy, has no difficulty sharing a couch with her. Because, obviously, one should never let things like logic and continuity get in the way of a shitty story. Alice explains that the other suckheads are in no danger from Tracker and Mrs. Tracker. Why, your blogger is forced to wonder, do the Cullens not roll with Emmett's excellent suggestion of terminating the baddies post-haste? Because, Stephenie Meyer answers, doing so would alleviate the need for Alice's FORESHADOWING vision of a ballet studio, which will most definitively not come back to haunt our heroine in the forty remaining pages. Oh, and Edward calls to spit love at Bella. And Bella leaves a phone-message for her Mom. Finis.
Rant: Oh sweet mother of God that was painful. There is no reason, none whatsoever, for this chapter to exist. It would fit nicely as two paragraphs at the end of the preceding chapter or start of the following, but stretched out to fill pages it is, as the great Roger Ebert once said "an awful experience of interminable length." Alright, I suppose its time I tried to intellectually engage with the material…
Seeing the future sucks as a plot device. Strong plots are always surprising, but in a way that builds on and informs the story that came before. As much as we enjoy the futile excercise of splitting fiction into "genres," the truth is that all great novels are mysteries. The reader is engaged, always, with the question of what happens next. The need to answer this question, and the tension created in its repeated asking, is what kept my younger self up nights, stuffing a towel under the door so my parents couldn't see the light and turning pages with trembling fingers. Stephenie Meyer, who has no faith in her audience's posession of functional frontal lobes, would prefer that we know every event fifty pages in advance, just to emphasize its importance and make sure we are on the lookout. So what if it destroys anything resembling dramatic tension?
And yes, folks, Bella is going to end up in the ballet studio with the evil vampire. But wait! Could it be??? Could this be where the prologue dumps into the narrative???? My God, such genius in the work of Stephenie Meyer. Such generosity. Nobody would ever think, of course, that a book about a girl falling in love with a vampire might, just might, climax with her being threatened by another vampire. So Stephenie Meyer went ahead and told us, right there at the beginning where it could be made big and obvious. Because plot twists arising organically from the interaction of character and circumstance completely suck and should be avoided at all costs.
All quibbles aside, I'm happy to report that there is one genuinely great passage in the chapter: Alice getting to infantilize Bella. I was worried, since Bella had exhibited something like an independent personality in the previous chapters, and she's a weak little girl with hormones and stuff who can't hold herself together without the comfort of her mind-controlling vampire babysitters. It really would be awful, wouldn't it, if fear for her life made her upset, thereby activating the fight-or-flight response that has been fundamentally responsible for much of human ingenuity and evolution over the past few millenia. I mean, girls aren't allowed to make desicions without guys around to tell them what they should be feeling in any given situation, are they? At least Jasper is there to keep her emotional responses in line. Wonderful guy, that Jasper.
Fuck this book and the Mercedes it rode in on.
Plot: The title of this section is a misnomer. Flat-out lie, really. The chapter has no plot. It exists only through the sheer grandeur of its pointlessness. Your blogger, however, has created a pattern for these reviews and feels obligated to enliven things through relentless mockery. So…
Bella wakes up. In a hotel in Phoenix. The vampires order food and wait for things to happen. Things do not happen. Bella tries to remember how she got to the hotel. Your blogger tries to remember what evil spirit posessed him to suffer this parade of inanity. Bella hangs out with the vampires. Jasper, who you may recall keeping his distance from Bella out of fear that he might go all feeding-frenzy, has no difficulty sharing a couch with her. Because, obviously, one should never let things like logic and continuity get in the way of a shitty story. Alice explains that the other suckheads are in no danger from Tracker and Mrs. Tracker. Why, your blogger is forced to wonder, do the Cullens not roll with Emmett's excellent suggestion of terminating the baddies post-haste? Because, Stephenie Meyer answers, doing so would alleviate the need for Alice's FORESHADOWING vision of a ballet studio, which will most definitively not come back to haunt our heroine in the forty remaining pages. Oh, and Edward calls to spit love at Bella. And Bella leaves a phone-message for her Mom. Finis.
Rant: Oh sweet mother of God that was painful. There is no reason, none whatsoever, for this chapter to exist. It would fit nicely as two paragraphs at the end of the preceding chapter or start of the following, but stretched out to fill pages it is, as the great Roger Ebert once said "an awful experience of interminable length." Alright, I suppose its time I tried to intellectually engage with the material…
Seeing the future sucks as a plot device. Strong plots are always surprising, but in a way that builds on and informs the story that came before. As much as we enjoy the futile excercise of splitting fiction into "genres," the truth is that all great novels are mysteries. The reader is engaged, always, with the question of what happens next. The need to answer this question, and the tension created in its repeated asking, is what kept my younger self up nights, stuffing a towel under the door so my parents couldn't see the light and turning pages with trembling fingers. Stephenie Meyer, who has no faith in her audience's posession of functional frontal lobes, would prefer that we know every event fifty pages in advance, just to emphasize its importance and make sure we are on the lookout. So what if it destroys anything resembling dramatic tension?
And yes, folks, Bella is going to end up in the ballet studio with the evil vampire. But wait! Could it be??? Could this be where the prologue dumps into the narrative???? My God, such genius in the work of Stephenie Meyer. Such generosity. Nobody would ever think, of course, that a book about a girl falling in love with a vampire might, just might, climax with her being threatened by another vampire. So Stephenie Meyer went ahead and told us, right there at the beginning where it could be made big and obvious. Because plot twists arising organically from the interaction of character and circumstance completely suck and should be avoided at all costs.
All quibbles aside, I'm happy to report that there is one genuinely great passage in the chapter: Alice getting to infantilize Bella. I was worried, since Bella had exhibited something like an independent personality in the previous chapters, and she's a weak little girl with hormones and stuff who can't hold herself together without the comfort of her mind-controlling vampire babysitters. It really would be awful, wouldn't it, if fear for her life made her upset, thereby activating the fight-or-flight response that has been fundamentally responsible for much of human ingenuity and evolution over the past few millenia. I mean, girls aren't allowed to make desicions without guys around to tell them what they should be feeling in any given situation, are they? At least Jasper is there to keep her emotional responses in line. Wonderful guy, that Jasper.
