When the movie prospects are dismal and the weather's too hot for brick-laying or weight-lifting, we drag out our book review clippings and order a pile from the library. Surrounded by masses of books, feeling like a kid under the tree on Christmas morning, we dip into them at random. It's fun to see which ones hold our attention and demand immediate finishing, which ones get put aside for later and which ones go back to the library without another look. For the next while, you'll be getting the results of our latest adventures in this endeavour.

Things My Mother Never Told Me (Memoir/Biography) by Blake Morrison, 2002

It was a review of this book that drew my attention to Blake Morrison's earlier memoir And When Did You Last See Your Father? (My review, one of the earliest in Dilettante's Diary, is on the "Books" page, which is near the bottom of the navigation bar to the left.) This sequel, focussing more on his mother, is based on letters that the young couple, both doctors, sent to each other during their courtship in the Second World War. It’s understandable that Mr. Morrison would find these letters fascinating, given that the faltering romance they record did eventually lead to his existence. The difficulty, though, is that neither parent-to-be is a particularly gifted letter writer. On the whole, the letters consists of trivial chit-chat. Mr. Morrison’s reflections on them don’t help much either. At times, he can be too intense and it’s annoying when he describes a scene and you don’t know whether it’s made up from some slight reference in the letters or whether it’s based on any other evidence: his dad’s lecture to the troops about STD’s for example.

The book has its points, in terms of sociological interest. For instance, there's lots of detail about what daily life was like in Britain during the war – the rationing, the bombing. And the two young doctors' comments on their medical cases can be rather enlightening: they sound more like plumbers or electricians than healers. You're reminded that touch-feely hadn't reached medicine in those days; it was a grim, no-nonsense, quasi-military affair. One note that amused me was the phone operators’ involvement in the lovers’ long distance calls. At best, the sweethearts were subjected to teasing by the unseen chorus, at worst taunting.

About half way through the book, we come to the issue that was keeping this Romeo and Juliet apart – religion. She was a committed Irish Catholic; he was ostensibly Church of England, but really an atheist at heart. The difference in outlooks seemed an insuperable barrier. It’s sobering to be reminded of the virulence of anti-catholic sentiment in those days. The drama of this conflict held my attention all the way to the end of the book.

But what a strange relationship these lovers ended up with. If this were fiction, we would require more explanation to understand their behaviour. Since we’re dealing with real life here, we have to take the facts as they are, with or without satisfactory explanation. You end up agreeing with one of Shakespeare’s characters (who I think put it a little more elegantly): human beings sure are screwed up, aren’t they?

My Super Ex-Girlfriend (Movie) directed by Ivan Reitman, written by Don Payne, starring Uma Thurman and Luke Wilson.

You should go to at least one silly Hollywood movie every summer. For me, it looked like this would be the one. I’d heard something good about it and I’ve always liked Uma Thurman. Actually, I can’t recall seeing her in anything other than Pulp Fiction but I’ve liked the idea of her since then.

When I arrived at the movie, the previews had started, so the auditorium was dark, but it looked like there was a fairly good crowd for a matinee. That struck me as a good sign. Imagine my dismay, then, when it turned out that the "super" in the title refers to a super hero. In this case, it’s "G-Girl" (Thurman) who zips around Manhattan working wonders with her super powers. I could endure that, if the movie offered something else – some originality or wit or something that had something to do with real life. Instead, we get the usual nerdy boyfriend (Luke Wilson) and his repulsive buddy who is sex obsessed (Rainn Wilson). Of course, there’s a bad guy (Eddie Izzard) after G-Girl. And lots of soaring super-hero music for those flights across the sky.

Apart from Ms. Thurman’s mildly amusing comic style, there’s nothing to watch here. Even I figured out that G-Girl wasn’t really doing all those heroic things. Do they think I don't know a thing or two about computer-generated special effects? I left after about forty-five minutes. On my way out, I realized that nearly all those heads peeking up over the seats belonged to ten and twelve year olds. Maybe the sexual stuff kept them watching.

