K.A. Laity's Blog, page 142

Fiction Slamming and Finally Meeting Pádraig

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I ambled off to Octocon on Saturday after a good night out on Friday, where I had attended the 3rd Annual Fiction Slam put on by the local lit organisation, Over the Edge. I had no idea quite how it would go, but it was more or less like a poetry slam: that is, a short time to read with a focus on performance, and of course, competition. Among the judges was the multi-talented Emer Martin, who read a bit from her latest novel between the two rounds; a really engaging performer herself.



After hemming and hawing a bit, I decided to try to sign up to read and took "Rothko Red" and "Wixey" with me. There was a good crowd at the museum; Galway really is a writers' mecca. I got chatting with Rachel Coventry, a local writer who read from her short story about a man who finds himself disappearing. All the stories were good: this is significant, as I've seldom been to a reading that did not have at least a few clunkers. I read "Wixey" first and was gratified to get some laughs; in fact I made it into the final three, much to my surprise. Rather good for my first time reading in Galway. The bottle of wine went to the young woman who read from her "memoir by a rabbit" which was a real hoot, and who will also be performing at the Galway Comedy Festival (sob! both Dylan Moran and Tim Minchin's performances are long sold out).



I had an early train to Dublin, but as I live across the square from the station, I didn't have to get up too early and once on the train, I fell asleep not long after seeing a deer running across a field (deer? yes!) and woke up at Heuston. I caught a cab to the hotel, checked in and then went  down to registration. Gareth at reg immediately led me to Pádraig. Great to finally meet after knowing each other on line for so long. We had a chance to chat and to introduce me to Deirdre, his wife, before the panel he was on about meeting your heroes. Deirdre and I sat in the back and murmured various comments, including discussing whether it was worth laying money on the odds of any female names coming up in their adulations. Of course not: I did ask the question at the end, and I was struck by how the conversation immediately moved to crushes and fancying, including how attractive Tanith Lee is 'despite her age' you know.



Ahem.



This discussion led rather neatly into the women in genre/is it necessary? panel later, which drafted James Bacon at the last minute so that it wasn't an all-female panel. The discussion went very well for the most part, keeping a focus on practical solutions and dispassionate identification of the mechanisms that keep labeling women as "other" rather than simply as people. There were a number of encouraging comments aimed at organisers to move beyond the default position of simply relying on the same old (usually male) friends and to actively encourage women to participate, as well as for women to overcome that reluctance and self-effacing behaviour that dooms them to non-representation. It takes a concerted effort on many parts to overcome these structural problems. And then of course, the last question to the panel came from a guy who said, "But it's true that women mostly write about relationships and I just like action stories." Sigh. Enough to make you want to strangle someone.




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 The rest of the time I spent mostly chatting with Pádraig and Deirdre and the other folks they introduced me to; I don't usually go to cons unless I have something to do or know lots of people, so it was a relief that I had someone to hang out with. I met lots of terrific folks and I look forward to seeing many at P-Con in March (where I get to play "The Professor").[image error]

Tuesday's Overlooked A/V: Do Not Adjust Your Set

I'm looking forward to Holy Flying Circus tomorrow night, the documentary on the fight against the Python's Life of Brian. I know I've likely seen a lot of the footage already, but I'm sure it will be enjoyable nonetheless. Good example of how bonkers people can get over something they assume will offend them. At heart, Brian is a very moral film, which focuses on the all-too familiar foibles of human behaviour. Ah, but if you're reading this you likely already know that.



Something you might not know about is Do Not Adjust Your Set, one of the many training grounds for the future Pythons, like The Frost Report and At Last the 1948 Show (source of the original Four Yorkshiremen sketch). DNAYS featured Michael Palin and Terry Jones (who had also worked on The Complete and Utter History of Britain ) as well as Eric Idle. This was a kids show, which is kind of stunning (although if you look at a lot of the mad kids show at the time, perhaps not quite so odd) so a lot of the humour is very nonsensical in the Goons/Spike Milligan/NOBA vein of absurdity. You can really see the connections between the Pythons and what came before them.