Fuck this book and the Mercedes it rode in on.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Twilight, 19
In which Bella Swan has the worst breakup ever. With her Dad. This is every bit as disturbingly unsympathetic as it sounds. Yes kids, its Twilight time….
Plot: Bella and her merry band of moping vampires arrive at the Swan house, where Charlie is awake and waiting. She storms in, yelling that she dumped Edward and has to leave town immediately to escape the pain, or something. Because, obviously, its completely rational for her to flee across state lines instead of asking her father, who happens to be the fucking police chief, to make sure that her creepy ex-boyfriend stays well away. Charlie, temporarily behaving like a parent from another, much better book, suggests that she suspend all drastic life choices for a time when she isn't sobbing hysterically. Bella shouts the exact words her mother used when going splitsville from Charlie and Forks years ago, which your blogger doesn't doubt for a millisecond is the kind of thing divorced parents willingly share with their progeny, and runs out into the night to rejoin her stalker (meaning Edward). Charlie, once again behaving exactly like a character from a Stephenie Meyer book, makes no attempt to stop his teenaged daughter from driving herself to Arizona in the middle of the night, in a truck that your blogger wouldn't trust for a trip to the grocery store. Edward and Bella head back to vampire central, where Laurent is waiting to make some conveniently over-dramatised pronouncements of impending doom, and then everyone splits up to carry out their various parts in the previously described asinine plan. Finis
Rant: Well, that was all kinds of awful. Bella Swan is a deeply, profoundly fucked-up human being. I get that she can't tell Daddy about the vampires. I get that she needs to be somewhere other than Forks in the immediate future. But there has to be a better way. Something that, just for example, doesn't involve making your own father re-live what was probably the worst moment of his entire life. The ends, Stephenie Meyer, do not justify the means. Yes, we all know that Edward and Bella are going to ge their little slice of bonerifically fairy-tale happiness. Congratulations, you're capable of writing a story in which the protagonists get exactly what they want, regardless of how much agony they cause for the genuinely good people helping them along the way. And by congratulations, I mean "grow the fuck up."
Also, the big dramatic moment in this chapter involves Bella using words that neither of her parents, under any concievable circumstances, would have allowed her to hear. Ever. But that isn't important, because Edward-mumble-murmur-dazzle-kiss-love. Once again, Stephenie Meyer, you prove that your grasp of things like "logic" is limited to creating falsely-emotional payoffs to problems that never would have existed without your sledge-hammering them into this latrine-drip of a novel. So, good job with that.
One last thing: The tracker, at the end of this pustule of a chapter, is patrolling alone around the Cullen residence. Alone. There are seven Cullens, by my count. Why, precisely, don't three or four of them go for a jog, find the tracker using Alice's flawless ability to pinpoint exactly where he will be in five minutes, rip his head off and dance on his grave? Oh, right, because violence is only ok when perpetrated against innocent humans and out of Cullen earshot. Sweet Jesus, how was this book ever published?
Plot: Bella and her merry band of moping vampires arrive at the Swan house, where Charlie is awake and waiting. She storms in, yelling that she dumped Edward and has to leave town immediately to escape the pain, or something. Because, obviously, its completely rational for her to flee across state lines instead of asking her father, who happens to be the fucking police chief, to make sure that her creepy ex-boyfriend stays well away. Charlie, temporarily behaving like a parent from another, much better book, suggests that she suspend all drastic life choices for a time when she isn't sobbing hysterically. Bella shouts the exact words her mother used when going splitsville from Charlie and Forks years ago, which your blogger doesn't doubt for a millisecond is the kind of thing divorced parents willingly share with their progeny, and runs out into the night to rejoin her stalker (meaning Edward). Charlie, once again behaving exactly like a character from a Stephenie Meyer book, makes no attempt to stop his teenaged daughter from driving herself to Arizona in the middle of the night, in a truck that your blogger wouldn't trust for a trip to the grocery store. Edward and Bella head back to vampire central, where Laurent is waiting to make some conveniently over-dramatised pronouncements of impending doom, and then everyone splits up to carry out their various parts in the previously described asinine plan. Finis
Rant: Well, that was all kinds of awful. Bella Swan is a deeply, profoundly fucked-up human being. I get that she can't tell Daddy about the vampires. I get that she needs to be somewhere other than Forks in the immediate future. But there has to be a better way. Something that, just for example, doesn't involve making your own father re-live what was probably the worst moment of his entire life. The ends, Stephenie Meyer, do not justify the means. Yes, we all know that Edward and Bella are going to ge their little slice of bonerifically fairy-tale happiness. Congratulations, you're capable of writing a story in which the protagonists get exactly what they want, regardless of how much agony they cause for the genuinely good people helping them along the way. And by congratulations, I mean "grow the fuck up."
Also, the big dramatic moment in this chapter involves Bella using words that neither of her parents, under any concievable circumstances, would have allowed her to hear. Ever. But that isn't important, because Edward-mumble-murmur-dazzle-kiss-love. Once again, Stephenie Meyer, you prove that your grasp of things like "logic" is limited to creating falsely-emotional payoffs to problems that never would have existed without your sledge-hammering them into this latrine-drip of a novel. So, good job with that.
One last thing: The tracker, at the end of this pustule of a chapter, is patrolling alone around the Cullen residence. Alone. There are seven Cullens, by my count. Why, precisely, don't three or four of them go for a jog, find the tracker using Alice's flawless ability to pinpoint exactly where he will be in five minutes, rip his head off and dance on his grave? Oh, right, because violence is only ok when perpetrated against innocent humans and out of Cullen earshot. Sweet Jesus, how was this book ever published?
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Twilight, 18
In which the shit continues its eternal war with innumerable devices of an air-circulatory persuasion. Interested? Then, my fellow red-headed step-children, let us rock.
