Sara’s 2017 Reading List

Here’s a list of things I read in 2017, separated by category and alphabetized by author name.

Ragnarok: The End of the Gods, A. S. Byatt
The Road Through the Wall, Shirley Jackson
, Shirley Jackson
We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Shirley Jackson
The Governess Affair, Courtney Milan
The Duchess War, Courtney Milan
A Kiss for Midwinter, Courtney Milan
The Heiress Effect, Courtney Milan
The Countess Conspiracy, Courtney Milan
The Grey Room, Eden Phillpots
Sardonicus, Ray Russell
Sagittarius, Ray Russell
Sanguinarius, Ray Russell
Edda, Snorri Stulursson

Revolution, Russell Brand
Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, Ruth Franklin
On Writing, Stephen King
Imagining Exile in Heian Japan, Jonathan Stockdale

Black Bolt: Hard Time, Ahmed & Ward
Batwoman: Rebirth, Bennett, Tynion IV, & Epting
Batwoman: The Many Arms of Death, Bennett & Epting
Uncanny X-Men: The Complete Matt Fraction, Vol. 1
Uncanny X-Men: The Complete Matt Fraction, Vol. 2
Wicked + Divine: The Faust Act, Gillen & McKelvie
Wicked + Divine: Fandemonium, Gillen & McKelvie
Wicked + Divine: Commercial Suicide, Gillen & McKelvie
Wicked + Divine: Rising Action, Gillen & McKelvie
March: Book One, Lewis, Aydin, & Powell
Kabuki: Circle of Blood, David Mack
Showa: A History of Japan, 1939-1944, Shigeru Mizuki
Showa: A History of Japan, 1944-1953, Shigeru Mizuki
Daytripper, Moon & Bá
Deathstroke: The Professional, Priest & Pagulayan
America: The Life and Times of America Chavez, Rivera & Quinones
Batgirl: The Darkest Reflection, Simone, Syaf, & Vincente
Batgirl: Knightfall Descends, Simone, Syaf, & Benes
Batgirl: Death of the Family, Simone, Benes, & Sampere
Inhumans vs X-Men, Soule, Lemire, & Yu
Generation X: Natural Selection, Strain & Pinna
Hawkeye: Anchor Points, Thompson & Romero
Hawkeye: Masks, Thompson & Tedesco
X-Men Noir, van Lente & Calero
X-Men Noir: Mark of Cain, van Lente & Calero
Occupy Avengers: Taking Back Justice, Walker & Pacheco
New Superman: Made in China, Yang & Bogdanovic
Glitterbomb: Red Carpet, Zub, Morissette, & Russell

As you can see, my tastes ran heavily to comic books (which I purchase in both floppy and TPB form and count by individual story arc). Comic books suit both my aesthetic sensibilities and my tendency to read in the short snatches of time that I can scrape together between work projects. I didn’t quite make it to 52  written works, so that’s something to strive for in 2018, but I got through 46, and that’s not nothing.

I liked most of everything that I read this year. Of the Ray Russell novella trilogy I powered through over the year-end holiday break, I thought Sagittarius was the most inventive and Sardonicus the least (although it was a perfect example of the Gothic genre that I quite enjoyed). Black Bolt was a particular standout for me this year, being a brilliant example of how superhero comics can be so much more than simple entertainment. Ahmed & Ward’s first story arc is a powerful examination of imprisonment/punishment and the ethical questions surrounding it, and the art is gorgeous. I also loved discovering Courtney Milan, who became my go-to source for “bodice rippers”—a sorry-not-sorry guilty pleasure of mine.

As a further comment on the contents of this list, it’s worth noting that I read several things for work this year that cannot, as yet, be counted, given that they are not yet published. Additionally, my non-fiction outputs always look trivial by comparison with the other categories as I don’t keep track of the numerous articles, essays, and book chapters that I read. Likewise, I don’t count short stories (looking at you “Cat Person”) unless they’re collected in a book that I finish. On the flip side, I sometimes condense subject-specific reads into singular quantifiable entries. I couldn’t say that I read the entire Prose Edda, but I read most of it (along with several excerpts from the Crossley-Holland retelling of the Norse myths, multiple entries from Simek’s Dictionary of Northern Mythology, and a few epics from the Poetic Edda, none of which are counted here).

