Say what you will, this looks amazing...

Are we allowed to review trailers? Because seriously, this is a good trailer. The film adaptation of Where The Wild Things Are has been in the works for quite some time now. And they've had issues, sure, but don't we all? Originally shot in Australia, late '06, and slated for an '08 release, it's been delayed, delayed, almost done!, delayed. And it was not so long ago that Warners' studio chief had to defend the film, after reports that a number of children were brought to tears during test screenings (not that I'd see that as a bad thing): "We obviously still have a challenge on our hands. But I wouldn't call it a problem, simply a challenge. No one wants to turn this into a bland, sanitized studio movie. This is a very special piece of material and we're just trying to get it right." At last, it seems like they've got things back on track.

The film is being directed by Spike Jonze, a man responsible for some wonderfully bizzare creations. He also co-wrote the screenplay with a familiar face, Dave Eggers. But on to the trailer, which is beautiful even without the context. I really don't think I can adequately describe how gorgeous this looks. Just get a load of the awesome Arcade Fire song they've used ("Wake Up"). The book, the filmmakers, the music; they've got me sold. Let's just hope the movie meets my hype... So go on, have a look:


This could very well be a new favorite thing of mine, alongside certain staple gun threatening girls and that bit in Daft Punk's Digital Love that goes "Why don't you play the gaaammee?"Read more...

I have it in my hand, sitting, as the Earth clings to me with fear. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, I glean from the jacket. His name is Dave Eggers, it's about him. My first few movements, callow trepid steps, the peek under book's cover, the eyes which widen at the sight; and it's coming. Nighttime, darkness and I'm flicking through it. While fireflies, they'd skip across the surface of each turning page; illuminate lines for me. Then a mighty gale, it comes to sweep us away, me and my hardbound friend. I watch on helplessly as pages whoosh by, turning vigorously, and I have to hold onto my hat and scarf so that they won't fly away. My eyes, my dazzling dancing eyes, dashing madly, back and forward, left to right then miraculously back at left again, trying to keep up. Until, as sudden as it had started, the wind dies, and all but a single page remains. All but an inky half filled page – evaporating! Line by line, letter by letter, going, going, oh it's gone!

...(Confess confess, to nonsense.)

I am not an avid reader. Last year I read one book. The year prior to that: none. This year, I am handed a hardcover by someone dear - a hefty, four hundred page tome - and I set about reading it with fears of half-finishing. Within a week fears vanish...

Awash with humor, poignancy, gimmickry, motley bindings of adjective effortlessness and ever growing self-referentiality: Eggers' memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, indeed, bears no misnomer. It is steeped in detail: the title could, alone, be kept afloat simply by weight of ideas. And for the most part, the experimentation is not only impressive, it is genius, genre-breaking prose.

Within the first few pages, Eggers has already modestly, or in some cases, honestly, outlined pages and chapters not worth reading, has told us that some of the events of the book have been fictionalized or chronologically rearranged (being his right as an American), and has shared disapproval over our abandonment of Pluto: "[the author] wishes, on the basis of his own casual research and faith, to reassert Pluto's planethood. Why did we do this to Pluto? We had it good with Pluto."

The story moves quickly. For all the tragic elements here: the sudden deaths of loved ones, the raising of a younger brother, and solipsistic struggle; the memoir is, more often than not, blithe, irreverent, and wonderfully truthful. What Eggers deems "The Painfully, Endlessly, Self-Conscious Book Aspect", that being, sections of the book in which he is all too aware it is being read, is all too conscious of what the reader is thinking, is not accustomed to any 'fourth wall', are simply sublime. Great artistic liberties are taken, characters, as it were, break character, igniting otherwise common exchanges. Eggers' device is gratuitous, often revelatory: at one instance, cheekily concluding that those who are not self-obsessed, that do not find themselves interesting enough to obsess over, mustn’t be very interesting people.

And as the book culminates through its final manic-depressive gasps, we see that for all Eggers' self-destructive magic, it is his relationship with younger brother Toph that provides grounding for his most compelling emotional clinches. It's an adventure through a majestic and surreal, sun-drenched, and utterly unadulterated youth. A place where time shrinks and stretches, where the Californian shoreline extends forever, where the worth of an apartment is dictated solely by its containing stretches of polished floorboard – area fit for sliding across whilst wearing woolen socks.

In shorts, there's a lot to like about this book. In pants (terrible!), I probably should have said that to begin with. That probably would have been a lot less painful for the both of us. In fact, you're probably very annoyed with me, especially if you had bothered to read this far. Will redemption be granted if I offer gifts? And what if said gifts aren't tangible?

I grant you (and this book) 4/5 ducks! Quack! (Don't eat them)... (Seriously, don't!!)Read more...