Plot: Stephenie Meyer talks about three vampires walking in to the baseball field. Your blogger contemplates holding his breath until Stephenie Meyer learns the difference between showing and telling. He decides against it. Asphyxiation is a bitch. Carlisle requests that the strangers not kill anyone in the vicinity of Forks. Because, obviously, they're allowed to commit murder as long as he doesn't hear the victims scream. Wonderful role-model, that Carlisle. The wind shifts, and one of the new vamps goes all feeding-frenzy in Bella's direction. Edward makes angry noises. He, Alice and Emmett hustle Bella back to the jeep and make tracks for the Swan residence. Emmett, who can count and therefore realises that the Cullens have a tactical advantage, wants to terminate the strangers and get on with their lives. Your blogger nods approvingly. Edward, naturally, wants to do something convoluted, which is not at all a way for his incompetent author to shoehorn a pre-determined ending into her barf-puddle of a novel. Bella, meanwhile, wants to be involved in planning her own escape from imminent death. Edward ignores her. Because, obviously, ovaries are fickle things and anyone in posession of same is being made stupid by overactive hormones at all times. Anyways, Bella and some vampires are going to Phoenix. Yay. Or, you know, not. Finis.
Rant: Somewhere, at the core of an alternate-universe version of this book written by someone whose worldview includes things like complex morality, lies a fascinating dilemma. In that novel, vampires can't survive without drinking human blood. Human, not animal. There, you see, we have a real problem. If all lives are to be valued equally, then vampires have as much right to vital sustenance as anyone else. Therefore, they have a legitimate case for killing with a clear conscience. That's my little thought-experiment of an alternate world. In Stephenie Meyer's world, the Twilight world, vampires don't have to kill in order to survive. They have no case, none whatsoever, for laying fang on any human being. There are seven Cullens, and three strangers. The new vampires laugh about have eaten recently, about having taken human life. And Carlisle lets them walk. The great Carlisle, the humanitarian, the paragon of all virtue, lets three remorseless killers walk away without a scratch because…. Anyone?
Emmett is fun. Completely cliched (muscle-bound, reckless, hot-tempered etc), but at least he's been written to bring something resembling humor into this little wrist-cutters convention. He want to fight, to do something active and dynamic instead of standing around and bitching when things happen to him. This is a massive improvement over… well, everyone. I wonder if Stephenie Meyer realises that her supporting characters are vastly more interesting than the leads? Probably not, but I'd read the hell out of an an Alice/Emmett spinoff series.
Someone else wants to eat Bella. Awesome. Seriously, the book suffers from a massive lack of narrative tension. Does anyone doubt, really, that the tracker will die and Bella will be fine after a dramatically close call or two? Thought not. And the less we say about Edward's plan, the better. Great plots create drama from the organic action of complex characters. This book creates plot from deux-ex-idiota. That, probably, is what bothers me most about the tracker. He has no reason for wanting Bella's blood. Yes, she smells nice, but winds change and there plenty of women without vampire bodyguards, just waiting to be exsanguinated. The hunt starts because without it, the book would end in a wet fizzle of lukewarmly murmured passion. The whole thing is so… toothless (sorry, I've had a long day).
Oh, and Stephenie Meyer is a misogynist pig. The entire scene in the jeep makes me ashamed for my gender, just on the off-chance we're anything like as horrible as SM clearly believes. But that's a conversation for another day. Be good, interweb.
Plot: Stephenie Meyer talks about three vampires walking in to the baseball field. Your blogger contemplates holding his breath until Stephenie Meyer learns the difference between showing and telling. He decides against it. Asphyxiation is a bitch. Carlisle requests that the strangers not kill anyone in the vicinity of Forks. Because, obviously, they're allowed to commit murder as long as he doesn't hear the victims scream. Wonderful role-model, that Carlisle. The wind shifts, and one of the new vamps goes all feeding-frenzy in Bella's direction. Edward makes angry noises. He, Alice and Emmett hustle Bella back to the jeep and make tracks for the Swan residence. Emmett, who can count and therefore realises that the Cullens have a tactical advantage, wants to terminate the strangers and get on with their lives. Your blogger nods approvingly. Edward, naturally, wants to do something convoluted, which is not at all a way for his incompetent author to shoehorn a pre-determined ending into her barf-puddle of a novel. Bella, meanwhile, wants to be involved in planning her own escape from imminent death. Edward ignores her. Because, obviously, ovaries are fickle things and anyone in posession of same is being made stupid by overactive hormones at all times. Anyways, Bella and some vampires are going to Phoenix. Yay. Or, you know, not. Finis.
Rant: Somewhere, at the core of an alternate-universe version of this book written by someone whose worldview includes things like complex morality, lies a fascinating dilemma. In that novel, vampires can't survive without drinking human blood. Human, not animal. There, you see, we have a real problem. If all lives are to be valued equally, then vampires have as much right to vital sustenance as anyone else. Therefore, they have a legitimate case for killing with a clear conscience. That's my little thought-experiment of an alternate world. In Stephenie Meyer's world, the Twilight world, vampires don't have to kill in order to survive. They have no case, none whatsoever, for laying fang on any human being. There are seven Cullens, and three strangers. The new vampires laugh about have eaten recently, about having taken human life. And Carlisle lets them walk. The great Carlisle, the humanitarian, the paragon of all virtue, lets three remorseless killers walk away without a scratch because…. Anyone?
Emmett is fun. Completely cliched (muscle-bound, reckless, hot-tempered etc), but at least he's been written to bring something resembling humor into this little wrist-cutters convention. He want to fight, to do something active and dynamic instead of standing around and bitching when things happen to him. This is a massive improvement over… well, everyone. I wonder if Stephenie Meyer realises that her supporting characters are vastly more interesting than the leads? Probably not, but I'd read the hell out of an an Alice/Emmett spinoff series.