New Reading Resolutions for 2018: read more—always more—and with greater consistency; not in fits and starts, as was my 2017 wont.


Sara Reads No. 22

Andy Muschietti’s It: Chapter One is an unqualified success, and I couldn’t be happier. Here, in celebration, is an assortment of my thoughts on the film and some of the critical responses to it…

(Note: Here be spoilers.)

On the Adaptation of Mike Hanlon

Chosen Jacobs as Mike in It: Chapter One (2017)

Though the film is largely an admirable adaptation of Stephen King’s 1986 novel, which clocks in at a massive 1100+ pages, it does suffer some missteps—notably in its treatment of its principal black character, Mike Hanlon. As Zac Cheney Rice eloquently notes, Mike—who is a pivotal character (if not the pivotal character) in the book—has the majority of his backstory as an amateur historian taken from him and given to a white character, Ben Hanscom (whose backstory as an intuitive engineer is entirely dropped). In its place is a largely disconnected arc about Mike’s feelings of discomfort with the performance of aggressive hyper-masculinity that is expected of him by his grandfather—and, it is intimated, society at large. It’s an arc that could have worked with a more nuanced attention to detail. Mike’s feelings over the death of his parents, his unwillingness to work the slaughterhouse alongside his grandfather, his tendency toward passivity in the face of threat all could have been woven together into an intriguing meditation on the question of what we, as a society, expect of black youth. But the relegation of his character to the background of the white characters’ lives made the through-line of his story difficult to grasp. This was the crux of my disappointment in the adaptation of Mike Hanlon: not the filmmakers’ removal of his backstory but their failure to replace it with something equally compelling and more cinematically-appropriate.

For all that Mike’s depiction was a missed opportunity, though, I remain hopeful that a sequel could gather the elements of his story into a more impactful arc. Certainly, his character is not the only one in the film who suffered from a lack of nuanced handling. Though Bill, Beverly,(1) and to a lesser-extent Eddie, all had strong character arcs that fluidly connected their personal histories to their experiences of fear, Stan, Richie, and Ben, in addition to Mike, got relatively short-shrift. Of those, Stan’s personal arc is the one that—for me—came the closest to Mike’s in terms of an equal near-miss, while Richie and Ben’s fears were overwhelmingly generic and their personal histories largely excised from the narrative. But these gaps smack of inescapable time-constraints rather than indifference to the realities of media representation and could be compensated for in the second film. Indeed, one might argue that the changes in Mike’s character were an attempt to handle the character with sensitivity to issues of representation. Watching the film for the second time, I couldn’t help but reflect on how difficult Mike’s story might have been to translate from book to film without resorting to the dreaded magical negro trope.

The “magical negro” is a bonafide Thing™ in Stephen King’s writing; notable examples include Dick Halloran in The Shining, Mother Abigail in The Stand, and John Coffey in The Green Mile.(2) In the novel version of It, Mike Hanlon fares well during the portion of the story set during his youth, but he serves primarily as a guide to his adult friends when they return to Derry with only the barest fragments of their childhood memories intact. At that point, his role becomes largely mechanical as he leads them safely down the path of incremental memory recovery to the complete understanding of the past that they need to finally defeat the monstrous eldritch horror that stalks their old hometown. Furthermore, Mike also functions as a guide to the reading audience, providing them with the town’s backstory through the interlude excerpts of his unofficial history of Derry, A Look Through Hell’s Back Door, thereby hinting at the magical negro trope on a meta-textual level. Despite this, the novel version of Mike arguably escapes becoming a full-fledged magical negro trope—but only on the strength of a richly detailed backstory and an intricately fleshed-out interior life that would have been incredibly difficult to incorporate into a two-hour film.