Rating: F (i.e. "Fergeddaboudit")

Morning, Noon & Night (Thriller) by Sidney Sheldon, 1995

Your stay at the cottage lasts longer than you expected. You’ve gone through all the books that you brought. You’re forced to turn to the the cottage shelves. There you find the original The Bobsey Twins (seriously!), The Enchanted Garden, the textbook Trigonometry and Statistics and innumerable tomes of science fiction and fantasy. Then there are the thrillers by the likes of Frederick Forsythe, Dick Francis, Ken Follet, et al. After trying a few pages of several of them, you stick with Sidney Sheldon’s story of a fiendish multi-billionaire and his horrible family.

Why? Because it’s so crass and shallow, the people are so venal and scheming, the picture of human nature so corrupt that it’s very entertaining. The writing is hackneyed but serviceable; the plotting is brisk, with lots of ironic twists. A pleasant enough way to pass a few hours if you need something to take your mind off rocks and trees and water.

Hart’s War (Novel) by John Katzenbach, 1999

John Katzenbach’s The Analyst made such a good impression on me (see review below, on this page) that I jumped at the chance to read this one. At first, it looked like a typical drama about men in confinement: guys from the Allied Air Forces held in a German POW camp in the Second World War. It struck me that the conflicts were a bit contrived and melodramatic but life in the camp is vividly re-created. Then there’s a murder among the prisoners. The German commandant orders them to conduct their own trial. The identity of the murderer seems obvious but the young Harvard law student assigned to defend him thinks otherwise.

The genius of this book is that we have a murder investigation without any of the forensic expertise that would be available in the outside world and a trial where nobody’s too sure of the rules. Everybody’s more or less winging it. That makes for great suspense. The writing lapses into "best seller" banalities occasionally, and the long wrap-up is extremely sentimental, but I found it a great read. (Glad to say, I missed the 2002 movie based on the book.) An added benefit of the book is that it takes a searing look at racism – from the victim’s point of view. You come to understand exactly how this guy is shaped by the hatred surrounding him. But then the thought strikes: is he exaggerating? That’s never resolved but you sure get a feel for the complexity of the problem.

Bel Canto (Novel) by Ann Patchett, 2001

I’d heard a lot about this novel in which a bunch of ragtag rebels in the third world take as hostages a large group of vip’s, including one international opera star (supposedly modelled on Renée Flemming). I liked the author’s imaginative filling in of all the details in the prolonged ordeal but something bothered me. It all sounded "made-up". None of it seemed quite real. Is that a fair criticism? After all, aren’t all novels "made-up"? Maybe if the writing is convincing enough, the question doesn’t occur.

So what’s the problem here? For one thing, I’m a bit tired of the artistic cliché wherein the sound of beautiful singing enchants everybody within listening range. I’m as fanatical about opera as the next guy but don’t you think that, in any random sampling of people, there’d be one or two boors who would yell "Tell that broad to shut up, she’s giving me a headache!"? The fact that nobody does – quite the contrary, they’re all spellbound – makes me a little suspicious.

Another problem may be the author’s attempt, as an omniscient narrator, to convey the thoughts of many individuals involved in the hostage-taking. This makes for a desultory quality as she jumps from the mind of the opera singer, to a Japanese businessman, to a rebel leader, to a young camp follower, to the Red Cross guy who acts as negotiator. The fact that you’re not staying with one person very long interferes with the build-up of intensity and urgency.

But I think the more fundamental problem may be inherent in the hostage-taking situation. The hostages are mostly restricted to a passive presence. There’s not much they can do; they simply react to what’s done to them. Only near the end of the book are there a couple of incidents where some of them say, "Ok, here’s what we’re gonna do." I need that kind of narrative pull to keep me reading a book. While admiring the patience of these hostages, I felt my own being tried.