Someone else wants to eat Bella. Awesome. Seriously, the book suffers from a massive lack of narrative tension. Does anyone doubt, really, that the tracker will die and Bella will be fine after a dramatically close call or two? Thought not. And the less we say about Edward's plan, the better. Great plots create drama from the organic action of complex characters. This book creates plot from deux-ex-idiota. That, probably, is what bothers me most about the tracker. He has no reason for wanting Bella's blood. Yes, she smells nice, but winds change and there plenty of women without vampire bodyguards, just waiting to be exsanguinated. The hunt starts because without it, the book would end in a wet fizzle of lukewarmly murmured passion. The whole thing is so… toothless (sorry, I've had a long day).
Oh, and Stephenie Meyer is a misogynist pig. The entire scene in the jeep makes me ashamed for my gender, just on the off-chance we're anything like as horrible as SM clearly believes. But that's a conversation for another day. Be good, interweb.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Cool Kids and Space Cowboys
Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ennui
We're all depressed. How else do you explain it? The most popular movie in theatres is about a suicidal schizophrenic dressing up as a bat to fight crime. Our national obsession for the week involves dissecting the romantic indiscretions of a certain young woman, who seems to have been very slightly scarred by her upbringing in the nurturing world of showbusiness. Another innocent little girl, America's musical sweetheart, just released her 147th single based around humiliating an ex-boyfriend. No, I take it back. We are not depressed. Narcissistic, invasive, cynical and unforgiving, but not depressed. More power to us.
Take paper and list decades, 1910's at the top and 2010's at the bottom where we belong. Next to each number, write a single word describing the national mood for those ten years. My list, in order: Forthright, Decadent, Terrified, Angry, Triumphant, Languid, Shaken, Industrious, Proud, Scarred, Profoundly and Utterly Fucked Up (technical term). You may not agree with my descriptions- and I'd love to see what other's come up with- but let's take it as a starting point. Notice the pattern. Good, bad, worse, rinse and repeat.
The secret of America: we're shitty frontrunners. Not at first, while the glow from the last great national triumph still backlights our gigantic shadow around the globe. Later, after the anger fades and we sit high atop the throne and think we've always been meant to rule. American exceptionalism has cost us more lives than terrorism. And yes, I remember that day in September when everything changed.
We're terrible frontrunners, but great underdogs. And these days, we're stuck under everyone. Punching bags. Mocked, and rightly so. People around the world listen to the cynicism in our music, watch the masturbatory chaos of our films, read our idolization and destruction of simple, flawed human beings and laugh openly. And I'm so sure I'm happy. The pattern has to hold. We've hit bottom, scraped, dug for a while. We'll get better. Won't we?
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Twilight, 17
In which Stephenie Meyer remembers that books are frequently based around "plots," which generally involve things happening and stuff…
Plot: Edward drops Bella at home. The Blacks are waiting. Wow, that sounded racist. Billy brought fish fry. Your blogger approves. Billy and Bella talk, over the course of a scene that in any other book would have been meant as a self-referential parody of every crappy interrogation in every spy movie, ever. Needless to say, he thinks the Cullens are creepy and wishes Bella would put boot to Edward's ass. Then, because anything resembling dramatic conflict is evil and cannot be tolerated, he decides that its all her business anyway and leaves without an argument. Jacob, who you might recall is your blogger's favorite character in the book, has nothing to do because, like all good plot devices, he's being shelved until his idiot author decides she needs to ramp up the love-triangle tension a bit. Charlie arrives and makes angry-dad noises about Bella having a date, since it wouldn't make any sense for him to treat Bella like she has a brain and is perhaps capable of running her own life with his guidance and help. Christ, your blogger despises this book. Edward arrives with a completely non-phallic overiszed jeep. He kiss-dazzles Bella into letting him carry her on his flawlessly alabaster shoulders to the baseball diamond. Because, obviously, teenage girls are governed by their hormones and are completely incapable of utilizing higher brain-function when in the presence of a boy they might be interested in banging at some point in the future. The vampires play baseball. Yes, its precisely as boring as it sounds. Alice gets all upset because the other vampires she foresaw are showing up early, drawn by the noise of the game. They're hungry. Finis.
Rant: I keep trying to tell myself that she's getting better. I mean, the book is about vampires and sex. Can't be boring right? Right? Wrong. So very, very wrong. Lets see…
The conversation between Bella and Billy might be the worst thing in this brainfart of a novel, and I don't say that lightly. Billy comes over because he's worried about his best friend's kid, and tries to warn her away from danger. Cool. My question: does he know about the vampirism deal? Aside from that minor issue, the Cullen's are sickeningly flawless, so there wouldn't be much reason for him to be concerned with Bella (not)boning one of them. If he does know, why in the hell does he leave without putting up anything resembling a fight? Oh, that's right, he leaves because the entire scene arises from Stephenie Meyer artificially creating conflict to show how much Edward and Bella have overcome en-route to the climactic sexy-times three books down the line. Which might work, if the aforementioned obstacles to coitus didn't have all the substance of damp toiletpaper.
Now, I know I talk about my personal life a lot on this blog, but hopefully the audience can be patient another few moments while I make a excessively long-winded point… My girlfriend is five years younger than I am. We started dating right after she turned 18. I've known her parents for years (long story), and like them a great deal, but the first time I met them as the guy sleeping with their baby girl I was a complete nervous-breakdown-oh-shit-why-the- hell-am-I-doing-this-run-now-you-fucking-fool wreck. The pre-emptive freakout, as is so often the case, turned out to be completely unessecary. They were warm, welcoming, and quite distinctly didn't make any death threats. After dinner, when I asked to be pointed in the direction of a guest room, they both laughed, thanked me for my good manners, said I had their permission to stop hyperventilating and also to sleep with their daughter (which I did). Several months later, I asked her father why he'd been so cool about the whole thing. His answer: "She's happy, and we know she's safe with you. Why would we mind?"
And now back to Twilight. Charlie Swan is portrayed as a reasonable guy, a little blunt and uncivilised, but a fundamentally good man who adores his daughter. Men like that, in my experience, don't throw fits because their 17 year old is showing interest in a boy from school. Actually, if I remember right he asked Bella why she hadn't been on any dates yet. So why, you might ask, does the good Chief Swan turn into a walking crappy-movie stereotype at the first hint of Bella experiencing puberty? Because Stephenie Meyer has run out of sycophantic descriptors for Edward and needs something to fill a couple of pages, that's why. In a weird way, this is a good sign. SM seems to realize that her book needs something in the way of conflict before drowning in a sea of murmurs. Unfortunately, her delivery of that conflict involves torpedoing a character, but hey its a start.