This is not meant as an all-purpose defense of the filmmakers’ decisions, though. Movies all too-often fail their black characters, and this one—despite its many strengths—did so to a certain extent. But it’s not unfixable. Given the changes the writers have already made to King’s magnum opus, I—for one—would be very open to seeing further changes made. I’d be particularly pleased to see Ben, since he was given Mike’s backstory, get Mike’s future as well. Let Ben live out his adult years as the Derry head librarian and stay in the role of guide while Mike moves on to achieve financial and critical success as an architect. Given the way these characters have already been established, such an outcome would make far more sense than the alternative.(3)

Was That Supposed to be a Modigliani Painting?
Yes. Yes, it was.

it movie_modigliani monster
“Judith,” It: Chapter One (2017)

The incorporation of a “Modigliani” painting into the narrative of It was especially pleasing to me for a couple of reasons. First, Modigliani was a Jewish painter, and the inclusion of his work in a rabbi’s office is the kind of attention to detail that I like to see. Second, the use of the Modigliani monster helped to illustrate a component of Stan Uris’ character that is devilishly difficult to translate to film: his fundamental need for order. In the book, Stan’s inability to confront the horrors of his childhood are rooted in his rejection of the irrational. There’s a particularly beautiful passage in the novel where Stan thinks, but finds himself unable to say, that while it’s perfectly possible for a person to live with fear, it’s impossible for them to live with offense. In contrast to fear, which is a part of the natural order, offense opens up cracks in one’s reason that show the slithering monstrosities that crawl just underneath the surface. The events of the book rip a hole in Stan’s ordered view of the world—one that he, ultimately, finds himself unable to live with. The motif of a figure in a two-dimensional painting coming to life is the perfect visual embodiment of everything that Stan cannot abide. I wish his backstory had been better-integrated with his experience of fear, but there’s no question that the filmmaker made the right choice when it came to the manifestation of his anxiety.

What the World Needs Now is Good, Old-Fashioned Good-vs-Evil Narratives
Chuck Wendig has a great blog post detailing his thoughts on why It: Chapter One has resonated so strongly with audiences. To whit, he argues that the film recaptures a storytelling mode that was prominent through the late-70s and 1980s: the basic, no-frills, largely uncomplicated good-vs-evil narrative. And that the social impetus that made this style of storytelling popular in the late-70s and 1980s—societal fear in the face of the cold war and possible nuclear annihilation—is largely at work again. With the world, or at the very least the US portion of it, spiraling into a landscape of deplorable evils (ascendant white supremacy, rampant police brutality, growing authoritarianism), people long for stories that give them hope: stories that show clear-cut triumphs over understandable evils that can be vanquished if we find the bravery and resolve.

There’s a potential for oversimplification in such stories, it cannot be denied, but there’s a palpable and inspiring elegance in them as well. And sometimes, with the world mired in complicated problems with intricate and hard-to-understand solutions, a reminder that goodness and honorable resolve can be enough to slay the monsters is exactly what the world needs.

Wendig’s essay is a beautiful read, and I recommend it in its entirety.

Final Thought: Jesus-Fucking-Christ, Bill Skarsgård, Stop

Stop it, dude.


Just fucking stop, okay.

1) Of the children, Beverly has arguably the strongest backstory, though her character-arc is badly compromised in the final act of the film.
2) Nnedi Okorafor brilliantly breaks down King’s reliance on “magical negro” characters in her essay, “Stephen King’s Super-Duper Magical Negroes.” In Strange Horizons (October 24, 2004).
3) Honestly, given his experience with his parents’ death, it would be very easy (and make a lot of narrative sense) to have Mike Hanlon grow up to be an architect whose work focuses on creating safe living spaces for low-income families.

On Besson’s ‘Valerian’ and Culturally Specific Humor

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets
dir. Luc Besson

I went and saw Luc Besson’s new film Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets this weekend and rather enjoyed it.

In terms of both style and structure, Valerian shares many similarities with Besson’s classic The Fifth Element—a film that engendered a similar polarization of critical response but fared much better at the box office. Though the film did have its missteps—the principal conflict was rushed, the introduction of Rhianna’s character was fairly contrived, and I have some reservations about the handling of the main narrative subtext—I was sorry to see Valerian not find an audience. It was certainly no weaker, in terms of its script and performances, than several celebrated genre films of the last few years, and it was significantly more entertaining, imaginative, and diverse than many of them have been. Perhaps, in time, it will earn a cult following like so many underrated predecessors have. Time, after all, is a great equalizer.

