Spinning the Wheel of Fortune

The Dead Zone

Stephen King, 1979

4.5 Stars

Whilst at the pub the other night, I met an aging musician. Tall, pot-bellied with long curly hair and a scraggly beard. Having been immersed this week in Stephen King’s intoxicating tale of precognition and apocalyptica, I thought for a while that I too was having a terrifying glimpse into the future.

Unfortunately the guy was a tiresome drunk, so I ruddy well hope not.

The Dead Zone, King’s fifth novel and the first in the Castle Rock saga, follows the tragic tale of Johnny Smith, a young teacher who awakens from a five year coma, only to discover that his high school sweetheart is now married with kids, his mother is a religious zealot and President Nixon wasn’t such a nice chap after all. Oh, and he can also see the future.

Adapting to his new life and the changed world around him, John quickly becomes the focus of media attention after predicting a house fire and thereafter uncovering the true identity of the Castle Rock Strangler, a bloodthirsty killer who has brought about a spate of deaths during the years of Johnny’s coma.

After shaking hands with a presidential candidate, however, Johnny has a terrifying vision of nuclear apocalypse, a prediction he must stop at all costs.

Ticking all of the mandatory King boxes; intriguing characters, fluid and entrancing story telling, as well as the ever-important religious debates, The Dead Zone also delivers something that has become something of a rarity in King’s later works; a satisfying ending. Rather than a daft loophole or wishy-washy uncertainty (see Desperation, Needful Things, IT, Cell, etc), Johnny’s final fate, as well as the circumstances surrounding them and the results thereof, feel both believable and gratifying.

Page-turning and thought-provoking, forget all the other “vintage” King; this one really is a classic.

Of Beasts and Men

The Island of Dr. Moreau
H.G. Wells, 1896

4.5 Stars

There’s something to be said about Victorian Horror. Admittedly, it has stood the test of time, mostly through immortalisation by Universal Studios, and there are a lot of classics out there. Or at least that’s what we’re told. Have any of you actually read Frankenstein? Good lord, what a load of old trite! If I wanted to read a book about a man who believes he’s upset God and then wanders around moping for a few hundred pages before dying, I’d read the ruddy New Testament. Least that way I’d get some bloody spirituality into me.

Anyway. Rant done.

My second adventure into Kindle-dom was H.G. Wells’ lesser classic, the science fiction horror The Island of Dr. Moreau. I must admit, this is one of those books that I’ve always meant to read, but simply never got round to it. Gawd bless you, Kindle free classics!

A tale, like so many literatures of the time, of scientific endeavour gone awfully awry, Dr. Moreau sees young gentleman Prendick cast adrift from his cruise ship, rescued by Doctor Montgomery and his peculiar bestial manservant M’Ling. Taken to the mysterious island of the book’s namesake, Prendick soon finds himself in the hands of a crazed scientist who has been fashioning Beast-Men from pieces of other animals.

Of course, as in all such cautionary tales, all goes a bit Pete Tong and Prendick finds himself the sole survivor of a bestial uprising. Good times all round. Told with intoxicating vigour, this really is a page turner, leaving you right up to the last moment just wondering how on earth Prendick will escape.

Horrifying and impossible to put down, The Island of Dr. Moreau is a true classic of the genre, and certainly knocks the socks of that ruddy Mary Shelley malarkey.

Down the Kindle-Shaped Rabbit Hole

I remember as a kid hearing speculation that someday the written word would no longer be bound in paper; that within my own lifetime, the book would become obsolete, making way for a new breed of literature, one that could be carried in one’s pocket, and store the library of Alexandria if needs want.

Of course, as an avid reader, and a true follower of the pulp form, I disregarded this fanciful nonsense as just that – surely a technology that has lasted, and indeed served perfectly well, for centuries could never be replaced by mere electro-faff.

But then came the Kindle. A high tech fashion accessory for book worms. Smaller than a DVD box, easy to use, and able to hold over one thousand tomes, the Kindle is a surprisingly nifty bit of kit, and with wireless delivery, it’s certainly handy for a world-weary traveller such as myself, who more often than not traverses the globe with more than half his luggage allowance set aside for reading materials.

