Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts

Sunday, July 26, 2026

Books: The Last Voyage of the Andrea Doria

I tend to be obsessed with novels and documentaries about epic disasters—partly, like many people, to gawk at the sheer enormity of a catastrophic event, but mostly to find some level of personal, emotional understanding of what the people who were caught in it experienced.

The Andrea Doria was the epitome of Atlantic ocean-liner luxury in the middle of the century ... until this date—July 26—in 1956 when it was broadsided dead-on by the ice-cutting prow of the liner Stockholm in thick fog and then it slowly sank 45 miles south of Nantucket. And while The Last Voyage of the Andrea Doria documents in great detail both the mechanics of the catastrophe and the harrowing stories of the passengers and crew, it does so with distracting clumsiness that's in desperate need of an editor.

There's a definite art to creating emotional, memorable relationships between a reader and even a handful of key players among the 1,100+ passengers on an ocean liner. Erik Larson (who wrote Dead Wake about the sinking of the Lusitania and is perhaps best known for writing Devil in the White City) sets the bar high with deftness, poetry and a smartly curated understanding of the human experience. Unfortunately, The Last Voyage of the Andrea Doria struggles and fails to reach that bar. To wit: Chapter 2 is little more than paragraph after relentless paragraph describing the lives and backgrounds and travel purposes of 100+ people. The paragraphs are all well-researched and filled with interesting information—but they're overwhelming, and they contain so many superfluous details and tertiary names that they become a numbing blur by the time they finish plodding by.

It's this clumsy, belabored lack of editing that makes the entire book feel somewhat like a high-school paper that's padded to reach a minimum number of pages. In perhaps the most egregious example, there's a paragraph that all but dominates page 72 with an excruciatingly detailed litany of 47 foods that may or may not appear on an evening's dinner menu. Honestly, does ANYONE find useful narrative value in knowing that First Class passengers "could choose from a variety of vegetables, including potatoes (mashed, boiled, roasted, or fried), cauliflower, roasted tomatoes, or sauteéd endive"? And for all the breathless descriptions of the ship's Mid-century Italian-chic décor, there isn't a single photo of its magnificent interior among the 16 pages of photos ... two of which are just full-page stylized print ads about the ship.

All that said, if you train your eyes and brain to skim past ponderous lists of beverages and games available in First Class—and, curiously, the names of the two helicopter pilots who eventually helped rescue the passengers—this is a gripping, detailed (though again: way too detailed in places), incredibly good read. It fully delivers in telling why-and-how details of the physical destruction of the collision and the passengers' and crew members' stories of terror, survival, heroism, cowardice and every attendant emotion in between—though because of the staggering volume of character introductions in Chapter 2 it's nearly impossible to remember who people are when they meet their fates on the sinking ship.

The Andrea Doria and its sinking were the last gasps of high-style ocean travel as passenger airplanes (literally) appeared on the horizon and dramatically cut transcontinental travel time and expense. To underscore this historical importance, The Last Voyage of the Andrea Doria nicely frames its narrative around the publication of A Night to Remember, which documented the sinking of the Titanic 40+ years before the Andrea Doria joined it at the bottom of the Atlantic. It's a clever, efficient way to compare and contrast both sinkings, offer historical and cultural perspective, and incorporate details of yet another epic catastrophe to keep me enthralled.

Thursday, June 25, 2026

Books: Unsheltered

I love novels where the past meets the present—especially if they involve a touch of mystery, scandal or even the supernatural—so I was eagerly looking forward to reading this one when it was recommended online based on my obsessions.

And while it definitely features the past meeting the present, it's all in the context of historical curiosity about a property occupied by a family in the later 1800s and then one in the 2010s. I was disappointed by the lack of juiciness as I read, but once I shifted my focus to the author’s exploration of relationships linking the characters, their families, their changing circumstances and the shared spaces they occupy in separate centuries, I guess I did settle in and enjoy it.

That said, the novel contains a lot—as in A LOT a lot—of gratuitously chatty dialogue and even a mind-numbingly endless dinner scene where an entire family debates the merits and shortfallings of a wide range of economic models and policies. (We get it Barbara: You did tons of research that you didn't want to go to waste as you cemented characters into their archetypal molds. But sheesh.)

It's also a work of historical fiction involving people and municipalities that have been largely forgotten, a fact I wish I'd known before it was mentioned in the acknowledgements at the end of the book. Because the historical characters are fascinating, and the free-thinking "utopian" community where they lived was anythying but and created a dramatic dichomoty of religious dogma vs scientific discovery and the covert subterfuge of Victorian mores as a backdrop for the narrative.
 
The title of the novel clearly stems from ongoing themes of crumbling houses, dire economic circumstances, social acceptance vs social ostracism, and the political abandonment of the citizenry by a Presidential candidate who shall not be named here and is not named in the book but is very indelibly described and pilloried.
 
I finished the novel with an overall feeling of meh, but I realized my mind never strayed as I read it. So I was clearly invested. Barbara Kingslover knows how to weave a compelling narrative (or two in this case), but she sure likes to dwell and dwell and dwell in the weeds when her characters have conversations.
 
If any of this sounds interesting to you, by all means read it. But if you found my observations here bland and uninspiring, you'll find those same reactions tenfold in the book.

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

Books: Kids, Wait Till You Hear This!

Autobiographies are weird.

On one hand, they let authors give personal perspectives on fascinating life experiences and even lay all their cards on the table to control narratives and atone for past wrongs.

On the other hand, they don’t typically lend themselves to objective storytelling, bigger-picture perspectives or inconvenient contexts. And what always feels the weirdest to me: It seems almost impossible—even in the hands of the deftest ghostwriters and editors—to talk about huge accomplishments and victories without sounding shamelessly braggy.

All that said, Liza Minnelli has lived an epic life of accomplishments, wrongs, victories, catastrophically bad decisions and everything in between—all in a massive international fishbowl and all (in my opinion) with a ton of bemused self-awareness that completely has you on her side when she gets (always very justifiably) braggy.

And this new autobiography lays it ALL (well, as far as she chooses to tell us) on the table.

I’ve always loved her work and I feel that through her performances and interviews I have a pretty good idea of her personality, energy and voice. And the voice in this book nails hers exactly—so huge kudos to her editors for that.

That voice takes us excitedly through everything from her earliest memories to today, veering off into side stories, then veering off into other side stories on her way back. She talks about becoming aware of her Hollywood-kid bubble, her work to succeed without nepotism, her drive to prove herself on her own terms, her many marriages that seem in retrospect to have a bit of a foundation of being in love with love … and all through it she’s incredibly frank about her endless ups and downs with substance-use disorder.

(TLDR: I very much love pretty much everything in this book, but my only criticism is her stories of long addictions and lengthy sobrieties don’t always get synched up with her many side stories and loops back to her core narrative, and it cumulatively gives the impression that she’s lived her entire life drunk and high.)

Liza (we’re on a first-name basis) fills the book with glowing, gushing things about pretty much everyone from close friends to ex-husbands to temperamental directors to the people drifting in and out of her extended Hollywood family. So when she lets loose on someone who she thought was truly awful, you really sit up and take notice.