I've already discussed, at length, how disturbing I find the fetishizing of the vampire family. So, I'm not going to touch the baseball scene, except to say that I was hoping for Rosalie to hit a ball straight through Edward's skull and out the other side. Or Bella's. That would work too. Anything to make it stop. Also, what I said about the conversation with Billy being the worst thing in this book? Not true. Edward hypnotizing Bella through the perfection of his glitter-skinned kisses is the worst thing I've read in my entire life. Borderline pornographic, completely misogynistic, so awful and wrong on every conceivable level. Maybe not pornographic, now that I think about it. Porn is obscene, but honestly and openly so. Twilight pretends to be wholesome, but its rotten to the core.
Wow, epic post. We'll pick this up again soon, interwebs. Peace.
Plot: Edward drops Bella at home. The Blacks are waiting. Wow, that sounded racist. Billy brought fish fry. Your blogger approves. Billy and Bella talk, over the course of a scene that in any other book would have been meant as a self-referential parody of every crappy interrogation in every spy movie, ever. Needless to say, he thinks the Cullens are creepy and wishes Bella would put boot to Edward's ass. Then, because anything resembling dramatic conflict is evil and cannot be tolerated, he decides that its all her business anyway and leaves without an argument. Jacob, who you might recall is your blogger's favorite character in the book, has nothing to do because, like all good plot devices, he's being shelved until his idiot author decides she needs to ramp up the love-triangle tension a bit. Charlie arrives and makes angry-dad noises about Bella having a date, since it wouldn't make any sense for him to treat Bella like she has a brain and is perhaps capable of running her own life with his guidance and help. Christ, your blogger despises this book. Edward arrives with a completely non-phallic overiszed jeep. He kiss-dazzles Bella into letting him carry her on his flawlessly alabaster shoulders to the baseball diamond. Because, obviously, teenage girls are governed by their hormones and are completely incapable of utilizing higher brain-function when in the presence of a boy they might be interested in banging at some point in the future. The vampires play baseball. Yes, its precisely as boring as it sounds. Alice gets all upset because the other vampires she foresaw are showing up early, drawn by the noise of the game. They're hungry. Finis.
Rant: I keep trying to tell myself that she's getting better. I mean, the book is about vampires and sex. Can't be boring right? Right? Wrong. So very, very wrong. Lets see…
The conversation between Bella and Billy might be the worst thing in this brainfart of a novel, and I don't say that lightly. Billy comes over because he's worried about his best friend's kid, and tries to warn her away from danger. Cool. My question: does he know about the vampirism deal? Aside from that minor issue, the Cullen's are sickeningly flawless, so there wouldn't be much reason for him to be concerned with Bella (not)boning one of them. If he does know, why in the hell does he leave without putting up anything resembling a fight? Oh, that's right, he leaves because the entire scene arises from Stephenie Meyer artificially creating conflict to show how much Edward and Bella have overcome en-route to the climactic sexy-times three books down the line. Which might work, if the aforementioned obstacles to coitus didn't have all the substance of damp toiletpaper.
Now, I know I talk about my personal life a lot on this blog, but hopefully the audience can be patient another few moments while I make a excessively long-winded point… My girlfriend is five years younger than I am. We started dating right after she turned 18. I've known her parents for years (long story), and like them a great deal, but the first time I met them as the guy sleeping with their baby girl I was a complete nervous-breakdown-oh-shit-why-the- hell-am-I-doing-this-run-now-you-fucking-fool wreck. The pre-emptive freakout, as is so often the case, turned out to be completely unessecary. They were warm, welcoming, and quite distinctly didn't make any death threats. After dinner, when I asked to be pointed in the direction of a guest room, they both laughed, thanked me for my good manners, said I had their permission to stop hyperventilating and also to sleep with their daughter (which I did). Several months later, I asked her father why he'd been so cool about the whole thing. His answer: "She's happy, and we know she's safe with you. Why would we mind?"
And now back to Twilight. Charlie Swan is portrayed as a reasonable guy, a little blunt and uncivilised, but a fundamentally good man who adores his daughter. Men like that, in my experience, don't throw fits because their 17 year old is showing interest in a boy from school. Actually, if I remember right he asked Bella why she hadn't been on any dates yet. So why, you might ask, does the good Chief Swan turn into a walking crappy-movie stereotype at the first hint of Bella experiencing puberty? Because Stephenie Meyer has run out of sycophantic descriptors for Edward and needs something to fill a couple of pages, that's why. In a weird way, this is a good sign. SM seems to realize that her book needs something in the way of conflict before drowning in a sea of murmurs. Unfortunately, her delivery of that conflict involves torpedoing a character, but hey its a start.
I've already discussed, at length, how disturbing I find the fetishizing of the vampire family. So, I'm not going to touch the baseball scene, except to say that I was hoping for Rosalie to hit a ball straight through Edward's skull and out the other side. Or Bella's. That would work too. Anything to make it stop. Also, what I said about the conversation with Billy being the worst thing in this book? Not true. Edward hypnotizing Bella through the perfection of his glitter-skinned kisses is the worst thing I've read in my entire life. Borderline pornographic, completely misogynistic, so awful and wrong on every conceivable level. Maybe not pornographic, now that I think about it. Porn is obscene, but honestly and openly so. Twilight pretends to be wholesome, but its rotten to the core.
Wow, epic post. We'll pick this up again soon, interwebs. Peace.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Twilight, 16
In which Stephenie Meyer demonstrates her ability to write a marginally less boring stream of bullshit. Wait, was that a compliment? Is anyone recording this? Let's move on...