Emily Yoshida, at Vulture, makes a very convincing argument that Valerian failed, not because it isn’t a good movie, but because of its lack of three crucial elements: humor, star power, and brand recognition. To this list I would add a qualifying stumbling block: that the film was simply too French to be appreciated by a wider American audience. The Frenchness of the film is clear in many ways: in the multiculturalism of its worldbuilding and casting choices; in the empowered sexuality of its female protagonist; and, yes, in the subtle, and ofttimes imperceptible, humor that permeates the script.

Anyone who’s studied a foreign culture will know that humor is one of the most difficult concepts to grasp. Certainly, there are things that are almost universally funny. (People falling down, for example, are pretty much always funny as long as the people in question aren’t seriously injured.) But there are more things that only make sense in cultural context. French humor and American humor, like any culturally-specific phenomenon, have both points of overlap and points of striking difference. This fact was most strongly brought home to me while I was living in Paris. One year the city held a cinema festival over the course of a long weekend, and during that period you could see any movie in the city at a severely discounted rate. (I think the cost per film was roughly US$2.) I saw easily a dozen films, French and American, one of which was The Big Lebowski (which gives you a sense of when it was I lived in Paris). If you’ve ever seen the film, you’re probably aware of how funny it is. I saw it in a cinema-festival-packed audience, and at one point I laughed so hard I thought I was going to asphyxiate. And I was the only person laughing. At all. Through pretty much the entire film.

So humor is tricky and often culturally-specific. American humor may be more internationally understood, given how steadily it is exported through the medium of Hollywood films, but even it is not impervious to a nation of people who simply don’t get the cultural cues. French humor, by contrast, is far less commonly exported, and therefore less likely to find an audience when it is. Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets featured an ongoing humorous banter between its two leads, not to mention action sequences that mixed in a healthy dose of slapstick. But—slapstick aside—the humor was hard to read in its understatement and matter-of-factness.

Was it a misstep to omit more internationally-legible humor in a film without the brand recognition—and/or star power—that fuels most sci-fi and fantasy film franchises these days? Certainly, the box office returns on the film indicate that it was, but Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets is funny and entertaining and visual joy to behold. If you haven’t seen it, you might give it a try.

Sara Reads, No. 21

The Stakes of Escapism
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the struggle between escapism and realism in pop culture. Last month, I made a post about Marvel’s summer event Secret Empire, in which I expressed a lack of desire to read it given the way its thematic content (Captain America has secretly been a Nazi all this time) intersects with the sheer unpleasantness of the present-day world (the US presidential administration is made up of actual Neo-Nazis). And I wasn’t the only person to make such a statement. In a sea of highly critical (and deservedly so) responses to the summer crossover, I would have thought opting out on the grounds of simply not being emotionally up to it was pretty innocuous, but the response nevertheless drew the ire of Secret Empire scribe Nick Spencer, who asserted that it was an “irresponsible, cowardly” argument.

Spencer’s comments sat with me a long time, and I found myself coming back to them at odd moments. One of the core components of the “not now” argument is that it’s not a value judgment on the work in question. In fact, it goes so far as to suggest the work has merit—just merit that you’re currently unable to assess because it’s not what you’re into right now. It’s about as impersonal a response as you can get, and yet it was taken very personally. Understanding Spencer’s backlash in the context of the escapism-realism tug-of-war sheds light on the stringency of his reaction. There’s a certain creative demographic for whom storytelling is all about stakes. Everything has to have real stakes, real consequences, real tragedy in order to have meaning. People who reject the necessity-of-stakes argument by pointing out that an obsession with stakes can actually hurt one’s craft, or who are simply emotionally tuckered out from the ceaseless onslaught of stakes, are often implied to have a less authentic (or dare we even say less intelligent) relationship with the creative world and its output.