It’s no secret that her last marriage to the slimy grifter David Gest was a horrifying joke to everyone but her when she was in it. But once she escaped and saw what he’d done to her and her finances and relationships and career … watch out. The chapter where she goes off on him is both deliciously explosive and completely heartbreaking.

She also lashes out at some unscrupulous managers, agents, doctors and other people who saw opportunities to take advantage of her and exploited the hell out of them.

But one of the most surprising and upsetting is her telling of mistreatment by Lady Gaga backstage at the Academy Awards. I love Liza. I love Lady Gaga. And I’m not sure what to do with Liza’s story of their meeting.

All that said, the book is a great, fascinating, fun read. If you love Liza and the extended Lizaverse you’ll be all-in from the first page. And even if you’re only kinda-interested in her life, you’ll have fun on the journey.

Monday, May 25, 2026

Mental Health Awareness Month: An Unquiet Mind

An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison is a fearlessly, brutally honest 1995 memoir examining the exhilarating highs and soul-crushing lows of bipolar disorder (which was clinically called manic-depressive illness during the events of this book) from the perspective of a psychiatrist trapped in the disease. Her frank and intimately personal insights bring bipolar disorder’s cycles of terror, elation and crushing, abject despair into stark and sometimes heartbreaking clarity.

The book was recommended to me soon after I was diagnosed as bipolar in 2008, and it grabbed me on every level—from its smart writing to the recognizable, relatable, almost comforting details of its narrative—and I all but literally didn’t put the book down until I’d finished it.

I have an indelible memory of reading it on the Red Line EL train home from work one night in Chicago, and a man who’d clearly seen me reading it made sure we made eye contact as he stood up to leave and then he patted me reassuringly on the shoulder as he got off at the Sheridan stop. That encounter—a direct extension of this book—made me literally weep the rest of the way home as I was coming to grips with the label “mentally ill” and discovering the signs I’d never thought to notice until then that I wasn’t alone … and realizing that everywhere I go I’d never be alone.

If you are or love someone who is bipolar—or struggling with any mental illness—this book will make you weep, give you hope and quite possibly change your life.

Wednesday, December 3, 2025

Books: The Couple at Number 9

I have many thoughts about The Couple at Number 9, the first of which is that I need to vet recommendations I get from Audible Books before I buy anything there. It gave glowing reviews and breathless descriptions about the book’s suspenseful, exciting narrative, but it really hid the negative comments. I usually check multiple sources before I start a book, and I clearly didn’t do that here.

My short opinion is I was really engaged in the story, but some elements of its telling were tedious and/or distracting enough that I ended up feeling pretty neutral.

Like Dan Brown (author of The Da Vinci Code), author Claire Douglas sure knows how to spin a riveting, Gothic tale filled with ancient (well, ancient to the year 1980 here) secrets, tantalizing clues, and deliciously jarring plot and character twists.

But also like Dan Brown, she’s never met a cliché she couldn’t slap into her copy over and over ad lazyam. Cheeks are always rosy, old books are always dusty, time is always in the nick of, nouns always have bland, meaningless adjectives (the red scarf, the ceramic mug, the unexpected surprise) … and every book, email and photo album is about to be closed until at the very last second the reader notices something out of the corner of his or her eye that he or she hadn’t seen in the just-finished process of examining it for enormous amounts of time.

And while I’m whining incessantly about Douglas’ fusilade of adjective-nouns, she spends pages and pages rehashing plot points or belaboring characters’ thoughts but she never really takes time to explain the points of her adjective choices.

For instance: She has a character walk through an “arched door” of an English cottage, but she never clarifies why that detail is important to the character, to the world she’s crafting or to her readers. She could say the arched door made the cottage feel inviting and safe against the horrors unfolding in the back garden. Or that the arched door reminded the character of his childhood home, which made him feel extra-comfortable moving into this cottage. Or that the arched door felt like a portal to the rich history the cottage no doubt held (which it very much does).

But no. It was just a door that happened to be arched. He could have just walked through the door and moved on to the more pressing narrative unfolding inside. Wearing his red scarf and carrying his ceramic mug, of course.

The hackneyed writing choices legitimately undermined my immersion into the narrative and the world of the novel. Despite being a lifelong writer and editor, I’m never that picky as a recreational reader—things like bad grammar and stilted language can effectively define characters and settings—so take what you will about the fact that I’ve spent so much time addressing it here.

One more complaint: The things that happened long ago in the past happened in 1980. The story takes place in 2018. That math doesn’t add up because I was in junior-high school in 1980, and that was just a few years ago. “Long ago in the past.” Harumph.

All that said, the story is pretty gripping. It starts with the discovery of two bodies buried in a garden behind an old English cottage, and lives and relationships and families and startling secrets start unraveling at increasing speed from there. As expected, things and people are never what they initially seem to be. Innocent conversations lead to massive revelations. Encountered strangers end up being markedly supportive and helpful or alarmingly devious and violent. Or they sometimes just add color and life to a shared moment. A separate narrative involving the hostile relationship between a son and his father in a distant city eventually becomes deeply intertwined with the cottage narrative.

In the interest of avoiding spoilers, I won’t say whether or not justice is eventually served, but I will say the thundering freight train of a plot ends on a predictable tying up of loose ends followed by a pfffft of another boring, belabored, meaningless cliché of an emotional gesture.

Cleverly though, the title has multiple meanings, most of which don’t become clear until late in the story. So I’ll give it that.

If you like a Gothic novel filled with well-realized characters and dark twists and turns and you don’t get distracted by pulp-fiction writing, I truly recommend this book.

But if silver linings, easy pies and flying time make you a little angry that someone got paid to write them, send me a note and I’ll summarize the plot for you. Mark my words.

Tuesday, November 4, 2025

Books: What Lies in the Woods

I love a book filled with dark secrets, haunting pasts, and jarring twists and turns ... and HOLY SHIT does What Lies in the Woods deliver.
 
On its surface, it's the story of three adult women who as childhood friends survived a brutal attack in the woods by a serial killer their testimony eventually sent to prison.

The killer's death from cancer while in prison brings the three women back together in the town where they grew up and where two of them still live. They'd stayed close through the years, but the killer's death opens old wounds, brings dormant memories back into the harsh light of day, reignites old friendships and casual acquaintenceships ... and unleashes unanswered questions and unraveled realities and out-of-nowhere jolts that just don't let up.

Reader, it's truly mesmerizing. It's all I could think about in the three days it took me to devour it. And writing this brief review is keeping all the delicious chaos, gory details and shocking betrayals swirling around in my head.
 
As always, I'm verty carefully avoiding key plot points and potential spoilers here, so I'll summarize the narrative as this: It takes place in and around a smallish Pacific Northwest town with an insular social and political history. Everyone has a surface persona and a carefully constructed personal narrative, but nobody is who you think they are. NOBODY. Even the protagonist has doubts about who she was, who she is and who she remembers being. But she's written in a way that I'd totally want to be her best friend if we ever met.

While author Kate Alice Marshall sure knows how to spin a gripping tale, she also knows how to create relatable characters and construct compelling prose that gracefully elevates what could end up sounding like pulpy melodrama in less-skilled hands.
 