And yet, I wasn’t sold. Indeed, I know there are thousands out there who would give the same old arguments that I did; touch, texture and smell… and is it the same? Well, no, of course it isn’t , but with the world at your fingertips, and classic literature available for free download, once you master the left and right “page turning”, you really find yourself not caring. With no backlight on the device, after a few moments, you truly forget it’s an electronic thingamabob, and simply get lost in a good book… or PDF file… or whatever the hell you want to call it…

Alice in Wonderland
Lewis Carroll, 1865

3 Stars

Taking advantage of Amazon’s free classics collection, I decided, rather aptly, that my first Kindle adventure should send me tumbling down the metaphorical rabbit hole in the Reverend Dodgeson’s classic tale of lust, paedophilia and hallucinogenic opiates; Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Growing up, Alice was always a favourite; my mum’s antiquated copy one of my comfort reads, adding even moreso to its dilapidation. As such, it was somewhat strange that my first foray into e-reading should be a tale so associated with its librarian form. But then, what better way to break the binding?

A far cry from Burton’s travesty of film making, Carroll’s tale is a dark and delightful series of random happenstance in the dreamscape of a young girl, as she finds herself following the White Rabbit as it leads her through her own poetic and confused psyche. Or at least that’s how it reads nowadays… Gone is the childhood innocence with which I remember reading and giggling many years ago, replaced instead with the jaded opinion that really, it’s just a load of drug induced twaddle.

The narrative of Alice’s Adventures is both episodic and utterly nonsensical, leading to a set of rather bizarre and inconsequential occurrences that just so happen to concern the same girl. Indeed, as unfortunately becomes the Kindle, without its charming illustrations, there is little oomph to proceedings. After all, as Alice said, “what is the use of a book with no pictures in it?”

That said, the poetic verses of Alice Adventures still stand strong, proving Carroll to be a master wordsmith of sorts, despite his drug addled ramblings. His characters, meanwhile, remain as memorable and as delightful as ever, with the Dodo and the Duchess still my own personal favourites.

Perhaps it’s testament to growing up, or maybe just an unfortunate embitterment, but something has become lost in Wonderland… And not just an innocent young girl.

A Walk in the Woods

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
(Stephen King, 1999)

3.5 Stars

Certain writers have always served me as comfort food. Storytellers that I know I can turn to in times of boredom and need. Gerald Durrell and Nick Hornby are often top of the list, but for sheer story-telling power and character creation, the number one literary soul food for this world traveller is always that purveyor of the supernatural, Mr. Stephen King.

With a painfully restricting luggage allowance, the majority of King’s tomes remain unloved on my bookshelves back home. Fortunately, however, a few tales remain in the realms of less than an epic, and thus can sit comfortably in ones hand luggage.

One of such easy-readers is ‘99’s The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, a cautionary tale of the dangers of peeing in the woods. Told through the eyes of young heroine Trisha, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon is a tense and enthralling yarn, chronicling the rapid decline from home comforts to utter isolation in the Appalachian wilderness.

King’s talent for capturing the personality of a young hero resounds throughout this tale, as we watch Trish go from confident and cocky to finding even the smallest hope to hang on to in her survival. Her devastation upon finding her walkman batteries dead, and as such her final lifeline lost, is one of King’s most powerful images since Coffey’s final walk in The Green Mile.

Perhaps one of the most intriguing strengths of Tom Gordon, however, is not in King’s inimitable writing, but in its detachment from his other works; sure, there is mention of that King staple, Castle Rock, but the lack of supernatural theme is a delightful respite. Yes, there is the “God of the Lost”, but one cannot help but think that this mysterious stalker is no more than the terrified delusion of a young girl lost in the woods. Her final confrontation, when the figure turns out to be no more than a bear, killed by a simple bullet, accentuates this fully, showing King is not simply a horror writer, but truly a master novelist.

Short, sweet, and impossible to put down, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon is classic King.

One Piece of Greatest

One Piece

(Eiichiro Oda, 1997-Present)

5 Stars


I’ve been in Japan for not far less than two years now, and despite my best efforts to maintain utter oblivion to the world of Manga, it was inevitable that eventually it was going to get me. Being unable to pop down to a comic store that sells anything in English, or tune into the Disney channel on an evening, I have been somewhat Jonesing for my X-men and Kim Possible fixes.

And so, after some gentle nudging from Manami, and a rather groovy collection of freebie key-chains from the 7/11, I found myself more and more intrigued by Eiichiro Oda’s pirate themed adventure, One Piece.

Following the exploits of young elasticated hero Monkey D. Luffy and his crew of unlikely miscreants as he endeavours to become king of the pirates, One Piece is a fantabulously fun franchise that has spread from comic, to TV, and even to a series of feature-length movies.