Plot: Edward and Bella walk into Carlisle's office, just in time to watch the good doctor's undoubtedly flawless marble ass retreating in the direction of the hospital. Where, maybe, he can save enough people to make up for the murder spree committed by his vampiric progeny. Because, obviously, it makes perfect sense that someone committed to protecting humanity would unleash a half-dozen supernatural killers upon it. Yes, your blogger is still bitter about that little anal wart of a character flaw. Anyways, Edward recounts the story of how Carlisle, having been turned into a Vamp(ire), discovered that he could feed from animals, and so became a semi-productive member of society. Also, Carlisle spent a few decades hanging with the vampire aristocracy in Italy, which instantly sounds more interesting than anything that has happened in this book. Our leads go to Edward's room, which appears to have been copied from Graceland during the last days of Elvis' drug addiction, but whatever. They have a ticklefight, and then two other vampires show up and say something about playing baseball in a thunderstorm. Finis.
Rant: Waaaay back in another post I'm too lazy to look up, I talked about how much I wanted to like the material surrounding Edward's vampirism reveal. This is another chapter I really, really wanted to love. But didn't. Because Stephenie Meyer is an idiot, and doesn't realize that her male protagonist is both a horrifying stalker/rapist/Charles Manson hybrid, and the most boring pile of romantic cliches ever put to paper. Carlisle, while similarly disturbing in his fetishized perfection, is much more interesting. He made the choice to live with humanity, instead of treating them strictly as cattle (I'm willing to look past the whole creation of other vampires bit, as a symptom of his existential depression). He found the willpower to resist feeding, to live by a moral code even with powerful motivations to do otherwise. The story of how he made these choices has to be fascinating, right? But it isn't, because he isn't in the room to tell it.
See, Stephenie Meyer is so focused on Edward as the Alpha and Omega that she can't even allow her other characters space to breathe under the alabaster blanket of his creepiness. Carlisle should be the one telling the story, because adding his perspective would allow some of the internal moral dialogue surrounding his actions to filter out and become part of the world of the book. We could see the embodiment of the vampiric struggle to be good in the face of their own nature, and the chapter might become downright compelling. It isn't awful as is, probably the best chapter since Jacob Black's introduction, but what a missed opportunty. Not that I expect anything less from SM, at this point.
Quick hits… Edward holds Bella like a baby. Again. I die a little inside every time that particular motif rears its shitpile of a head. From what I hear, the vampire aristocrats become major players in the next 3 books. While I'm sure SM will find a fascinatingly awful way to bungle it, the idea of castes within this society has loads of potential. The vampire house is so… ordinary. One hundred and five years and he can't come up with anything more creative than a couch and CD's and big windows? The scene on aforementioned couch is hilariously awful. Agressive cuddling? Really? I keep waiting for white Michael Jackson to show up. He and Edward would have lots to talk about….
Sweet dreams, interwebs. We'll talk soon.
Plot: Edward and Bella walk into Carlisle's office, just in time to watch the good doctor's undoubtedly flawless marble ass retreating in the direction of the hospital. Where, maybe, he can save enough people to make up for the murder spree committed by his vampiric progeny. Because, obviously, it makes perfect sense that someone committed to protecting humanity would unleash a half-dozen supernatural killers upon it. Yes, your blogger is still bitter about that little anal wart of a character flaw. Anyways, Edward recounts the story of how Carlisle, having been turned into a Vamp(ire), discovered that he could feed from animals, and so became a semi-productive member of society. Also, Carlisle spent a few decades hanging with the vampire aristocracy in Italy, which instantly sounds more interesting than anything that has happened in this book. Our leads go to Edward's room, which appears to have been copied from Graceland during the last days of Elvis' drug addiction, but whatever. They have a ticklefight, and then two other vampires show up and say something about playing baseball in a thunderstorm. Finis.
Rant: Waaaay back in another post I'm too lazy to look up, I talked about how much I wanted to like the material surrounding Edward's vampirism reveal. This is another chapter I really, really wanted to love. But didn't. Because Stephenie Meyer is an idiot, and doesn't realize that her male protagonist is both a horrifying stalker/rapist/Charles Manson hybrid, and the most boring pile of romantic cliches ever put to paper. Carlisle, while similarly disturbing in his fetishized perfection, is much more interesting. He made the choice to live with humanity, instead of treating them strictly as cattle (I'm willing to look past the whole creation of other vampires bit, as a symptom of his existential depression). He found the willpower to resist feeding, to live by a moral code even with powerful motivations to do otherwise. The story of how he made these choices has to be fascinating, right? But it isn't, because he isn't in the room to tell it.
See, Stephenie Meyer is so focused on Edward as the Alpha and Omega that she can't even allow her other characters space to breathe under the alabaster blanket of his creepiness. Carlisle should be the one telling the story, because adding his perspective would allow some of the internal moral dialogue surrounding his actions to filter out and become part of the world of the book. We could see the embodiment of the vampiric struggle to be good in the face of their own nature, and the chapter might become downright compelling. It isn't awful as is, probably the best chapter since Jacob Black's introduction, but what a missed opportunty. Not that I expect anything less from SM, at this point.
Quick hits… Edward holds Bella like a baby. Again. I die a little inside every time that particular motif rears its shitpile of a head. From what I hear, the vampire aristocrats become major players in the next 3 books. While I'm sure SM will find a fascinatingly awful way to bungle it, the idea of castes within this society has loads of potential. The vampire house is so… ordinary. One hundred and five years and he can't come up with anything more creative than a couch and CD's and big windows? The scene on aforementioned couch is hilariously awful. Agressive cuddling? Really? I keep waiting for white Michael Jackson to show up. He and Edward would have lots to talk about….
Sweet dreams, interwebs. We'll talk soon.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Twilight, 15
In which…. Oh why bother, you know I'm just going to make fun of it anyways.
