the raven boys movie: new line to adapt ya novel the raven boys with akiva goldsman producing. new line acquired the rights to the book before its rele the raven boys movie: new line to adapt ya novel the raven boys with akiva goldsman producing. new line acquired the rights to the book before its release. [ read full article ]...more
i wouldn’t say the film improved upon the book, but rather, it revealed the limits of my own imagination, which is what good adaption can do. th2.75/5
i wouldn’t say the film improved upon the book, but rather, it revealed the limits of my own imagination, which is what good adaption can do. the film imagined the abject poverty of the ozarks with more dignity and respect than i could. characters i thought of as monsters in the book came through with such humanity on screen—their restraint told you so much about who they were and their strict code of conduct. the mythic overtones i gathered from the book —-ree dolly as a modern-day antigone—were fully captured in granik and rossellini’s treatment. [ article ]
it was a relief and, ultimately, a pleasure to discover that the film avoids all of the inherent pitfalls of its premise. though it is driven by the poverty and insularity of ree's world, winter's bone neither romanticizes that world, nor does it make it exotic. it achieves this by locking us thoroughly into ree's point of view--to which end jennifer lawrence's unflinching performance is an integral component without which the film would have failed completely.
ree spends the film tramping up and down hills and through forests as she tries to determine where her father is and why the local criminal element wants to stop her asking questions about him, and an important subplot involves her teaching her younger brother and sister important survival skills--how to hunt, clean their kill, and prepare food from it--but winter's bone is subtle enough, and ree, who takes the world she shows us for granted, is a powerful enough presence at its center, that the film never feels like a guided tour. as she draws closer to the criminals who know where her father is, ree is repeatedly confronted with the attitude that she has done something wrong by working with the law and going outside the community, even though that community is happy to see her and her siblings thrown out of their home. what's interesting about winter's bone is that ree herself doesn't dispute the notion that what she's done is wrong, but rather insists that her obligations to her brother and sister take precedence over her obligation to remain stone-faced in the face of threats from law enforcement. the film, in the end, isn't one about a rebel or an outsider, but about a girl who plays by the rules and uses them to her advantage, even when those rules are designed to keep her down and seem cruel and restrictive to the audience. the arc of the film is ree's acceptance--as the abandonment of both her parents becomes more obvious, and as her dreams of escaping to the army grow more distant--that she will likely never leave her home, and this is depicted as neither a tragedy nor a triumph, more an acceptance of the fact that though ree could have a better life, she is well-suited, through breeding and upbringing, to the one she has, and can even be happy in it, at least for a time. [ asking the wrong questions / abigail nussbaum] [ unfortunate metaphors ]...more
news | jan 17, 2013 ponsoldt who helmed smashed and the spectacular now has been tapped by fox 2000 to write and direct an adaptation of the ya novel pnews | jan 17, 2013 ponsoldt who helmed smashed and the spectacular now has been tapped by fox 2000 to write and direct an adaptation of the ya novel pure. [ full article ]...more
expected to feel devastated after reading the book. not arguing about it being good. it was. it is. i just didn't think the female characters were asexpected to feel devastated after reading the book. not arguing about it being good. it was. it is. i just didn't think the female characters were as well drawn as the male ones. pity.
Q: Anything else you want to add about Shatter Me or the series? Only this: If you read the book and find yourself drawn to the villain, don’t worry. IQ: Anything else you want to add about Shatter Me or the series? Only this: If you read the book and find yourself drawn to the villain, don’t worry. I won’t think you’re crazy.
When she was little, Hadley used to sneak into Dad's office at home, which was lined with bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, alWhen she was little, Hadley used to sneak into Dad's office at home, which was lined with bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, all of them stacked with peeling paperbacks and hardcovers with cracked spines. She was only six the first time he found her sitting in his armchair with her stuffed elephant and a copy of A Christmas Carol, poring over it as intently as if she were considering it for her dissertation.
"What're you reading?" he'd asked, leaning against the doorframe and taking off his glasses.
"Yeah?" he asked, trying not to smile. "What story?"
"It's about a girl and her elephant," Hadley informed him matter-of-factly.
"Is that right?"
"Yes," she said. "And they go on a trip together, on a bike, but then the elephant runs away, and she cries so hard that someone brings her a flower."
Dad crossed the room and in a single practiced motion lifted her from the chair--Hadley clinging desperately to the slender book--until, suddenly, she was sitting on his lap.
"What happens next?" he asked.
"The elephant finds her again."
"He gets a cupcake. And they live happily ever after."
"That sounds like a great story."
Hadley squeezed the fraying elephant on her lap. "It was."
"Do you want me to read you another one?" he asked, gently taking the book from her and flipping to the first page. "It's about Christmas."
She settled back into the soft flannel of his shirt, and he began to read.
It wasn't even the story itself that she loved; she didn't understand half the words and often felt lost in the winding sentences. It was the gruff sound of her father's voice, the funny accents he did for each character, the way he let her turn the pages. Every night after dinner they would read together in the stillness of the study. Sometimes Mom would come stand at the door with a dish towel in her hand and a half-smile on her face as she listened, but mostly it was just the two of them.
Even when she was old enough to read herself, they still tackled the classics together, moving from Anna Karenina to Pride and Prejudice to The Grapes of Wrath as if traveling across the globe itself, leaving holes in the bookshelves like missing teeth.
And later, when it started to become clear that she cared more about soccer practice and phone privileges than Jane Austen or Walt Whitman, when the hour turned into a half hour and every night turned into every other, it no longer mattered. The stories had become a part of her by then; they stuck to her bones like a good meal, bloomed inside of her like a garden. They were as deep and meaningful as any other trait Dad had passed along to her: her blue eyes, her straw-colored hair, the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
Often he would come home with books for her, for Christmas or her birthday, or for no particular occasion at all, some of them early editions with beautiful gold trim, others used paperbacks bought for a dollar or two on a street corner. Mom always looked exasperated, especially when it was a new copy of one that he already had in his study.
"This house is about two dictionaries away from caving in," she'd say, "and you're buying duplicates?"
But Hadley understood. It wasn't that she was meant to read them all. Maybe someday she would, but for now, it was more the gesture itself. He was giving her the most important thing he could, the only way he knew how. He was a professor, a lover of stories, and he was buildng her a library in the same way other men might build their daughters houses.
"for eight years i dreamed of fire. trees ignited as i passed them, oceans burned. the sugary smoke settled in my hair as i slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as i rose. even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, i bolted awake. the sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as indian and carolina jasmine, separation and attachment. they could not be confused.
standing in the middle of the room, i located the source of the fire. a neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. they ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. watching them light, i felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment i was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way i had never been before and would never be again."