A cast of bizarre and endearing characters, ranging from anthropomorphic reindeer doctor Tony Tony Chopper and skeletal musician Brooke, to chain-smoking dandy chef Sanji (my own personal favourite) compliment engaging and exciting stories, that although read with vigour in the manga, do have a tendency to occasionally run a little long in the televised version – when one battle lasts for ten episodes, it is something of an overkill.

For me, however, the great selling point of the series is not simply the stellar cast, nor the award-winning flashbacks that constitute a major portion of the tale, but Oda’s brilliant artwork, bringing each character to life in their own individual style, complimenting each persona in inimitable charm.

Amidst a crazed culture of animation that verges from the most disturbing hentai to the overly cutesy, One Piece is certainly one piece of art that manages to walk that fine plank between annoying and disturbing, bringing to light a sexy, saucy and all-round awesome adventure in animation. With a plethora of books, cuddly toys, socks, action figures, and even a themed restaurant in Tokyo’s Ginza district, One Piece is piratey fun to keep you Going Merry.

All-Round Scariness

Sphere
(Michael Crichton, 1987)

3.5 Stars

I must admit I have something of a love/hate relationship with the late great Michael Crichton. Doubtlessly, Crichton was one of the finest novelists of the twentieth century, producing not only the groundbreaking Jurassic Park and its sequel The Lost World, but also the delightful Congo, the thought-provoking NEXT (review coming soon) and also pioneering modern medical drama with ER.

So why the hate? Well, it’s simple really; Crichton’s exploits into scientific fiction are so addictive that one finds oneself ploughing through a six hundred page tome in a matter of days. Most frustrating indeed.

And so to Sphere, the first of two Crichton novels that have kept me transfixed over the last few weeks.

For those who haven’t seen the film version (of whom I must admit I am one), Sphere tells the somewhat farfetched tale of an air accident response team sent to the undersea site of what is believed to be an alien spaceship crash-landed over three hundred years ago. What they find is far more bizarre than any of the scientists could have ever imagined.

Unlike in many of his other novels, Crichton wastes no time here with character development or back story, instead plunging us 20,000 leagues within the first fifty pages, and allowing us to experience first hand the strangeness and claustrophobia of his underwater world.

The tale barrels along at speed, only slowing briefly on occasion to let both protagonist and reader recover from the terrifying exploits of the alien creature with which our heroes find themselves confronted with.

An exploration into the darkest recesses of the human psyche, and into not only the depths of the ocean, but that of human imagination, and the dangers that lie therein.

Five Star Accommodations

Hotel Babylon
(Imogen Edwards-Jones and Anonymous, 2004)

5 Stars

I don’t often get the chance to stay in luxury hotels; I simply don’t have the cash. Honestly, when it comes to nights away, I usually find myself in somewhat grotty establishments, which, in Japan at least, means showers one cannot move in, an abundance of advertising for the bizarrely pixelated adult entertainments, and a distinct lack of cat-swinging space. And then of course there’s the capsules…

Last week, however, Manami and I were fortunate enough to find ourselves in the delightfully plush Sun Route Hotel just outside of the Tokyo Disney Resort. Clean, comfortable, and with one of the biggest baths I have come across in these parts of the world, the Sun Route was a wonderful respite from Japanese LeoPalace life.

But behind the luxury, there’s always the dark and degenerate underworld. The world that few of the punters ever get to see. Of course, having worked in what relished in calling itself a “four star hotel”, I have had some experience in the behind the scenes going on of this sector of the service industry.

In her shocking exposé of life in the hotel underbelly, Imogen Edwards-Jones introduces us to the fictional Hotel Babylon and its collection of rag-tag employees. With over ten years of bizarre anecdotes compressed into a twenty-four hour narrative, Hotel Babylon recounts a day in the life of head receptionist Charlie Edwards (played with effervescent charm by Max Beesley in the TV adaptation of the same name).

Juxtaposing within her ever-engaging tale the decadence of the hotel’s guests with the seedy, sneaking, yet somehow endearing staff, Edwards-Jones not only relishes in exposing the grim underbelly of hoteliering, but also manages to weave an addicting and intoxicating tale, filled with memorable characters and even more memorable revelations of the secret lives of the rich and the randy.

Hotel Babylon is a must read, not only for those in the industry, but also for anyone who’s ever stayed in a hotel, or indeed contemplating staying in one… A truly classic eye-opener.

When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth...

Anonymous Rex
(Eric Garcia, 2000)

4 Stars

Some people go for Agatha Christie, others Ian McEwen, whilst some go for the traditional delights of Mr. Conan Doyle. For me though, a good detective yarn has got to be a little bit out of the ordinary. Actually, scrap that, it’s got to be as gosh-darned out there as it can get.