She's also thoughtful enough to give you subtle reminders about who certain people and places are when they pop back into the narrative after long absences. One woman's father, for instance, doesn't make a lot of appearances early on and I'd initially forget who he was every time he came back. But Marshall always provides some helpful context with each reapparance—and without hitting you over the head with it.
 
This is a book I'll definitely read again—if only to find the Easter eggs hidden in early conversations and rehashed memories that suddenly have new, telling contexts as secrets start to unravel.
 
You should read it too. Because I'm just dying to talk about it at length with someone.

Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Books: Let the Great World Spin

In the weeks and months after author Colum McCann’s father-in-law returned from his harrowing ordeal escaping one of the Twin Towers and finding his way north from the destruction and rubble of the 9/11 attacks, McCann was struck by the sheer volume of personal stories and larger narratives intertwined in the events immediately before, during and after that day.

As he looked for a way he could possibly isolate and do justice to any of those stories to help make sense of the attacks and destruction, it struck him that there were just as many stories unfolding years and decades beforehand that could build a larger, deeper, more profound context illustrating the interconnectedness of lives and how they together collectively become the past that keeps the world spinning ever forward.

Soon after the Twin Towers were completed in the early 1970s, an aerialist named Philippe Petit managed the impossible feat of stringing a tightrope between the tops of the buildings in the dead of night and walking across it one morning, capturing the attention and fascination of every New Yorker on the ground below him. McCann uses this true-life event as the cultural linchpin for anchoring the fictional characters he brings to life in and around 1974, the year of Petit’s iconic stunt.

Each chapter in Let the Great World Spin is a stand-alone short story introducing a character, a friendship, a family, or an event that may be big or small: the childhoods of two Irish brothers who eventually emigrate to America, a woman regretting that she let her daughter follow her into a life of prostitution, a wealthy housewife in a grief support group, two relapsed addicts involved in a catastrophic car accident.

Some stories interact directly. Some characters pass by each other tangentially. Almost every character makes an appearance on the day of Petit’s walk.

Two characters over time establish themselves as the metaphoric twin towers linking all these lives … and when they eventually fall, they bring the lives and stories into an even more intricate orbit.

New York City itself is both a setting and a character driving these narratives through its distinct neighborhoods, segregated socioeconomics and vibrant melting-pot identity. The New Yorkers McCann creates and the lives (and occasional deaths) he guides them through are as disparate as they are fundamentally relatable, and through them—and the moments in history they occupy—he keeps their (and by extension our) worlds living, breathing, halting, progressing, collapsing, and always spinning from the past through the present and toward our collective uncertain future.

Wednesday, October 8, 2025

Books: Smoldering City: Chicagoans and the Great Fire, 1871–1874

I was hoping that Smoldering City: Chicagoans and the Great Fire, 1871–1874 would be a breathless page-turner about the human dramas of conflagrant destruction, abject suffering and triumph over adversity peppered with tantalizing details about old Chicago buildings and neighborhoods that I recognize. Instead it’s a hyperwonkish examination of class inequality, political grandstanding, religious imperialism (particularly the emergence of “scientific” relief that favored distributing blankets, food and financial aid to the religious and the “worthy” newly homeless rich over assisting the chronically poor and the working class who were technically able to support themselves despite the fact that there was little to no work available in the months after the fire) and the simmering intolerance toward (particularly German) immigrants in the fire’s aftermath. 

It does draw some perennial parallels to Republicans' straw-man obsession with “big” government in its discussions of Chicago’s post-fire laws against rebuilding with wood (which made rebuilding almost financially impossible for low- and middle-class fire victims) and its curiously detailed recounting of virulently sabbatical opposition to German-immigrant beer gardens serving alcohol on Sundays, which temporarily drove the mostly single-issue People’s Party into power over the status-quo Law and Order party of native-born religious privilege. 

The book does frequently refer to one concept that will amuse modern Chicago residents, though: the idea that fire victims “fled the city” northward to the neighboring community of Lake View.

Today is the anniversary of the 1871 Chicago Fire, which historians are not opposed to believing actually could have been started by a cow kicking over a lantern in Mrs. O'Leary's barn—though, to be fair, there are many other credible, though less historically charming, theories as to how the fire started. 

During the 15 years I lived in Chicago, I saw it as my civic duty to read and learn as much as I could about my city and its history. I was excited to start reading this book when I found it, but—as the above review I'd initially posted about it says—it turned out to be more of a lengthy essay on the cultural and sociopolitical Zeitgeist that framed the fire than on the timeline and geography of the unfolding inferno and the human-level experience of surviving it, which I would have found far more meaningful.

In any case, upwards of 300 people died and thousands were left homeless and impoverished 154 years ago today and tomorrow. I mark this day on my calendar every year so I'm reminded to think about who they might have been and the horrors they most certainly endured. And I encourage you to a moment today in their memory to celebrate what you have while you still have it.

Monday, August 25, 2025

Books: Slaughterhouse-Five

On its surface, Slaughterhouse-Five (actual full name: Slaughterhouse-Five, or The Children's Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death) is a profoundly disjointed narrative of author Kurt Vonnegut’s experiences as a World War II prisoner of war told through the eyes and experiences of his fictional proxy Billy Pilgrim.

Vonnegut occasionally inserts himself into the narrative or acknowledges that the work you’re reading is autobiographical historical fiction, creating a meta universe that both draws you in and sets you outside the characters and plot.

Billy’s adventures unfold in short, jarring sentences and jump through time and literal space—which are key aspects of the novel’s postmodernist structure and spirit. Postmodernism in literature (which thrived in the second half of the 20th century, with this novel being written in 1969) broke away from linear, plausible storytelling to embrace logical impossibilities, ponder questions about existence, and often create imperfect character and story arcs that never get resolved.

It’s through this everything-at-once literary lens that poor, beleaguered Billy Pilgrim jumps randomly from surviving the cruelties of war and the (historically true) bombing of Dresden to wetting his pants in childhood fear at the top of the Grand Canyon to losing his wife in a string of bizarre circumstances after he survives a plane crash to being abducted by aliens, ensconced in an interstellar zoo, and mating with a fellow earthling and adult performer with the delightful name Montana Wildhack.

And it’s through this structure that Vonnegut processes the horrors he experienced in war and illustrates the disassociative struggles of living with PTSD.

The story is by its very nature absurd and peppered with droll humor and truly singular characters (many of whom appear in other Vonnegut works) with names like Kilgore Trout and Bertram Copeland Rumfoord. This being a novel centered around war, the frivolity is heavily balanced with often nonchalant accounts of death … always followed by Vonnegut’s “And so it goes” expression of existential futility.

The novel’s other recurring expression—”unstuck in time”—provides succinct, efficient shorthand for not only Vonnegut’s narrative structure but for the scattered aftershocks he continues to experience from of war itself, the upheaval it creates, the lives it redirects and the metaphorical slaughter it wields on his psyche … and by extension the world’s.

Saturday, July 26, 2025

Theater: The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald was arguably ahead of his time when he published his novel The Great Gatsby in 1925.