Author Joe Hill, relating the phenomenon to his personal experience of writing, identifies stakes-free storytelling as a trope that he calls “the dog lives.”  In his deconstruction of this trope, Hill notes that there’s a market for a happier brand of fantasy escapism but states categorically that it’s not what he’s selling. Which, by the way, is totally fine. We, all of us, must write what we have in us to write, and every creator has the right to set the terms of what they are selling. The flip side of that, though, is that the audience has the right to declare what they are, and are not, buying, and it’s that flip side that content creators often seem unclear on. In fairness to Hill, his concerns with whether or not “the dog lives” have mainly to do with artificially uplifting endings that fly in the face of authentic storytelling. In equating stakes with quality, however, he fails to address the very real problem of the boring similitude that comes from ceaseless stakes and stakes-raising narratives. As author Kit Walker has noted, many writers fail to understand that tragedy’s narrative power comes from its ability to disrupt the norm of everyday life. Consequently, when a story is nothing but unending tragedy, that ability to disrupt is compromised and the tale loses its affective power.

Solemnity vs Seriousness
John Cleese has a wonderful talk on creativity, during which he comments on the dangers of mistaking solemnity for seriousness—an issue that has (at one time or another) plagued most, if not all, of human endeavors…

As Cleese points out: solemnity, which is all-too-often read as a sign of seriousness, is a relatively pointless attitude that “serves pomposity” and protects the self-important from having their egotism punctured. Humor, on the other hand, is “an essential part of the creativity that we need to solve problems no matter how serious they may be.”

Now, more than ever, I think we need to remember that.

Final Thought: Anne of Grimdark Gables
Anne with an E, the new Netflix series that adapts L.M. Montgomery’s beloved tale for a newer, more serious, more stakes-obsessed era, was released last week to almost diametrically opposed reviews. About half of the critics love prestige-tv veteran Moire Walley-Beckett’s updated take on Anne, which takes the subtle allusions to her abusive childhood and makes them grimly explicit. The other half feel that Walley-Beckett has ruined Montgomery’s vision of an Anne able to find joy in her new life by over-emphasizing on the unrelenting tragedy of her past.

So I guess I know what I’m watching this weekend.

Pacing as Psychological Effect in ‘American Gods’

Episode two of American Gods proved to be a very similar viewing experience to episode one.

ag 02 shadow 2
Ricky Whittle as Shadow Moon
American Gods, episode 2

I was riveted, though not entirely (or even vaguely) comfortable, but also? I was frankly surprised when the show ended, as I had been expecting ten or so more minutes of exposition. The ending points of the episodes are undoubtedly calculated to effect exactly such a response. In both cases, there’s a cliffhanger aspect to the pause points—momentary hiatuses in the midst of things that are deeply unsettling and uncomfortable. The intermissions are more than mere cliffhangers, however, for the issue is not merely a lack of resolution, but of naturalness as well. The places where the episodes stop are narratively unsound and therefore deeply unnatural, like everything else in the world of the show. It’s an incredibly effective use of pacing, designed to create in the viewer a psychological feeling of being plunged into the world itself and then yanked violently out of it. When an episode ends, you are left with a feeling of strangeness, as if waking prematurely from a dream and not knowing what to make—either of the experience or its termination. It’s not about instilling in the viewer a desire to know what comes next, although that is a valuable side effect, but about making them feel disconnected from their world in a manner similar to the way Shadow Moon, the show’s “everyman” protagonist, feels. We are seeing this strange world through Shadow’s eyes, and like him, we are being jostled about in disturbing and unexpected ways. The result is a palpably emotional viewing experience that is quite brilliant—the creation of a mood not just with acting or directing or setting or music alone, but via the show’s unique approach to narrative pacing.

One thing I can’t help wondering, however, is whether viewers who have not read the book experience the show in a similar way. Put another way, I wonder if my knowledge of the book’s plot intensifies this particular effect. Thus far, with the show adhering relatively closely to the source material, I have a good sense of what comes next—a memory of the more “natural” stopping points constructed by Neil Gaiman via sections and chapters and parts. My perspective on the series is intrinsically tied to my knowledge of the book. Without that knowledge, would the program have the same effect? Or an entirely different one?