In the mood for some Jasper Fforde, and yet not fancying a re-read (or indeed his new book, simply because he somehow stole the name I had penned for my first album), I did a little research into Amazon’s “people who bought this bought…” and stumbled across the afore-to unheard of Mr. Eric Garcia, the young American author of the dinosaur detective drama Anonymous Rex.

Set in the modern world, where dinosaurs are still living secretly among us, taking on human guises and going about their business just like everyone else, the story follows the exploits of down and out veloceraptor PI Vincent Rubio as he struggles to pick up the pieces after the mysterious death of his carnotaur partner Ernie Watson.

When a night club owner (who just happens to be a veloceraptor) is killed under suspicious circumstances, Rubio finds himself embroiled in an underground world of murder, betrayal, herb-abuse and, as the author himself puts it, “the best interspecies sex ever”.

Anonymous Rex is not only a wonderful piece of fantasy writing, but it is also a truly gripping detective novel, keeping the reader on their toes at all times, piecing together a truly ingenious plot with twists and turns that few can rival. In Rubio, despite his reptilian heart, Garcia has created a perfectly human soul, for whom we empathise and connect with. Kudos to you, sir.

The moral of the story? Everybody’s hiding something; just hope it isn’t a tail.

Tokyo Calling

Tokyo
(Graham Marks, 2006)

2 Stars

I received this afore-to unheard of piece of pulp fiction from a dear friend of mine as one of those jokey Christmas presents. A book entitled “Tokyo”, with a lead character whose name is an amalgam of my own and my friends, picked up at a charity shop. Yeah, admittedly, I was quite amused.

It’s always interesting to see someone else’s perspective of the Neon labyrinth that is Japan’s capital city, especially that of a fellow Westerner, as, to be quite honest, I wasn’t all that keen on Tokyo; a confusing, ill-thought out maze with far too many people bustling about and a plethora of sights, sounds and smells that are all too foreign for my liking. And everything’s built for people five feet tall. After reading this equally confusing, ill-thought out novel by allegedly award-winning author Graham Marks, I wasn’t too keen on Tokyo either.

The story, about a teenager whose sister goes missing in the electric mayhem, is nonsensical and unbelievable as Adam (our hero) runs away from home in search of his lost sibling, only to run into overly friendly locals and not so friendly Yakuza. It’s not that these folk don’t exist, it’s just the “all in forty eight hours” story arc is plain daft. Marks’ writing style is also incredibly grating, as he attempts to write as a seventeen year old boy; not in that kind of endearing Huck Finn or Holden Caulfield way, but in an obnoxious “trying to be cool” style that failed to make me like either Marks or his protagonist.

On the positive side, Marks’ depiction of the city itself is spot on; the insanity, the fast pacing and the sheer alienation. However, to experience and see everything the Adam does in his first day is nigh on impossible. Especially with a healthy case of jet lag and a bout of culture shock to wash it down with. Told from Adam’s “coolio” perspective, however, any wonder of Tokyo falls flat on its face.

There’s little to endear me to Marks’ Tokyo I’m afraid, aside from the hilarity of receiving an aptly chosen crap book. I’m kind of glad it was rubbish to be honest; a lot of the humour of its reasoning would’ve been lost. Disengage brain, turn off wits and sit back for the dull ride; the exact opposite of the real Tokyo.

Other Animals

Encounters with Animals
(Gerald Durrell, 1958)

4 Stars

Growing up, I longed to be a zoo keeper. My love of animals spurned on by the televisual exploits of heroes of the day Michaela Strachan, Chris Packham, and of course the one and only Sir David Attenborough.

The one naturalist who stood shoulders above every other, however, was the world-renowned collector and founder of Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust, Gerald Durrell. Since reading his seminal work My Family and Other Animals at a very tender and impressionable age, I fell utterly in love with Durrell and his adventures across the globe in search of some of nature’s most curious creatures.

Of course, I grew up, and alas the trials of real life put something of a dampener on my dreams of becoming a saviour to the natural world. My passion for wildlife, however, as perhaps proven by recurring “Japanese Wildlife” feature, has waned very little, and this part week I found comfort once again in the memoirs of my childhood hero.

Encounters with Animals is a collection of articles and speeches from Durrell’s days as a broadcaster, recalling with a loving humour some of his more bizarre creature-catching tales. Some of them are familiar, told previously in other works, whilst others are told here for the first time, though each and every one abounds with life and wonder that only Durrell can recreate.