America was still too deep in the weeds enjoying its Jazz Age freedoms, nouveau riche excesses and related pursuits of wanton indulgence to notice the cautionary tales about those very activities that Fitzgerald had embedded in his narrative. The novel was initially dismissed as boring and artificial—but with time comes perspective, and as America rebuilt itself after the Great Depression and then World War II, the novel’s wisdom, metaphors and objective warnings came into sharper clarity and made the novel a perennial staple of our collective literary curricula.

By the time the novel entered the public domain in 2021, it had seen countless adaptations for the stage and for the big and small screens … except as a musical. And once that source material became free, not one but TWO musical versions started their journeys to Broadway.

The version currently playing—launched on the shoulders of powerhouse Broadway royalty Jeremy Jordan and Eva Noblezada—got off to a rocky start thanks to some highly questionable choices in reframing the narrative. But in the five short months between its pre-Broadway tryouts at the Paper Mill Playhouse and its official Broadway opening, it underwent a massive overhaul that kept it more faithful to the novel and made it a massive hit.

Traditionally narrated by the outsider-observer Nick Carraway, it tells the story of the mysterious wealthy recluse Jay Gatsby, the hedonistic parties he throws, and the clandestine reasons he acquired his wealth so he could throw them. (I know the story is literally 100 years old, but I think the narrative and supporting narratives are pretty fascinating and I don’t want to reveal any spoilers to the six of you who don’t already know what happens.)

I got enough “meh” reviews for this show from friends that I put it on my backup list for my Belated Birthday Broadway Binge. But since three of my original picks closed early, Gatsby eventually climbed to the top of the leader board and I got a ticket.

And I really enjoyed it. I did find parts of it to indeed be “meh”—how many belty operatic “I Want” ballads does one small cast of characters truly need?—but it’s overall an indulgent feast for the senses.
For starters, the set is a breathtaking mashup of intricate Art Nouveau tendrils and soaring Art Deco geometries. (Producer Chunsoo Shin famously landed ridiculous amounts of investor money, which he poured directly into the uncommonly fabulous production design.) The costumes, choreography and orchestrations also got massive glow-ups from what audiences usually expect to experience.

I’m not a huge fan of the score. It has many extraordinary moments, but it feels a little ponderous at times. (The song “New Money” SLAPS though, and it more than makes up for any quibbles I have with anything else.)

Fitzgerald’s novel had a lot going on—as novels do—and I’ve seen so many stage and screen adaptations that over time I’ve honestly forgotten what storylines and plot points are original and what I’ve seen added or modified for subsequent narratives. This production includes everything I remember being germane to the story, with some additions that flesh out secondary characters and a bold dramatic update to an already shocking plot development.

Of the many iconic images/metaphors/themes in the work, Jay Gatsby’s obsession with the green light on Daisy Buchanan’s dock is arguably the most enduring. From a character standpoint, it represents love and longing for an idealized version of the past. From a literary standpoint, it represents the promises of the American Dream and the futility of yearning for the unattainable. (And for Brian and Stewie Griffin, it’s just the light from a gay gym called The Pump House. That Gatsby parody is peak Family Guy brilliance.)

The Gatsby musical features a gorgeous projection of the green light twinkling in the distance over rippling waters as its show curtain. And if I have one overarching criticism of the show it’s that all that significance, all that imagery and all that setup get explained to the audience so quickly and unceremoniously that I’m guessing the majority of people attending the show don’t get it. I was literally looking for the exposition to see how it was presented and I almost missed it.

And I hate to diss fellow performers—even the ones on Broadway who are presumably used to criticisms—but two actors in the show I saw felt extremely miscast. I’m not going to name names in case their moms are reading this, but their performances (though gorgeously sung) were so awkwardly anachronistic that they were literally distracting. They were perfectly OK, but they were NOT the green lights of my Belated Birthday Broadway dreams.

Tuesday, May 27, 2025

Books: Lethal Passage

Erik Larson—perhaps best known for writing Devil in the White City—has a penchant for picking historical topics you didn’t realize you were dying to know more about, researching them to a granular level and then crafting in-the-weeds narratives that can test the patience of even his most ardent fans.
I’m saying this with more respect than exasperation; I recently—and eagerly—completed my second readings of both Devil in the White City and his Dead Wake (which I highly recommend) knowing full well there would be sections that would make my eyes glaze over. He crafts a great narrative and leaves you feeling smarter page after page, but I think we can all agree that his works can sometimes be … a lot.
 
Case in point: Lethal Passage examines the confluence of economic, legal, cultural, social and historic events leading to a bullied child with limited financial means acquiring a specific gun and shooting students and teachers at a relatively wealthy private school in 1988.

The premise didn’t sound like it could support a book of Lethal Passage’s heft, and though the topic doesn’t really interest me, I was curious to see what Larson did with his research and his gift for narrative to fill the book’s 300+ pages.

And boy, did my mind wander as I slogged through it.
 
I kept telling myself if he were recounting the note-by-note process of Stephen Sondheim, Hugh Wheeler and Hal Prince bringing Sweeney Todd from concept to Broadway, I’d be hanging onto every word. So if you’re fascinated by Old West history and mythology, Hollywood cowboys and gangsters, the noble birth and jarring radicalization of the NRA, the political ebbs and flows of the ATF’s powers and purposes, and the perennial legal absurdities that make it nearly effortless for anyone to buy a firearm, this is totally your book.
 
Granted, all of the above puts deep, nuanced context behind young Nicholas Elliott’s conditioning to think shooting classmates was his best course of action in response to bullying, his access to enough information to help him make an informed decision about which gun he thought was best for the job—and the best local retailer for buying it without issue—and his relationships with the adults he could trust to help him purchase the gun and modify it to operate with enhanced efficiency.
 
But hoo-boy.
 
Interspersed between his bloated history/context essays, Larson does cover how low-income-single-mom Nicholas was at an expensive private school and why he was probably the victim of bullying. He also recounts the history of the gun store, its owners and its place in the local gun-rights zeitgeist. And he introduces us to the students and faculty who will eventually live and die in the shooting spree.
Those stories alone are compelling, and as is his usual format he masterfully triangulates them from separate stories into a singular cohesive narrative. But that information would barely add up to qualify as a beach-read novella.
 
So he piles on the contexts and backstories and anecdotes and historical coincidences and nearly everything else he can come up with to flesh out his base premise.
 
As I said earlier: I don’t have a ton of innate fascination with Lethal Passage’s broader topic and themes. But I’ve read all of Larson’s books (except for his most recent, The Demon of Unrest) so I wasn’t going to let this one slip through the cracks.
 
I can honestly report I almost quit out of boredom multiple times, but I’m not at all suggesting you will. I’m more relieved than glad I can say I finished it. And while I don’t NOT recommend it, I think it’s fair to say it has a very limited, very specific audience … and if you think that audience is you, by all means give it a read.

Monday, April 28, 2025

Books: Dear Edward

“Don’t read Dear Edward on a plane!” a friend warned me. But I’d packed four books for my weeklong trip to Colombia and I’d finished the other three by the time we headed to the airport to go home. So I opened it once I’d checked in and gone through security … and I put it down reluctantly only when I had to.