Greene On Capri (Memoir/Biography) by Shirley Hazzard, 2000

One day in the 1960s, Graham Greene and a British friend were chatting in a café on Capri. The two men, having just come from Mass, were discussing the new liturgy’s version of the Kiss of Peace – a handshake with the next person in the pew. Greene was quoting a poem of Robert Browning’s about taking someone’s hand and he couldn’t remember the last line. The novelist Shirley Hazzard, who happened to be sitting at the next table, gave him the line on her way out. That was the beginning of a friendship that lasted until Greene’s death, decades later. During the times when they were all taking their seasonal breaks on the island, Hazzard and her husband, the writer Francis Steegmuller used to visit with Greene and whoever was his woman companion of the time. After all the literary analysis and professional biography following Greene’s death, Hazzard felt it was time for a friend’s impressions.

According to Hazzard, he was sexist, chauvinistic, opinionated, rude, bad tempered, miserly (in some ways) and arrogant. He wanted women to be quiet and submissive; he did not appreciate cleverness in them. He had no interest in visual beauty, whether in art or in nature. Music and food didn’t interest him either. He was totally incurious about the island of Capri where he owned a lovely house. He cut anyone who disagreed with him, especially women. In at least one case, he was utterly careless of fact in his historical writing and contemptuous of anyone who tried to correct him. He loved to stir up trouble and goad his dearest friends. Did I mention he had a problem with women?

On the other hand, there were the well-known (now) kindnesses like the cheques and the bottles of wine to Muriel Spark when she was a struggling young writer. Greene could give generously when he felt moved but in a totally ad hoc way; he scorned causes and political movements. Ms. Hazzard does mention one instance when he sent a note of apology after blowing his stack at her. You get the impression of a man whose super-ego was not very quick to spring into action. He simply was what he was and he felt very little compunction about what he should be or how anybody else thought he should behave. He was generally polite to fans who approached him, although journalists tended to put him in a lather. To give him credit, he does not seem to have been conceited about his fame or his literary stature. Apparently, his pomposity came quite naturally.

Can this book be the work of a friend? I think the overall odious impression may be attributable to Ms. Hazzard’s writing style. It’s extremely painstaking and fastidious, lots of commas, looking like it required hours of deliberation to decide just where to place each one. You get the feeling that she’s bending over a microscope, dissecting the man and trying to give just the right weight to each corpuscle of his complicated being. Maybe she’s trying to be scrupulously fair but the attempt backfires. You begin to suspect that she is in awe of her subject, on tenterhooks, afraid of taking a wrong step lest his wrath come pouring down on her. It all sounds so prissy – these sophisticated literati and their erudite discussion over drinks and dinner. The kernels of dialogue that she reports sound like bonbons sneaked out of a secret encounter with royalty. If she’d taken a line like "He could be a bastard at times, but we had fun together," then maybe he would have ended up seeming more tolerable, just another one of us creatures blighted by the human factor.

The Word "Desire" (Short Stories) by Rikki Ducornet, 1997

A newspaper mention of this book referred to Rikki Ducornet as one of the best youngish writers in the US. My first foray into this book made me wonder why. Granted the stories are unusual in their exotic settings and their wide range of themes, but several of them are almost completely inaccessible to me. People ramble on in strange accents about obscure incidents in their family or personal histories. (It probably doesn't help that I can't catch the arcane cultural and geographical references.)

But then I started hitting somewhat more familiar territory: people pining for lost lovers, recalling moments of sexual awakening, lost dreams. And the range of voices is truly astonishing. An uptight spinister reveals a surrealist incident in the 1930s and a naive Mexican priest discovers sexual shame. A Parisian lapdog discusses his fondness for Egyptian history and culture. A dying pope makes some kinky demands. In the final story, which gives the collection its title, a woman notices her lover lusting after someone else. She enters his eyes, seeing her rival through him, then she becomes the rival, feeling him lusting after her. This makes a great difference to their relationship afterwards. It’s all about lucency, melting, dissolving and the collapse of time. I read the story carefully – twice – to try to figure out the message. Maybe you just have to go with the flow, but I think it comes down to something like: "Ain’t love grand!"