Fifty years after its publication, and indeed fifteen years since Durrell’s passing, his books are still more than relevant, bringing joy and wonder in every page, and reminder the reader just how delicate and marvellous the world around us can be.

War of the Congo

Congo
(Michael Crichton, 1980)

VS

Congo
(Frank Marshall, 1995)

Talking gorillas. It’s not exactly the most spectacular of ideas for a story. And on top of that, talking gorillas that have been trained to kill people. Okay, well maybe it’s somewhat appealing. And from the mind of one of the greatest suspense writers of the twentieth century, the late Michael Crichton, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, when it comes to Crichton’s 1980 pulp hit, very little. In his typical style, Crichton kicks off with a mysterious death, leaving the reader in a state of shock and wondering what the heck just happened, only to leave us in complete pain-staking suspense as we are introduced to our main players (in this case a power-hungry geologist and a rather lovely young anthropologist and his “talking” gorilla), and solidly set in the science behind what is to come.

Congo tells the tale of a rescue expedition to the lost city of Zinj, the original mine of King Soloman, somewhere in the heart of the Congolese jungle, where a group of modern day diamond hunters have succumb to a mysterious predator, believed to be a new species of grey gorilla. Leading the expedition is the brilliant but emotionally defunct Karen Ross, a young geologist who cares only for her own career. By her side is the adorable Dr Peter Elliot, who, with his gorilla Amy, a gifted individual who can “talk” using over six hundred different signs, provide the main emotive narrative of the story. With them in their quest is the renowned “Great White Hunter” Captain Munro; a cigar-smoking and moustachioed adventurer who harks strongly back to his inspiration, Allan Quartermaine.

Of course Crichton’s talent is not in his characters, but in his ability to weave together science and story-telling in a both believable and entrancing fashion, giving the reader not only a tense and exciting adventure, but the feeling of being really quite clever simply by having picked up the book.

But these aspects of the narrative have clearly been forgotten when it comes to Frank Marshall’s 1995 film version of the novel, one which only mirrors its inspiration in name and the concept of the gorilla society.

Changing the motives and personalities of both Elliot and Ross, and adding the bizarre and entirely unnecessary Herkermer Homolka (Tim Curry, in possibly his worst role, and indeed worst accent, to date), the writers of Congo manage to utterly undermine the story, making it, quite frankly, dull as old dishwater.

Gone is the science and adventure, replaced by some terrible performances by leads Laura Linney and Dylan Walsh, and some gadawful gorilla puppets who look, quite honestly, like a Gremlin has mated with an old sock. Considering the visual wonders of Crichton’s most famous work, Jurassic Park, made the previous year, it is rather astounding at just how poor these creatures look. Not even the wonderful Ernie Hudson (Ghostbusters, Oz) as Captain Munroe manages to save the day.

Congo is cinematic proof that messing too much with something that works will inevitably cause a meltdown. Whilst Crichton’s book will remain forever one of his finest works, the film is so terrible that I cannot even banish it to the B-Movie Basement; it’s just too pants. Crichton’s Congo is as rare a find as a blue diamond, or a new species of ape. Marshall’s is monkey poo.

Book – 5 Stars

Film – 0.5 Stars

The Death of The Dream

Captain America
(Ed Brubaker, 2007)

4 Stars

I must admit, I’ve never before read any Captain America comics. An avid reader of Marvel, I’ve been concentrating my efforts over the last few years in X-Men and the wonderfully under-rated Runaways. The exploits of Steve Rogers, however, always seemed a little too… well… American.

But then, a few years back, two things happened within the pages of Captain America that would shake up the Marvel universe forever; the return of the prodigal Bucky and the death of the patriotic icon that has, for over sixty years, stood as the epitome of the Land of the Free.

Ed Brubaker’s run on Captain America, collected here in a beautifully illustrated omnibus edition, kicks off with the rather shocking death of Cap’s long time arch-nemesis, the Nazi terrorist the Red Skull. The ensuing murder mystery finds Steve Rogers hunting down the Skull’s killer, only to come face to face with his long lost partner Bucky Barnes, now working as the KGB’s “Winter Soldier”.

There is a long-standing edict amongst comic book readers; “No-one stays dead except Bucky and Uncle Ben”. Over the years, this has been proved time and time again, with the returns of apparently deceased heroes cropping up on a regular basis… Colossus, Professor X, Kitty Pryde… And who can count how many times Jean Grey has risen from the grave? But Bucky had managed to rest peacefully for over five decades before anyone realised that we never actually saw him die.