People who know me know I lost my friend Miriam Wolfe in the 1988 bombing of the commercial airliner Pan Am flight 103. And once I’d processed and accepted her death, I discovered I’m not at all afraid to fly. So reading this entire book in one day as I flew across political borders and a massive body of water and changed planes in a cavernous international airport was concerning only in the fact that I occasionally had to stop to tend to other things on my journey.

I’m saying all of this—if you didn’t already know—because Dear Edward is about a massive commercial plane crash and the recovery journey of its sole survivor, a young boy. And if you can compartmentalize the occurrence of the crash—which author Ann Napolitano describes in almost abstract, clinical imagery because the horror and destruction are obviously part of the narrative but absolutely far from the point—you’ll find a beautifully emotional story about Edward Adler (the young survivor), his extended family, his community and literally the entire country sharing common journeys of grief, healing, support, understanding, magnanimity and ultimately joy.

Napolitano crafts the story in two alternating narratives: the interactions of the passengers and crew before and during the flight, and the interactions of Edward and his slowly expanding world in the days, months and years after the crash.

It’s a smart, effective structure for introducing readers to a number of passengers in small bits of narrative that are memorable and emotionally engaging without being overwhelming. And it works equally well for narrating the early weeks and months of Edward’s recovery, letting readers break through his fogs and reach his new understandings alongside him.

Napolitano has a gift for creating characters both on and off the plane who are archetypal enough to be recognizable and distinctive enough to be singular and memorable. An overwhelmed mother, a lecherous tech bro, a stoic soldier, a delusional romantic, a protective single parent … Napolitano introduces you to these familiar people in small bites and dappled brush strokes and gives them just enough unexpected backstory that you gradually come to know and care for them and become invested in the futures you know—and sometimes don’t know—they have.

And then there’s Edward. He’s a somewhat reserved pre-teen whose entire world is taken from him in an instant … right at the age when he’s already emotionally scattered and filled with insecurities, wonders and growing self-awareness. In lesser hands he could just come off as a mess, but Napolitano takes his hand and ours and walks us together through his anguish and sullenness and anger and hopelessness and discoveries of comfort—along with the misfirings in his pubescent brain—in ways that make him understandable, believable and sympathetic, even through his occasional unwise decisions and hostile behaviors.

Perhaps the most impressive accomplishment of this novel is its thorough plausibility. It could easily drift into the mists of mysticism and magical thinking, but it stays true to the known world from its biggest plot points to the smallest gestures from the periphery characters.

As I’ve shared book recommendations with people, many have praised everything about Dear Edward and a few have said they could never read something so horrifying and heartbreaking. So Dear Edward might not be for you.

But if you’re even slightly intrigued—and if you’ve noticed that I read the entire novel in one day that included two long flights—I think you’ll be as enamored with it, its humanity, its imperfect emotions, its journeys of discovery and love, and its dogged young protagonist as I am.

Sunday, April 6, 2025

Books: Monarch

I finished reading Monarch by Candice Wuehle over a week ago and I still don’t know what I think about it. While I was never bored and I regularly found myself eager to find out what happens next in the plot as I read, the book lingers in my brain as just … a lot. A lot of stuff that doesn’t usually go together, which is beautifully creative in itself, but that also doesn’t really connect in any meaningful—or Meaningful—way from an ironic-juxtaposition point of view.

Despite the massive library of books in my mental queue that I want to read, I was swayed by a random woman I encountered on a random scroll through TikTok who gushed so much about this book that I put it at the front of my line. Which is kind of out of character for me and my usual meticulous planning, but it certainly mirrors the abrupt barrages of chaos in the book’s premise.

I hate to give away plot points, but the book cover itself tells you that it’s a story about a young woman who ages out of the world of child beauty pageants and eventually discovers that she and many of her friends/frenemies/competitors on the pageant circuit have all along been sleeper-cell government agents who’ve been programmed to do covert (and never specified) missions that are immediately erased from their memories.

There’s obviously a lot more detail—and plenty of short-lived side plots—to flesh out an entire novel, but the protagonist’s journey of discovery from one world to the other is the only true throughline. And its absurdist connection between the two worlds never quite lands with me.

I worried as I got deeper into the story that it might have feminist-coded undertones that I just wasn’t catching, but aside from the references to the beauty pageants—which are delightfully droll and retrospectively appalling to the protagonist—her personal discoveries and the larger narrative themes are rather universal and arguably gender-neutral.

There are many, many references to circles and spheres and spirals that I worried were elements of symbolism I also wasn’t catching, but the narrator discusses them mostly in reference to the circuitous, slightly-off-linear way she tells her story.

The bulk of the story takes place in an unspecified area of the Midwest that is relatively close to Interstate 80 and Chicago, and at one point it involves a Hy-Vee grocery bag, so I’m guessing it’s in Iowa.

And during college the narrator lives in a dorm called Mayflower that’s pretty far from the campus and that looks over a river and beyond it the school’s fine-arts buildings, all of which sounds a hell of a lot like the University of Iowa. But her Mayflower has a tall bell tower—and it quickly becomes clear that her Mayflower is a metaphoric ship that takes her life to a whole new world. Which is what college obviously does, but for her it starts her journey into the aforementioned plot discombobulations.

On the plus side, Wuehle knows a lot of interesting things about a lot of interesting things, so the book takes you on mini educational journeys through the worlds of cellular preservation, photography and the development of film in darkrooms, makeup (of course), scientific taxonomy, training octopi, academic accreditation, catechismisc theory, and even Norwegian folklore.

And she’s a published poet, which certainly shows in the way she crafts sentences and summons allusions and shapes narrative imagery.

I also seem to be on an unintentional paranormal kick in my recent choices of literature. It’s clearly no secret that the child-beauty-pageant/covert-government-sleeper-agent narrative veers sharply outside the world of realism in the novel, which is all lighthearted fun. But then it VEERS. I powered through the last chapter just to say I’d finished the book.

I’ve been posting reviews of the books I’ve been reading both to help hold myself accountable to my goal to read at least one book a month and to put content on social media and my writing blog that isn’t about the you-know-who shitshow. In my innate need to not come off as mean to my fellow (and clearly more successful) writers, I try to focus on positive things—which I hope I have here—but aside from the novel’s unconventional way of describing how lives and people aren’t always what they seem—even to the people living those lives—I have to say the book is largely perplexing, I’m glad I finished it and I won’t be revisiting it again.

Do with that what you will.

Wednesday, March 19, 2025

Books: North Woods

If I were going to assemble my favoite literary themes and tropes into a novel like it was a Build-A-Bear at the mall, North Woods by Daniel Mason would tick all the boxes on my checklist: an ancient house with generations of occupants and fascinating stories, ghosts from that rich past lingering to make sure their stories get told and their lives don't end up forgotten, nods to historical events both to establish context and to celebrate our shared experiences, richly drawn (and inherently messy) characters who on some levels end up feeling like your favorite friends, a trust from the author that you'll connect the dots and follow along when you're given only scraps of tantalizing information, bread crumbs and Easter eggs that follow the house and the characters through literal centuries, nerd-grade information about very specific topics you find yourself wanting to learn more about, metaphors large and small that weave through the narrative without smacking you on the head ... and sentence after sentence after sentence of evocative, lovingly crafted prose that sometimes makes you stop and catch your breath because it's just so brilliantly gorgeous.