Of course one of the key reasons to see DNAYS is the Bonzo Dog Band. Why anyone thought they were safe for children, I don't know. The ginger geezer Vivian Stanshall and the delightfully daffy Neil Innes headed a rotating roster of musicians but those two were really the magnets. I've gone on at length about both of them, so if you don't know them yet, you should stop reading right now and just go look at the videos widely available at a certain tubish site.



A fave moment, appropriate for the season: the Bonzos sing "Monster Mash" for your delight.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Three Plays by Mae West

You think you know Mae West, don't you? The slightly risqué performer with the voluptuous curves: who asked Cary Grant to come up and see her, told Beulah to peel her a grape? What you may not know is how much she cleaned up her act for the movies. Three Plays includes Sex, The Drag and The Pleasure Man. West's plays are hilarious, full of street cant and scorching satires on the sexual and gender mores of her time. The first of the three landed her in jail for "corrupting the morals of youth" where she dined with the warden and his wife, and told reporters she only wore silk underwear. The press loved her and she got a lot of attention, but her next play which dealt frankly with homosexuality got tryouts in the provinces (Connecticut and New Jersey) but was kept off Broadway by the "Society for the Prevention of Vice" (an early morality group). Her next play The Pleasure Man, about the backstage shenanigans of vaudevillian Lothario featured an enormous cast of actors, acrobats, female impersonators and dancers -- all of whom were arrested on two of the three performances that took place. West and her cohorts were acquitted after the jury split their decision. One suspects it might have gone something like this wonderful scene from I'm No Angel:














  See the full round up of overlooked books at Patti Abbott's blog.

BitchBuzz: Jane Eyre's Everlasting Appeal

A perennial favourite of mine, for sure -- especially in the Dame Darcy illo'd version, I wax rhapsodic about the book over at BB:








Jane Eyre's Everlasting Appeal

By K.A. Laity




This month marks the 164th anniversary of the publication of Charlotte Brontë's immortal Jane Eyre.
Women love Jane—well, a certain kind of women love this heroine. Women
who love Jane Eyre tend to appreciate her backbone. Jane does what needs
to be done, she overcomes outrageous odds and she never gives up—or
gives in to what she knows is not right. Her fans also tend to like
middle-child Anne Eliott in Persuasion or the poor overlooked and overworked Fanny Price of Mansfield Park.



Jane
is a real plain Jane; not an ugly duckling waiting to bloom. The truly
plain know they have other qualities more worthy, but also know well
that most people will never notice them. Her whole early life—slipped
over in most film versions—shows Jane's real strength, her utter faith
in herself, her complete self-reliance. 




A lot of men I know hate Jane Eyre; not dislike, not ignore, but actively hate this book. I think the primary reason is Rochester. In my River Song voice, "Spoilers!"...


Read the rest, including those spoilers, over at BBHQ as usual. Feel free to 'like' or 'share' it too. This is how people find my stuff, you know. I rely on you all to be the Relay. You can tell how much I love Jane: the serial's main character is her daughter! Did you realise that? :-) One of the reasons I really enjoyed the recent very gothic film version is that it was totally Jane's story, not focused on the romance as the center. Of course, my fave Rochester will probably always be Toby Stephens.



I can't believe it's Thursday already. This week has been a blur for many reasons. Tomorrow is the Fiction Slam, which I will attend and maybe, just maybe, read at, too. Saturday I'm bound for Dublin. Madness!

Tuesday's Overlooked Films: Derek Jarman's Caravaggio

What can I say? One of my favourite painters in all the world (and I repeat unending thanks to Alessandra for taking me around to see the Caravaggios in the little churches of Rome). A glorious young Tilda Swinton plus Nigel Terry looking rough, Sean Bean, Robbie Coltrane, Michael Gough. Jarman's eye captures it all with a brilliant palette that mimics Caravaggio's earthy voluptuousness. Get the film. Watch it.



See the rest of the roundup over at Todd's blog (yes, in haste today, much to do).