And so cue Ed Brubaker, the man who re-invented Catwoman and put in some decent graft on Batman. His three year run on Captain America not only brought back Bucky in an entirely conceivable and logical story arc, but also saw the deaths and returns of some of the Cap’s closest friends and worst enemies… Somewhat of a “greatest hits” series to lead up to its shocking conclusion.

Brubaker’s exquisitely crafted tale is both tense and intoxicating, thrusting the reader through a genuinely “cap”-tivating tale of intrigue and betrayal that with magnificent justice brings to an end the life of a real American hero.

With some breathtaking artwork by Steve Epting and Mike Perkins, The Captain America Omnibus is a must read for any comic book fanatic, though be warned; come the final few frames, you will find yourself itching for more. Fortunately for my bank account, book postage is so very extortionate to Japan that I find myself having to wait until my return to the West to indulge my cravings. Of course by then, judging by Marvel history, I shan’t be the only one to have returned…

A Royal Gem

The Uncommon Reader
(Alan Bennett, 1997)

4 Stars

I’ve always had something of a soft spot for Alan Bennett. And let’s face it, who doesn’t? His softly spoken platitudes of British life, told in enrapturing little titbits that quite frankly feel like sitting down by the fire in the most comfortable of arm chairs, with a blanket over one's knees and a mug of milky tea and a hobnob. It’s just good old fashioned loveliness eloquated by a delightful old chap who sounds like he could well be best mates with your granddad.

Some of my fondest memories of my university days are of setting popular television series to the inimitable style of Mr. Bennett… Indeed, there’s nothing quite so appealing as the foul-mouthed Deadwood performed in delightfully lucid northern tones.

And so to the all too short novella The Uncommon Reader. Within its one hundred and twenty pages, The Uncommon Reader tells the story of our beloved monarch falling afoul of an addiction to reading, thus forgetting many of her royal duties and finding herself questioning the true essence of her existence. The story is told in such a believable fashion that one not only finds oneself questioning the state of the country should the Queen actually succumb to the all-powerful force of literature, but also our own futility when it comes to “getting lost in a good book”.

Witty and thought-provoking as ever, Bennett takes us on a whirlwind crash-course in the written word and into a world of closed doors behind which we, the general public, rarely tread. Its final few pages are both touching and hilarious, and leave the reader with so very much to ponder upon.

The Uncommon Reader is a wonderful little gem of a read, and I would urge you to read it with all my heart. But take care, fair reader, lest you, like our royal heroine, should find yourself falling under literature’s intoxicating spell.

Manga Extravaganza

Manga is a huge part of Japanese life. Out West, we are all familiar with the joys of anime and the Nippon obsession with bubble-eyed schoolgirls and the despicable monsters that would have their way with them. Those who attended my leaving party last year were the unfortunate spectators of my own interpretation of the delights of hentai.

I remember fondly my time in Tokyo, seeing grown men on the brimful subways, all deeply immersed in their comic book of choice. Indeed, so much is the love of manga, that unlike in the West, where you are an oddball if you like comics, those who shy away of the monthly instalments of Naruto and other such page-turners in Japan are considered just plain weird.

So, this month, having received a bundle of books from one of my young students, I decided to immerse myself in the comic culture of Japan. And what with having to pay a small fortune to satisfy my X-Men addiction, I figured why the heck not? And so, fair readers, here’s the run down on a few of the popular pulp over in the far reaches of the East.

Case Closed!

Bloodhounds, bloodshed and beheadings adorn every page of this addictive little detective story, a Japanese dedication to the works of Conan Doyle. Jimmy Kudo is a high school prodigy, adept at solving mysteries that beguile even the most adept of the local police force. That is until the mysterious Men in Black subject him to an experimental drug that turns him into a six year old boy.

Taking the pseudonym Conan Edogawa, Jimmy struggles to hide his true identity whilst at the same time tracking down his new nemesis and fighting his feelings for the lovely Rachel. With a plethora of brain-busting puzzles and a sharp-tongued wit, Jimmy’s adventures are fun for all the family.

The Wonderful World of Sanzae-San

I think this is some kind of daily comic strip. The Japanese Peanuts perhaps, telling the story of a dysfunctional Japanese family, and centring around the exploits of the scatterbrained Sanzae. Perhaps akin to America’s Family Circus, though I don’t know as my knowledge of that is merely through sitcom osmosis. It’s a peculiar one, and most definitely a Jap thing. Some of it is laugh out loud hilarious, but the vast majority of strips left me with a real feeling of “sorry, what?”