And if THAT'S not enough to tell you how much I love this book, try this: I read it in September and it's stuck with me so much that I just re-read it in the space of five days.

It's hard to fully describe what the book is about. On its surface, it follows the centuries-long story of a tiny stone hut built in the 1600s in Western Massachusetts as generations of people come and go through its doors and build onto it almost as if to create enough room to hold its ever-expanding history and the stories that echo through it.

The people who come and go are sometimes generations of families and sometimes unrelated buyers and sellers. Some of the stories exist in their own time and reach their logical conclusions and some echo through the centuries and continue to drive the various narratives. Some of the stories are told by an omniscient narrator. Some are first-person accounts. Some are heartfelt letters. Some are even metaphor-laden poems with sing-song rhythms and dark Victorian themes.

One chapter is a graphic, turgid description of lust and wanton, depraved sex between two beetles. (You will need smelling salts and a cigarette after you finish reading it, so be prepared.)

I can't recall ever reading a book twice in the space of a few months, but I'm so glad I did with this one; since I already knew the basic plot points, I could spend my second reading focusing on the gorgeous prose, the larger themes and the tiny details—a lost button, a rusty axe head, a forgotten note tucked in a family Bible, buried bones, the catamount (an old name for a large wild cat) sitting placidly on the book's cover—that trickle through the narrative, sometimes just for fun and sometimes with deeper meaning.

The novel is so packed with characters and moments and delicious coincidences that it's impossible to focus on just one thing to love ... or to worry about possibly giving away as a spoiler. There are twin spinsters I want to be best friends with. There's an unrequited love story that just breaks my heart. There are satisfying, well-justified murders. There's an exploration of worldly insights hiding in a schitzophrenic mind.

Above all, there's an underlying theme that time and nature and humanity are interconnected in both obvious and clandestine ways, that we're all part of a larger, beautifully messy narrative, that small details can tumble quietly through time and space until they snowball into overwhelming influences ... and that reading a beloved novel more than once can fill you with even more joy and wonder than you'd experienced before.

Friday, March 14, 2025

Books: All the Light we Cannot See

The masterful novel All the Light we Cannot See by Anthony Doerr is, on its surface, a story about two pre-teens—one an orphaned German boy with a self-taught gift for building radios and one a blind French girl with a fascination for science and adventure and access to an entire museum of discoveries thanks to her father's job—whose separate worlds slowly collapse around them (and occasionally, tangentially intersect) in the early years of World War II.

The book is filled with imagery and metaphors and cultural references subtle enough that you don't have to get them to be engrossed in the narrative and beautifully relevant enough that they bring deeper meaning—sometimes profound, sometimes merely observational—to the lives of the characters, their changing circumstances, their collapsing worlds, and their dawning understanding of the cruelties and horrors of war.

Those cruelties and horrors of course extend to the Holocaust, which Doerr acknowledges with the most deft touches; Jewish characters pass in and out of scenes long enough to leave an impression and then sometimes disappear many chapters later with a dreadful understanding told in a few sobering, artfully constructed phrases.

The allusions to Light and Seeing in the book's title filter through the narrative in obvious ways (young Marie-Laure's blindness) and in ways that slowly dawn on you (the invisibilities and abstractions of radio signals that engross young Werner). And the metaphor of light—or lack thereof—lingers in the hushed, unspoken evils of Fascism, the sudden disappearances of beloved characters, and the illuminating discoveries of both children on their individual and tacitly shared journeys.

Doerr has a gift for creating characters you find yourself knowing intimately and caring about deeply ... and since they live in the crosshairs of a brutal war, some of their fates will break your heart.

He also trusts his readers to connect the dots between offhand comments, minor characters, historical references and other pieces of ephemera that slowly coalesce into richer understandings of the characters, the themes, the contexts and the worlds they occupy.

The novel is not new and it's been adapted into a Netflix miniseries so you may already be familiar with its general narrative, but I don't want to reveal any more plot details than what I've said here. The first three or four times someone recommended the book to me, the plot summaries they gave honestly didn't grab me. But I'm truly glad I finally listened. I was instantly engrossed in the book, and now that I've finished it I'm finding I miss the characters as though they were friends and family in a long-ago life in a terrifying chapter of our shared history.

Sunday, February 23, 2025

Books: James

The picaresque novel is an enduring literary tradition that’s been holding readers in rapt attention since the 1550s. It typically features a plucky protagonist of low social standing narrating a series of (usually) first-person adventures that may or may not be related or linear but that together compose a tale of self-discovery or personal growth and almost always of biting social commentary.
 
Think Miguel de Cervantes’ 1605 Don Quixote, Voltaire’s 1759 Candide, Mark Twain’s 1884 Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Ralph Ellison’s 1952 Invisible Man … and on a grander, more modern scale, every book series, soap opera, sitcom and movie franchise that eventually uses the word “universe.”

Twain’s Huckleberry Finn follows the adventures (or at least the extraordinary experiences) of a young white boy in the antebellum (pre-Civil War) South who runs away to escape his abusive father and along the way joins forces with the runaway slave Twain calls N****r Jim, who’s escaping all the horrors you’d expect a human slave to want to escape from.
 
Twain narrates the novel exclusively through Huck Finn’s perspective as he and Jim raft down the Mississippi and encounter bounty hunters looking for Jim, charlatans, hostile crowds, distant family members (and other massive coincidences), love interests, and a host of other people and situations that hold them back and propel them forward to a number of discoveries—the most notable being Huck’s (and our) deeper understanding the cruelties and horrors of slavery.

But it’s told completely through the lens of a white man of privilege.
 
Percival Everett's 2024 novel James revisits Huck and Jim’s picaresque narrative and tells it entirely from Jim’s perspective. The fact that Everett has Jim call himself James (out of earshot of white people when necessary) is the first layer of the dignity, humanity and imperfect complexity he brings to the man as he and Huck stumble from horrors to joys to near misses to more horrors on their way through the antebellum South.
 
It’s not a spoiler to say that he gives James the ability to read and write. Or that he often strays far from Twain’s original narrative, especially as he fills in the blanks in James’ life during the times Twain has him separated from Huck.
 
I hate that my review of this book is mostly about the white literary history and context instead of James’ experience as a black man. But the book is so full of rich details and poignant moments and random brushes with history and a level of experience I could never possibly understand as a white man that I don’t want to decide for people what parts of it are mine to divulge.
 
I’ll leave it at this: The character James that Everett creates in the book is so compelling and so human that I was immediateky invested in everything he says, thinks, observes and does. And I know enough about the original Huck Finn story that I was often filled with dread about the things I knew awaited James as I read. Everett even gives the secondary and tertiary characters James and Huck meet on their picaresque journeys enough humanity and dignity that they stuck with me long after they had fulfilled their literary purposes and he’d left them behind.