Talk About the Weather

Everywhere I've lived people have always said, "If you don't like the weather, wait a minute." Even in Houston, which flabbergasted me because nine or ten months of the year it is relentlessly hot and humid with only the regular 3pm brief thunderstorm to break the hellfire monotony. It was slightly more true in Michigan, but you could generally get a picture of how the weather would go in the morning and plan accordingly with reasonable accuracy (contingent on your knowledge of the seasons, I should add).



In Galway, however, it is literally true. I do consult the weather oracles (i.e. I check my phone) and look out the window, but I know that what I see outside may instantly change. I have walked out into rain and arrived at my  destination in sunshine. I have generally given up on carrying an umbrella, as the bins on most days look like this one. The gales of Galway are legendary. I risked an umbrella today because there seemed to be no wind and it was that kind of pervasive misty rain that quickly soaks everything. But by the time I was crossing the Corrib on my way to campus, the wind had begun to gust again.My umbrella made it here, but I suspect that it may be a challenge on the next leg of my perambulations.



In Galway it's important to wield your brolly like a rapier, twirling it to brace against the shifting winds, dodging other umbrellas on the narrow pavement -- so far it seems to be a very gendered norm, with men raising their umbrellas and women lowering theirs, but we shall see if that has just been coincidence so far. But most of the time I either just get wet or wear a hat (shock, I know). I was walking along the Claddagh the other day, enjoying the dramatic skies (thanks for the touch up on the photo, Ayub!) and watching a jackdaw eat mussels by flying up a few feet and dropping them on the rocks. There were a few rainy clouds out to sea, but while brisk, it was quite pleasant.




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And then it started to hail! The wind blew so hard that it was difficult to walk as I hightailed it back toward the centre. Yet by the time I got up to the street again, the sun was out. Sure, it was still raining. But the sun was out. It's crazy, but it always gives people something to talk about, eh?



This weekend there's the Fiction Slam on Friday and then Octocon on Saturday, so I'll be heading up to Dublin to finally meet Pádraig Ó Méalóid face to face after all these years. Next week I'm off to London for some fun including not one but TWO Alan Moore events and some idling in East London with the mad Mr Murphy. Next it will be off to Scotland, but more about that anon. For the present, let's talk about the weather...

Friday's Forgotten Books: Werewolf of Paris

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Yeah, I seem to have wolves on the brain of late. I'm not the only one as this window display in an Eyre Square shop shows. I can't explain -- oh, wait. Yes, I can. One reason is that I've got a story coming out soon: It's a Curse which will be the seventh installment in Paul D. Brazill's Drunk on the Moon series. If you haven't checked out Mr B's series, you are in for a treat. I had a lot of fun playing in his world with PI-turned-werewolf Roman Dalton. More as the time approaches, but I promise mayhem and humour in equal parts.



But on to the Forgotten:



Werewolf of Paris by Guy Endore (1933)



I think that this is one of the books I gave away while jettisoning my library for the move to Ireland, which I probably regret (but surely I can get an ebook). It was the primary source for Hammer's Curse of the Werewolf with its cursed child born out of wedlock on Christmas day, his mother violated by a priest. The young child Bertrand discovers strange hungers as he grows up, dreaming that he has changed into a wolf (oops, the dreams are real) and his uncle finds it difficult to cover up the increasingly nasty shenanigans of his nephew. After an explosion of assault, incest and murder, Bertrand runs off to Paris. He tries to find ways to manage his affliction and joins the Guard to fight in the Franco-Prussian war. He falls in love with an innocent girl. They try to cope with his hungers by letting him drink her blood. But eventually Bertrand fears he will hurt Sophie and ventures once more out into the city to satisfy his dark desires, exposing his secret and resurrecting danger for them both. The rest of the story is suitably gothic and tragic against the historic backdrop of the Paris Commune.



This is a fine gem and one that horror and Gothic fans will enjoy. For more overlooked treasures, drop by Patti Abbott's blog for a full round-up.

BitchBuzz: The Perfect Hat

You know this was inevitable, right?