Plot: Bella wakes up. Edward is still there. Dammit. Bella sits on his lap like an infant. Multiple times. Which isn't weird at all, obviously. Turns out Edward left and came back, after listening to Bella talk in her sleep in yet another moment that most definitely doesn't read like an author recycling her own ideas from earlier in the book that yes, really were terrible the first time she shoehorned them into the plot. Anyways, our fearless leads dramatically murmur their declarations of love. During breakfast, Big E decides he wants Bella to meet his family. Who, apparently, have been taking bets on whether he'll lose control and treat Bella the way frathouses treat beerkegs. Because it makes perfect sense, instead of actually taking steps to stop him murdering an innocent teenager, to watch with mild interest and place wagers on the outcome. Bella gets dressed, then faints when Edward kisses her. I… I'm honestly speechless. Lets move on. They go to the vampire house, and meet a bunch of relentlessly boring plot-devices masquerading as characters, each with their glaring neon sign of a defining personality trait. Edward plays the piano. Bella cries again but mercifully stays concious. Edward tells the (vaguely not-terrible) story of Carlisle becoming a suckhead. Finis.
Rant: Bella faints. She fucking faints. From being kissed. This book makes my skull hurt. Stephenie Meyer is, I believe, married with children. Which means, theoretically, that she has a certain amount of experience with kissing and related horizontal activities. I have nothing against a good makeout session. Done right, it can feel sexy and wild and passionate and almost impossibly intimate. All beautiful things. But this is something out of a Victorian pornographic novel, the kind of thing highclass women who weren't allowed within fifty yard of a man unchaperoned used to read as escapist fantasy. Presented in this context, as the action of an intelligent, empowered American teenager, its utter horseshit. Stephenie Meyer has no idea what it feels like to kiss someone and want it to last forever, so she's substituting a physical reaction and hoping nobody will notice.
Edward's family are worthless. Despite having well-founded doubts about his ability to maintain proper distance between his incisors and Bella's carotids, they allowed our heroes to spend an entire day together, in the middle of the FUCKING WOODS. And tooks bets on it, because having a little money on the line makes everything more fun. And yet, we're supposed to like these hypocritical freaks, because…. Anyone? Anyone? Pardon me if I don't nominate Carlisle for father of the year just yet.
Stephenie Meyer's quest to portray the central relationship of her entire series as pedephilic molestation continues apace. Bella sits on Edward's lap like a small child, allows him to carry her downstairs, struts around trying to hold his attention like a petulant ten-year-old. Even their dialogue in the bedroom carries a tone of complete condesencion, as in a father talking to a much-loved but slightly slow daughter. I'm not going to spend any more time on it tonight, except to say that the whole thing is impossibly creepy and makes my skin crawl.
Carlisle's story isn't bad, with the minor problem of it being a blatant rip-off from Stoker's Dracula. Seriously Stephenie Meyer, try to disguise the plagiarism a bit better. That said, the idea of a man of God being transformed into the thing he was taught to hunt can be the basis of a strong dramatic arc. Well, with a different author it could be. Good night, interwebs.
Plot: Bella wakes up. Edward is still there. Dammit. Bella sits on his lap like an infant. Multiple times. Which isn't weird at all, obviously. Turns out Edward left and came back, after listening to Bella talk in her sleep in yet another moment that most definitely doesn't read like an author recycling her own ideas from earlier in the book that yes, really were terrible the first time she shoehorned them into the plot. Anyways, our fearless leads dramatically murmur their declarations of love. During breakfast, Big E decides he wants Bella to meet his family. Who, apparently, have been taking bets on whether he'll lose control and treat Bella the way frathouses treat beerkegs. Because it makes perfect sense, instead of actually taking steps to stop him murdering an innocent teenager, to watch with mild interest and place wagers on the outcome. Bella gets dressed, then faints when Edward kisses her. I… I'm honestly speechless. Lets move on. They go to the vampire house, and meet a bunch of relentlessly boring plot-devices masquerading as characters, each with their glaring neon sign of a defining personality trait. Edward plays the piano. Bella cries again but mercifully stays concious. Edward tells the (vaguely not-terrible) story of Carlisle becoming a suckhead. Finis.
Rant: Bella faints. She fucking faints. From being kissed. This book makes my skull hurt. Stephenie Meyer is, I believe, married with children. Which means, theoretically, that she has a certain amount of experience with kissing and related horizontal activities. I have nothing against a good makeout session. Done right, it can feel sexy and wild and passionate and almost impossibly intimate. All beautiful things. But this is something out of a Victorian pornographic novel, the kind of thing highclass women who weren't allowed within fifty yard of a man unchaperoned used to read as escapist fantasy. Presented in this context, as the action of an intelligent, empowered American teenager, its utter horseshit. Stephenie Meyer has no idea what it feels like to kiss someone and want it to last forever, so she's substituting a physical reaction and hoping nobody will notice.
Edward's family are worthless. Despite having well-founded doubts about his ability to maintain proper distance between his incisors and Bella's carotids, they allowed our heroes to spend an entire day together, in the middle of the FUCKING WOODS. And tooks bets on it, because having a little money on the line makes everything more fun. And yet, we're supposed to like these hypocritical freaks, because…. Anyone? Anyone? Pardon me if I don't nominate Carlisle for father of the year just yet.
Stephenie Meyer's quest to portray the central relationship of her entire series as pedephilic molestation continues apace. Bella sits on Edward's lap like a small child, allows him to carry her downstairs, struts around trying to hold his attention like a petulant ten-year-old. Even their dialogue in the bedroom carries a tone of complete condesencion, as in a father talking to a much-loved but slightly slow daughter. I'm not going to spend any more time on it tonight, except to say that the whole thing is impossibly creepy and makes my skin crawl.
Carlisle's story isn't bad, with the minor problem of it being a blatant rip-off from Stoker's Dracula. Seriously Stephenie Meyer, try to disguise the plagiarism a bit better. That said, the idea of a man of God being transformed into the thing he was taught to hunt can be the basis of a strong dramatic arc. Well, with a different author it could be. Good night, interwebs.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Twilight, 14
In which your blogger compares Stephenie Meyer to James Joyce. No, your blogger has not been drinking. Interested? Then, my fellow denizens of the dark and stormy night, let us rock.