‘American Gods’ and the Beauty of Baseness

ag posterOnce upon a time, in the summer before I graduated from college, I embarked upon an “Art Across America” cross-country road trip. I went with my mother, sharing driving, navigating, and DJ’ing responsibilities as we traveled up to Niagara Falls before making our way across Ontario to Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and points west. We stopped at the Dinosaur Gardens in Ossineke, we traveled down the Enchanted Highway outside of Gladstone, we stopped at every “World’s Largest” exhibit and Paul Bunyan statue that we could find. And of course—of course—we went to the House on the Rock.

Fans of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods will be familiar with the House on the Rock. (Fans of the television show will no doubt come to be acquainted with it.) And for those fans, our reasons for including it on the tour will probably seem obvious. It’s a prominent location in a beloved book. Obviously we had to see it.

What struck me most when I visited was the appropriateness of the place to Gaiman’s novel. As we wandered through the expansive tourist attraction, becoming ever more disconcerted and overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of stuff on display (antiques and faux antiques, dollhouses and dolls, replica weapons, calliope machines, Burma-Shave adverts, and carousel figures… so many carousel figures), it dawned on me that we were standing in the single most American place in all of America. A deathless shrine to consumption, and excess, and the flat refusal to understand when too much is enough.

Of course the gods of Gaiman’s novel, being American gods, went to the House on the Rock. Where else would an American god go?

Watching “The Bone Orchard,” the first episode of Bryan Fuller and Michael Green’s Starz adaptation, I felt the same sense of rightness, vis-à-vis tone and theme, that I felt standing in the House on the Rock. There’s simply no way around it, Fuller and Green’s American Gods has perfectly nailed the heart, soul, and concomitant aesthetic of the book.

A good friend of mine summed it up well, noting that the tone of the show is somewhat tawdry. But while she isn’t yet convinced of the appropriateness of that tone, I am 100% sold.

Tawdry: showy but cheap; gaudy; low, or mean, or base.

That’s pretty much the point, yes? That’s the whole thing.

In a story that is, fundamentally, about the heart and soul of America, you’re going to have to strike the odd tawdry note here and there. Because the heart and soul of America is fundamentally tawdry.

The American Gods series incorporates a number of things that I consider mainstays of the Bryan Fuller aesthetic (or of his Hannibal aesthetic at the very least). Elegiac violence. Artistic gore. Sexual text and subtext galore.  An almost overpowering collage of glittery, glossy trash.  But while those attributes didn’t always work for me in Hannibal—most notably in the first season where I felt they overwhelmed a text sometimes lacking in substance—here they seem perfectly in sync with the very substance of the text itself. The gods of America are arrogant, self-centered, and self-serving (they have to be). They are junkies, and grifters, and thieves. And at the head of the table, sitting in the big-boy chair, making the big-boy decisions, is an aging con-man in a ridiculous hat.

gods in hats
God bless Orlando Jones.

And what, pray tell, is more American than that?

We, as a nation, are tawdry. We are showy, and gaudy, and cheap. We care only for our own desires, our own goals, our own fixes. That’s who we are. That’s our national motto.

America first, last, and always.

A show about America is going to exhibit those characteristics, and indeed, must—of necessity—revel in them. Because America is nothing if not bigger, better, faster, more.

And I’m sure that somewhere in there lies a supremely profound story about a human spirit that can withstand even the most toxic manifestation of the American dream. There certainly was one in the book. But that story of the human spirit is, and perhaps always will be, in opposition to the myth of America, to the myth of American exceptionalism, to the myth of American individualism. And we’ve got a lot of adversity to claw our way through before we’re going to see success.

This is not a story that glorifies America. This is a story about the brutality, the profligacy, the depravity of a nation. American Gods is about usurpation, and about the usurpation of usurpers—arguably white America’s greatest modern-day fear. It’s about winning by any means necessary. It’s about the cost of doing business. It’s about the essential moral and ethical bankruptcy of living that way. And it’s about the moral and ethical bankruptcy of a system that demands such sacrifices to survive. It’s meant to have a gloss of cheapness to it.

Without that gloss, it wouldn’t be a story about America.

And let me tell you, I am all in on Fuller and co. having the guts to completely fucking go there. American Gods episode one was beautiful and brilliant and base. And I can’t wait to see where it goes from here.