James is one of two novels by black authors about black experiences I’ve been reading simultaneously during Black History Month. It is at times a very tough read. It alternates between gorgeously crafted prose and dry, jagged exposition as situations dictate. It’s filled with characters Everett gives deep intrinsic value with small, masterful brush strokes.

And it’s definitely something I’ll read again.

Thursday, March 14, 2024

Dramaturgy: Something Rotten!

In the interest of squeezing SOME value out of my B.A. in Renaissance literature, I appointed myself the unofficial dramaturg of Theatre Cedar Rapids' 2024 production of Something Rotten!, the narrative of which occurs toward the end of the English Renaissance. I posted occasional bits of historical/contextual information on our cast/crew Facebook page, but since I put all that damn work into researching and writing I decided it would be nice to have it all seen by more than 42 people. So I'm posting the entirety of my musings here. They often reference inside jokes and details from the script and score, so if anything here confuses you you’ll just have to get tickets to the nearest production of the brilliant Something Rotten! you can find. You won't be disappointed.


GOD, I LOVE CONTEXT!

To start off our adventures in learning, here’s a brief(ish) timeline of events and lives relevant to the Something Rotten! narrative:

500ish–1450ish: The Middle Ages in Europe (also called the Dark Ages or the Medieval period)

1347–1351: The first wave of the Black Death in Europe (also called the Plague, the Pestilence or the Great Mortality)

1360–1667: Many, many recurring (but far less destructive) waves of the Black Death in Europe

1436: Johannes Gutenberg invents the printing press

1450ish–1650ish: The European Renaissance

1492: Christopher Columbus lands in what is now San Salvador in the Bahamas

1503–1566: The life of Nostradamus (born Michel de Nostredame)

1533–1630: The Puritan movement in England

1558–1603: The reign of Queen Elizabeth I

1564–1616: The life of William Shakespeare (born Gulielmus Shakspere)

1595: Nick Bottom writes Omelette

1599ish: William Shakespeare writes Hamlet

1925: Grant Wood (yes, that Grant Wood) produces a play called Cardboard Moon in his 5 Turner Alley studio in Cedar Rapids and launches what will eventually become Theatre Cedar Rapids

2015: Something Rotten! gets ten Tony nominations (and wins only one: Christian Borle [Shakespeare] for Best Featured Actor in a Musical)

2024: We put on some snazzy pants, do some jazzy hands and make a star-lit, won’t-quit, big hit musicaaaaaal!


THAT PESKY LITTLE PESTILENCE THAT’S KILLING HALF OF EUROPE

The Black Death (also called the Plague, the Pestilence or the Great Mortality) made its first recorded appearance in Europe in October 1347, when 12 ships from the Black Sea docked at the Sicilian port of Messina. Italian dockworkers entered the ships to begin unloading but were met with a horrifying surprise: Most sailors aboard the ships were dead, and those still alive were gravely ill and covered in black boils that oozed blood and pus.

Their mysterious, terrifying disease spread through the local population at alarming speed and soon spread farther along trade routes that ran both inland and along the coasts. It also followed people to neighboring cities as they tried to escape but unknowingly brought the disease with them.

Modern epidemiologists have traced Black Death outbreaks to regions of China as far back as 600 BCE. The Medieval outbreak appears to have started in the same regions and traveled northwest across Asia to ports in Constantinople and then through the Mediterranean Sea to its first European appearance in Messina (which is right where the Italian boot makes contact with the Sicilian football, for those of you who visualize shapes in land masses). From there it spread roughly clockwise along the Mediterranean border and up the continental interior until it hit England in June 1348. (247 years later, Nick Bottom wrote a merry little Black Death showtune with a derivative medley and frankly it was TOO SOON.)

From England, the Black Death spread further north into Scandinavia, where it hit water, had nowhere else to go and finally died out in 1351, after a four-year European rampage that killed an estimated 25 million people—which was somewhere between 40% and 60% of the total European population.

Fun fact: Ports along the Mediterranean started making trade ships wait 40 days offshore before docking to help prevent the Black Death from reaching land. The Latin word for 40 is “quadraginta,” which eventually evolved to the modern word “quarantine.”

One more fun fact: The “Ring Around the Rosie” nursery rhyme may or may not (depending on your school of etymological thought) trace back to the details of the Black Death: Rosie rings represented bubonic lumps on the body, people carried posies and other flowers to mask the smell of rotting corpses, bodies were burned to ashes in an attempt to kill off the mysterious illness, and falling down was because people were really clumsy back then. Or they were dropping dead from the plague. It was probably the latter, but I wasn’t there and I hate to make assumptions.


WHAT’S THAT COMING UP THE SILK ROAD?

The Silk Road (a name that wasn’t coined until the 19th century) was a collection of trade routes linking Medieval China and the Mediterranean between the 3rd and 16th centuries. Named (obvs) for the transport of Chinese silks and other textiles, the Silk Road also saw the transport of spices, salt (which at the time was most importantly a preservative and often a form of currency), precious metals, gunpowder, cultural artifacts, ideas and education, missionaries of many religions, and—the least lucrative from an economics standpoint—the Black Death.

Look for it on a map. It was VERY LONG. And there were very few hotels with complimentary shampoos and continental breakfasts along the way. But there were plenty of bandits along its 4,000-mile route to help you lighten your load.

Did you catch that 4,000-mile part? People traveled the Silk Road in camelpower caravans, and a full-length one-way trip could last an entire year.

Trade and transportation along the Silk Road lasted until 1453—a full century after the first Black Death outbreak in Europe—when the Ottoman Empire (which at the height of its power and territorial control engulfed everything around the Mediterranean Sea except modern Italy and the northernmost coasts) boycotted trade with China and closed the route. (142 years later, Nick Bottom wrote a merry little Black Death showtune with a derivative medley and frankly it was TOO SOON.)

Remnants of the Silk Road survive today in the form of a paved highway connecting Pakistan and the Xinjiang region of China. The Silk Road also survives as a metaphor for the exchange of sketchy goods and services on the Dark Web, which is something that hack Nostradamus clearly didn’t see in humanity’s economic future.


WELCOME TO THE RENAISSANCE!

Now that we have our Middle Ages backstory out of the way, let’s join the historical narrative of our merry little play. (And my advance apologies: I totally geeked out researching and writing this so it’s way longer than I intended. I promise to be less overwhelming in the future.)

Renaissance—as our opening number helpfully explains—means “rebirth.” The Black Death had killed roughly a third of the entire European population, which—among mega-many other consequences—gave serfs (the lower working class) bargaining power for their agricultural labor. It decimated the longstanding feudal system, caused a seismic redistribution of wealth, and spawned the rise of a middle-ish merchant class that had newfound money, leisure and upward mobility through commerce and education.

It was against this socioeconomic upheaval that a confluence of events across the continent stirred and boiled over into the aforementioned rebirth that underpins two full centuries of cultural development, artistic exploration, scientific discovery, social restructuring and political reform:

GEOPOLITICAL: The 1453 fall of Constantinople (now Istanbul) (not Constantinople) (this is a joke for the They Might Be Giants fans among us) brought a brutal end to the Byzantine Empire. Byzantine scholars fled mostly to Italy with their collections of Greek and Roman books and manuscripts, which inspired a widespread revival in the studies of philosophy, science and art.