Doraemon

Doraemon is something of a national treasure round these parts. His face adorns just about every variety of merchandise imaginable, and with his 30th movie having just hit cinemas, he continues to reign supreme. At first, I must admit, I though he was some kind of seal, but turns out he’s actually a robot cat from the future, able to produce anything from his magical pouch. It’s all a little strange really, and like Sanzae-San, I often found myself utterly bewildered. Give me Garfield any day.

Battle Royale

Koushin Takami’s notorious novel became famous throughout the world with the release of the infamous movie of the same name. And the book is great, don’t get me wrong. I read it a few months ago, and it truly is a page turner. Unfortunately, it leaves many questions unanswered, and leaves you wanting so much more. So, with a team of artists, Takami decided to give his audience exactly what they wanted; an explicit, blood-soaked multi-volume comic book expanding on the world created within the pages of his book.

The Battle Royale manga is beautifully illustrated, with just the right gore to up-skirt ratio one desires in any good adult oriented manga, and gives each and every student of the ill-fated class their own backstory. It also makes the villains all the more terrifying, relishing in their psychoses, and finally explaining why they are just so darned disturbed. Five full stars for awesomeness here.

Dog Fight

Cujo

(Stephen King, 1981)

VS

Cujo

(Lewis Teague, 1983)

After many a late night video taping of such classics as Carrie and Christine, I finally bought my first Stephen King book, aged thirteen, from a Sunday afternoon antiques fair. It was an omnibus edition of perhaps King’s three most famous stories; The Shining, Carrie and Misery. I remember fondly how I pawed my way through it, finishing Carrie in a matter of hours. Even at that age I realised that King was not simply a purveyor of schlock horror like his inferior counterpart Dean Koontz, but rather a master of story telling and character building.

It is something of a shame, therefore, that the films made of his stories are rarely a patch upon the original works. Yes, Kubrik’s The Shining is a true piece of cinematic mastery, with a visceral terror that few have surpassed, and the TV movie of IT is a wonderful showcase for Tim Curry’s inimitable talent. However, where directors have failed is in trying to capture the compassion and familiarity that King creates in every one of his characters, even those fated to death within moments of their introduction.

And thus, upon finishing King’s story of madness and claustrophobia, Cujo, I decided to revisit a film that I have not watched in perhaps a decade.

In Cujo, King introduces us to his usual array of characters; the failing writer (in this case an advertising artist), the curiously perceptive child, the portly cop… It’s certainly familiar ground. In this venture, however, King strays from his usual tale of the supernatural and delivers a truly terrifying story of the decent into madness of a loving family pet who is tragically bitten by a rabid bat. The lack of other-worldly undertones makes Cujo all the more haunting, as throughout the story, one feels that this time round, these events really could happen.

The personification of Cujo himself is beautifully formed, and makes his plight all the more tragic. Indeed, when the story is over, King reminds us that it was through no fault of his own, and merely a sickening twist of fate that brought about Cujo’s end.

The nauseating feeling of claustrophobia throughout the final two hundred pages of the book is perfectly written, with the few reprises of characters outside the fated car seeming like a real breath of fresh air. Perfect pacing and narrative from a real master of not just the genre, but of literature itself.

And so to the film. Lewis Teague does a good job of creating the atmosphere of tension, and the plight of our car-bound heroes. Horror veteran Dee Wallace (The Howling, Critters) delivers a career defining performance as Donna Trenton, and the relationship she creates with her son, Tad, is utterly believable.

Unfortunately, where Teague falters is exactly where every other director of a King-based movie does so; we simply do not know enough or care enough about the characters to make the story as hard-hitting as the book. In Cujo, Teague makes the bad people bad, and the good people good; there is no reason behind motives, and no redemption of the ill-fated. The happy Hollywood ending also completely undermines the point of the book.

Cujo himself is portrayed, quite unfortunately, as a typical movie monster. We don’t see his compassion and loyalty as we do in King’s writing, and as such the empathy one feels for him is lost.

However, that said, Cujo is a decent enough horror movie, and as a stand alone flick, it does a good job – a hefty number of scares, and some great makeup effects on the job. Alas, it’s no successor to the King.

Book - 4 Stars

Movie - 3 Stars

Back to the House of Sanders

Return to the Hundred Acre Wood (2009, David Benedictus) – 4 Stars

Ask any child, pretty much anywhere in the world to name his or her favourite bear, and the answer will come the same. Whether in his homestead merry England, or his animated haven the US, or even in the far reaches of anime-enthused Japan, Winnie the Pooh is a face and a tummy known across the globe.

