Not even escape novels exist in a vacuum. The last page of the original 1978 paperback of this book is a public service message from the Department of Energy, reminding readers that during World War II, American citizens sucked it up and rationed gas, even if they didn't like it. "Today," it says, "we need a wartime spirit to solve our energy problems." It's almost 40 years later now, and I think we could use a wartime spirit to solve a host of other problems.
The husband in this film is a partner in an advertising firm. Each of the partners, of course, has his own secretary. I miss secretaries. I don't know about other companies, but the one I've spent most of my working life with largely did away with its secretaries long ago. They saved money, I'm sure, but they lost something, too. As did the community, having that many fewer jobs and that much less money going into the community instead of the pockets of the corporate bigwigs.
The date of posting of my reviews is not necessarily indicative of the date I read or watched any given book or film. In this case, it's been a month or two since I saw the movie. In that time -- and I know this because I reviewed a few scenes online while writing my review -- the big bad copyright owners of the film have caused it to be stripped from YouTube.
Much as I loathe this book, it occupies a happy place in my heart. I still remember staying home sick from school when I was a kid and reading it. But it says a great deal that what I remember most about the book itself from that first reading is one of its sex scenes.
This paean to American journalism seems almost quaint after the recent election cycle that has seen the media nakedly pursue greed over journalistic integrity, let alone the national interest.
Betsy: But I don't know about zombies, Doctor. Just what is a zombie?
Dr. Maxwell: A ghost, a living dead. It's also a drink.
Betsy: Yes, I tried one once, but there wasn't anything dead about it.
I love reading signs in old movies. Here there's one on a marquee, advertising a movie theater as being "Healthfully Air Conditioned." I live in Texas, and boy ain't that the truth.
This book joins Greg Bear's Darwin's Radio in the category of worst novel ever to win a (questionably) prestigious award. This one, of course, won the World Fantasy Award and Radio won the 2000 Nebula award. Both are beyond awful.
Seems a little sick to call the scenes between the killings "filler," but let's be realistic: there's a reason these kinds of movies get compared to porn. It's only problematic when audience sympathy (or, God help us, empathy) is supposed to be with the killer Thankfully, that isn't the case here.
This is the second adaptation I've recently seen that was hamstrung at the outset by the impossibility of casting a literal match for the female lead. The other, of course, was She. The two literary women, Rima and Ayesha, are both indescribably beautiful, literally so. Books can get away with this, but not movies. In a very real sense, it means that a truly faithful adaptation is a pipe dream, for the loveliness of each woman is central to everything that happens. Of the two, however, Green Mansions comes out way ahead, and not just because Hepburn is a better actress. Andress is physically attractive, but Hepburn is that and a lot more.