Three Easy Steps to Finding the Perfect Hat

By K. A. Laity




If you live in the west of Ireland, you discover quickly why
hats are a better idea than brollies; the gales in Galway are powerful!
Most blustery days the wreckage of ruined umbrellas becomes a common
sight. My visitors last weekend discovered this quickly, one of whom
used our lazy morning to buy a nice new hat.



The other refused, saying, "I don't look good in hats."



I realise I'm a bit prejudiced here, but hats are good. Hats make you look good.
People who claim not to look good in hats haven't tried the right hat.
It's like trying on a bubble skirt then claiming "I just don't look good
in skirts." Well, no one looks good in a bubble skirt (no, no one)
and no one looks good in a baseball cap (which doesn't really count as a
hat because it's equipment), which is probably the hat most people have
tried on.

—or some kind of uniform (shudder).



I know better: as a sufferer of perpetual bad hair days, I am completely in love with hats...


Read the rest at BBHQ as always!



Good news! I've finally begun the overhaul of the website. After a disastrous move that lost most of my connectivity, I have finally just moved the website to a Wordpress blog. The URL should point there now (or very soon) and I am slowly reconstructing the info. Tell me what you think of the new design. I kind of miss Kali, but change is good. Lots of tweaking to do, but you know how I am with tedious work, so it may take a little time. And I have a lot of idling around Galway to do!

Where's Marlon?

Apparently there's a big controversy around the British Fantasy Awards this year: One of the most out-spoken and much-forwarded commentaries came from noted anthologist, Stephen Jones.



I wasn't there and can't say anything about the specifics (which look, by all accounts, particularly egregious). But I can comment on the general issues of awards presentations and perhaps more particularly, small presses in Jones' comments. Apart from the condescending equation of "small press" as necessarily the opposite of "professional publisher" (which is simply ignorant), it sounds like every other awards presentation: how often has the best film actually won the Oscar or the best music a Grammy? Even in benign situations (i.e. outside multimillion dollar industries), people vote for the names they know, not the books they haven't read (that with luck they might finally read when they are still being recommended to them ten or twenty years on). This is how the old boy network goes on and on, not necessarily through outright malice but through "friendship" of a kind. It's just that the group of insiders got even smaller this time around at these particular awards. Ridiculous: sure. But a difference of degree not kind.



An example: there is no "best of" category in the last couple of decades that a Stephen King novel deserves to have won, but if you check the records you'll find that he consistently wins. Why? People know his name. Those of us published with small presses (whose size is no indication of their professionalism)  -- and women, people of colour and queer writers -- struggle to get on ballots because we often sell fewer copies and have less name recognition. So yeah, we tend to look at awards with a skeptical eye or face the arguably ghettoising effect of starting our own awards. We don't begrudge Jones and others' their vitriol, we're simply mildly amused that they've just noticed that awards aren't always given to the best after all.



And yes, I have received awards. And yes, I always give gracious thanks. And no, I don't expect anything to change.

Tuesday's Overlooked Films: Curse of the Werewolf

My fondness for Oliver Reed is well know, I suspect. Curse of the Werewolf is a fine Hammer offering that doesn't get the love Cushing and Lee get or the vamps and Frankies do. But as it's October already, it seems appropriate to highlight one of the less well known highlights of the famous British studio that brought cleavage to horror (well, maybe not single-handedly, but --) and helped boost a number of new actors into the spotlight.



Before Curse, Reed had


In Curse, Ollie turns out to be the Christmas-born spawn of a mute servant girl raped by a bestial beggar, thrown together by an evil Marques. Raised by the kindly Don Corledo, the wolfish boy learns his terrible curse and gets cautioned that only love can tame the beast. When a friend takes the grown up Leon to a brothel, the beast emerges (Freud who?) and only his innocent fiancée can keep the beast at bay. But can the beast be chained?



Well, it is a Hammer film, so don't expect that all will be well. For more overlooked films, drop by Sweet Freedom for Todd's compendium. In case you missed it, I am now an officially registered alien and have my card to prove it. A long day, but at last it's done.