But of course, most nowadays know Pooh simply for his Disney adventures; a shame really, as few books have brought such delight and charm as A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh and its sequel The House at Pooh Corner. Indeed, childhood in the Westgate home was filled with hums and ponders from the Bear of Very Little Brain.

Thus, with enraptured enthusiasm, I pawed my way through David Benedictus’ authorised sequel Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, and though it has been eighty years since the world last saw Christopher Robin in the land of his own imagination, only a year has passed in the wood, and the ensemble of unforgettable animals is fervently waiting for their leader’s return from school.

Within the all too few pages of Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, each of our furry or feathered friends has a typically idiosyncratic adventure; Tigger eats too many blackberries and falls into a stupour in which he dreams of Africa; Owl becomes an author, only to immediately un-become one, and Rabbit organises everything, including a full census of the forest (or non-census as Piglet calls it, before blushing at his own cleverness).

Alongside the old residents of the wood is newcomer Lottie the Otter, a cause of much contention amongst stalwart Pooh critics. Yes, perhaps in her absence, more story time could have been given to the old gang (it did disappoint me somewhat that Eeyore does rather little this time round), but nonetheless Lottie fits very well into the Wood, and does have a delightful “Milne-ness” about her.

And on the subject of “Milne-ness”, or to be specific “Shepherd-ness”, Pooh would have only a small smackerel of his charm without the beautiful illustrations of Ernest Shepherd, so many compliments and congratulations must be given to Mark Burgess, Shepherd’s colourist in the original books, who emulates Shepherd’s drawings perfectly, bringing to bouncing life the inhabitants of the forest.

In all, Return to the Hundred Acre Wood is a wonderful tribute to Milne’s memory, and a worthy addition to his legacy. An overwhelming sense of childish glee and nostalgia abounds every page, making one long for days of cricket and picnics, and as I reached the end of the book, and indeed Christopher Robin’s time in the forest, I did find myself shedding a tear for childhood years lost. As Pooh and Piglet walk hand in hand into the bittersweet sunset, one can only wonder what does happen to childhood, and must thank wholeheartedly Mr. Benedictus for giving us back some of those precious moments, albeit for just one short summer.

A Return to Fidelity

The weather in Yanai has, of late, left something to desire. Biting cold days give way to disgustingly humid nights, with rain and thunder punctuated by the occasional mosquito advance. It's not fun. But alas, these tropical fluctuations are one of the many prices paid by we merry few who insist teaching in the tropics. Thank Christ for multi-functional air-con units.

Amidst the fluctuous weather, little writing has been done, though books have been devoured at an alarming rate (not good news seeing as I shall soon be paying through the nose to have more tomes shipped back and forth). However, we do have a return to a familiar author in the first of my literary reviews...

Juliet, Naked (Nick Hornby, 2009)

4 Stars

I have been an avid follower of Hornby for many years now, having first picked up the modern masterpiece that is High Fidelity when I was about eighteen and falling utterly in love with it. Indeed, not classing young Alice Pelling of my kindergarten years, I would probably count HF as my first true love. A book so believable yet bitter has, in my humble opinion, rarely surfaced.

In recent years however, I have found myself somewhat falling out of favour with Hornby. Maybe it is the pedistal on which I raised him, but recent ventures such as Slam and A Long Way Down failed to live up to the legacy of High Fidelity and its follow-up About a Boy.

As such, I was tentative about getting too excited about his new venture, Juliet, Naked, and was made even moreso by the sappy "chick-lit" style blurb. Indeed, it found itself very near the bottom of my Christmas reading barrel.

But I needn't have been so concerned; within pages, I was enraptured. Juliet, Naked tells the tale of Annie, a middle aged woman, unhappy in her relationship with nerdy Duncan, who leaves him after discovering his infidelity, only to end up finding herself in a cross-Atlantic relationship with the reclusive rock star Tucker Crowe; the object of her former beau's obsession.

Hornby's portrayal of mundanity in a sleepy British seaside town is beautifully hilarious, and I often found myself harking back to lazy days in Aberystwyth wondering how such a fusty town still manages to keep going.

It's an interesting yarn, and one of the few books I have read of late that really had me wondering how things would turn out. And wonderfully, you don't really know... Tender hooks are very much left hanging at the end.

Juliet, Naked reads like the illegitimate love child of High Fidelity; an infusion of heartache and rock'n'roll, but this time from a female perspective. Kudos to Hornby for once again creating a genuinely empathic heroine, whilst at the same time giving a true reality to a story that many other authors would have otherwise made ridiculous.

Touching, thought-provoking, and guaranteed to put a smile on your face.