Plot: Edward drives. Oldies conveniently come on the radio and he sings along. Bella asks his age. Edward, it turns out, is 105 years old. One Hundred. And. Five. Years. Much, much more on this in a moment. Edward tells the story of how his little rat-pack of a family came into being. Carlisle got sick of being lonely, so in his merciful wisdom decided to unleash four additional blood-lusting superhumans on the world. Swell guy, that Carlisle. But of course, this doesn't matter because love murmur sparkle sparkle sparkle. In a related story, your blogger has now started drinking. By the way, there are more vampires. Mostly nomadic. Because, obviously, a bunch of ultra-intelligent indestructible supermen will have no interest in shaping world affairs. None whatsoever. Our heroes arrive back at the Swan residence, a building with which Edward is remarkably familiar. Because he's been coming every night to watch Bella sleep. She finds this flattering and romantic. Your blogger finds it abhorrent. Charlie arrives home and does not, to your blogger's endless regret, put several bullets between Edward's creepy eyes. Bella excuses herself early and runs upstairs, where she finds her stalker waiting in her bedroom. They discuss the forceful sensation of being in love. Your blogger steps away from the computer and spends a few minutes throwing darts with his girlfriend, reminding himself as he does that Stephenie Meyer has no fucking idea what love actually feels like.
Rant: People think that writing and publishing are solitary professions. In reality, any given novel is proofread, edited, revised, copyedited, revised again, edited again, and generally filtered through the intelligence of at least a half-dozen adults before ever hitting a bookshelf. In the case of giant bestsellers like this book, that number can easily be doubled. Which makes it all the more mindblowing that this abortion of a story was ever allowed to see the light of day.
Edward Cullen is one hundred and five years old. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE YEARS. Bella Swan is seventeen. This spring, a schoolteacher was (quite rightly), fired, arrested, made a pariah, and all but tarred and feathered on the SUSPICION that he'd begun a relationship with an underage student. She was probably seventeen when the relationship started. He was in his forties. Imagine, for a second, that he'd been 105 years old. Not a schoolteacher perhaps, just a stalker asshole with enough money and mysterious charm to attract a defenseless child. Would we call that romantic? Marvel at the miracle of these two souls at different stages of their lives finding everlasting love? Or would we call the old guy a pedophile monster, and scream as a nation for his arrest?
And then it gets worse. Look, relationships are not about two souls merging into one. That's a load of crap and always has been. I love my girlfriend, love spending time with her doing anything or nothing, miss her more than I care to admit when she's gone. And I still cherish the fact that we have seperate interests, different social groups, varied hobbies and jobs. She is a huge part of my life, and I wouldn't trade that for anything on the planet, but part of the reason we have so much fun together is that we each live a full, dynamic life that we can share with each other. All of which is a very long-winded preamble to saying that Edward and Bella have the least healthy relationship I've ever had the displeasure of reading. Slowly (ok, not that slowly), he is removing every tie she has to the outside world. Surrounding her with his obession. He has no respect for her boundaries, no conception of privacy, no ability to percieve the world beyond his own needs.
Stalking is not courtship. Obsession is not love. And Twilight is not worth any more of our time. Goodnight.
Plot: Edward drives. Oldies conveniently come on the radio and he sings along. Bella asks his age. Edward, it turns out, is 105 years old. One Hundred. And. Five. Years. Much, much more on this in a moment. Edward tells the story of how his little rat-pack of a family came into being. Carlisle got sick of being lonely, so in his merciful wisdom decided to unleash four additional blood-lusting superhumans on the world. Swell guy, that Carlisle. But of course, this doesn't matter because love murmur sparkle sparkle sparkle. In a related story, your blogger has now started drinking. By the way, there are more vampires. Mostly nomadic. Because, obviously, a bunch of ultra-intelligent indestructible supermen will have no interest in shaping world affairs. None whatsoever. Our heroes arrive back at the Swan residence, a building with which Edward is remarkably familiar. Because he's been coming every night to watch Bella sleep. She finds this flattering and romantic. Your blogger finds it abhorrent. Charlie arrives home and does not, to your blogger's endless regret, put several bullets between Edward's creepy eyes. Bella excuses herself early and runs upstairs, where she finds her stalker waiting in her bedroom. They discuss the forceful sensation of being in love. Your blogger steps away from the computer and spends a few minutes throwing darts with his girlfriend, reminding himself as he does that Stephenie Meyer has no fucking idea what love actually feels like.
Rant: People think that writing and publishing are solitary professions. In reality, any given novel is proofread, edited, revised, copyedited, revised again, edited again, and generally filtered through the intelligence of at least a half-dozen adults before ever hitting a bookshelf. In the case of giant bestsellers like this book, that number can easily be doubled. Which makes it all the more mindblowing that this abortion of a story was ever allowed to see the light of day.
Edward Cullen is one hundred and five years old. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE YEARS. Bella Swan is seventeen. This spring, a schoolteacher was (quite rightly), fired, arrested, made a pariah, and all but tarred and feathered on the SUSPICION that he'd begun a relationship with an underage student. She was probably seventeen when the relationship started. He was in his forties. Imagine, for a second, that he'd been 105 years old. Not a schoolteacher perhaps, just a stalker asshole with enough money and mysterious charm to attract a defenseless child. Would we call that romantic? Marvel at the miracle of these two souls at different stages of their lives finding everlasting love? Or would we call the old guy a pedophile monster, and scream as a nation for his arrest?
And then it gets worse. Look, relationships are not about two souls merging into one. That's a load of crap and always has been. I love my girlfriend, love spending time with her doing anything or nothing, miss her more than I care to admit when she's gone. And I still cherish the fact that we have seperate interests, different social groups, varied hobbies and jobs. She is a huge part of my life, and I wouldn't trade that for anything on the planet, but part of the reason we have so much fun together is that we each live a full, dynamic life that we can share with each other. All of which is a very long-winded preamble to saying that Edward and Bella have the least healthy relationship I've ever had the displeasure of reading. Slowly (ok, not that slowly), he is removing every tie she has to the outside world. Surrounding her with his obession. He has no respect for her boundaries, no conception of privacy, no ability to percieve the world beyond his own needs.
Stalking is not courtship. Obsession is not love. And Twilight is not worth any more of our time. Goodnight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)