EDUCATION: These Classical Greek and Roman texts fostered a more rational, scientific approach to theology, the natural world and the arts. Human beings and nature became subjects worthy of study.

PHILOSOPHY: The texts also shifted the philosophical zeitgeist from the longstanding Medieval philosophy of scholasticism—which demanded a strict adherence to religious theology, doctrine and dogma—to a newfound exploration of humanism, a rational outlook that emphasized the potential value, goodness and morality of humans and looked for rational ways to solve human problems. This transition sent our very own Brother Jeremiah through paroxysms of existential crises, and Paroxysms of Existential Crises would make an objectively terrible band name. Which is exactly why we mock him.

SCIENCE: Humanism’s emphasis on rationality, empirical observations and mathematical knowledge challenged generally accepted scientific theories and led to what we now call the Scientific Revolution. In 1534, Polish mathematician and astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus published De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres), which placed the sun—not the Earth—at the center of the solar system. It upended centuries of scientific thinking and inspired scientists across Europe to approach the natural world from a multitude of innovative perspectives. (Of course, that one guy on YouTube has since proven that the earth is flat, so we know today that all that Copernicus stuff is just silly.)

ART: Artists adopted the rational elements of Classical learning—such as anatomy and aerial perspective—and strove to achieve newfound levels of perfection in their representations of humans, animals and nature. (Once that perfection ideal had been achieved, however, artists had nowhere else upward to go and over the centuries started to deconstruct the content and representation in their work to eventually bring about movements like Abstraction, Impressionism, Cubism and the sad little stick figures I’m barely able to draw because I have zero artistic talent.)

PATRONAGE: Most of the Renaissance’s rich artistic achievements would not have been possible without the funding of wealthy patrons. Perhaps the most famous of these patrons were the Medicis, an art-loving family of bankers (and three popes) who commissioned enormous quantities of paintings, sculptures and architecture for their palaces and family tomb. Their most immediate legacy, of course, was the lofty ambitions of our very own dyspeptic Lord Clapham and awkwardly earnest Shylock as they struggled to usher Nick Bottom to the literary pantheon of fame and glory.

LITERATURE: The artistic achievements of the Renaissance also extended from the visual arts to the worlds of literature and theater (otherwise we wouldn’t be rehearsing all these songs and tap numbers). Inspired by humanism’s emphasis on emotions and morality, the literature of the Renaissance broke free from stringent religious dogma and began exploring the struggles and triumphs of human protagonists from history, folktales, Biblical narratives and other familiar sources. In addition to dramatic comedies like Omelette and dramatic tragedies like Hamlet, the Renaissance also saw a flourishing of the poetry that brings our very own star-crossed Nigel and Portia together in awkwardly adorkable love.

I think we can all agree, though, the the most important aftermath of this dramatic rebirth in literary thinking and writing was the day in the late 1980s that a befuddled Iowa college student realized he was NOT cut out for a career in engineering, biology, music, dance or journalism and finally declared his sixth major: English, with an emphasis on Renaissance literature—which he accomplished in three short but overwhelming semesters. And then he waited 33 damn years for this opportunity to use it. He deserves an omelette.


THIS BOTTOM’S GONNA BE TOPPED WITH A DONKEY HEAD

Many characters in our merry little play get their names from characters in Shakespeare’s plays.

Nick Bottom, for example, is a buffoon who alternates between being a character in and a narrator of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He’s a member of a mediocre acting troupe (sound familiar?) who, in the middle of rehearsing a play for the amusement of Oberon, the King of the Fairies, gets transformed by the mischievous Puck, a minion of Oberon, to have the head of a donkey. (Are you still with me?) But it gets weirder. (If you can believe it.) You see, the Fairy Queen Titania, wife of Oberon, gets put under a spell that makes her fall in love (and totally make out) with the donkey-headed Nick Bottom (as one does). Other stuff happens, and long story short Titania eventually gets unspelled and Nick Bottom gets his human head back and ends up thinking the whole thing has been a dream in the night in the middle of summer (hence the title).

But there’s more! The mediocre acting troupe eventually (and very poorly) performs for Oberon a rife-with-subtext play called Pyramus and Thisbe (which are objectively cool pet names), which ends with Nick Bottom performing a melodramatic death scene that’s cringier than the entirety of the Cats movie.

And, scene.

It’s worth noting that Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream after the narrative of our merry little play, implying by our authors that he continued mocking his rival after poor Nick Bottom got exiled to America. Because Shakespeare is kind of a dick.


THE MAN WHO PUT THE "I AM" IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER!

The above lyric kinda flies by as Shakespeare gets introduced at the beginning of "Will Power." But it’s actually a pretty important and defining aspect of the way he wrote.

Iambic pentameter—for those of you who slept through British Lit as we nerds took fascinated and copious notes—is a type of metric line built on standardized syllables and patterns.

It’s broken into iambic feet of two syllables with the emphasis on the second syllable (“da DUM”) strung together in sets of five (“penta-”), like so:

Da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM

And Shakespeare—being a total word nerd—almost exclusively followed this pattern for a whopping 884,647 words in 118,406 lines of plays and sonnets. No wonder the other kids kept beating him up on the playground and taking his lunch money.

But it ended up bringing a unifying lilt to everything he wrote:

But SOFT! What LIGHT through YONder WINDow BREAKS?

If MUsic BE the FRUIT of LOVE, play ON.

Two HOUSEholds, BOTH aLIKE in DIGniTY.

Of course, Shakespeare—being the talentless, no-future hack that he was—didn’t always nail it. Some lines ended up with extra syllables:

To BE, or NOT to BE: that IS the QUES(tion)

And some ended up playing fast and loose with standard cadences and speech patterns:

Friends, ROmans, COUNtry MEN, lend ME your EARS.

But it’s the occasional fast-and-loose line that prevents his dialogue from getting sing-songy and that gives his actors room to breathe and bring natural inflections and interpretations to their lines.

For those of you looking to pad your trivia-night knowledge base, iambic pentameter is part of a wide and diverse meter family. Here are just a few of its siblings and their weird feet:

FEET:
Iambic: da DUM
Trochaic: DA dum
Anapestic: da da DUM

METERS:
Trimeter: three iambic/trochaic/etc feet
Tetrameter: four iambic/trochaic/etc feet
Pentameter: five iambic/trochaic/etc feet

Now pair them up any way you like and write poetry like a sixteenth-century badass. Or don’t. This won’t be on the test.


INTELLECTUAL ICONS IN PUFFY PANTS AND POINTY LEATHER BOOTS

Here are some CV basics about every local celebrity mentioned in our opening number, in the order their appear:

Francis Bacon (1561–1626): English philosopher, statesman (under the name Lord Verulam) and scientist. Considered the father of empiricism—a scientific philosophy that emphasizes sensory experience and evidence (often derived from experiments) over intuition, skepticism or rational thinking—he became a martyr to his own scientific method when he stuffed a dead chicken with snow to see if freezing temperatures could preserve the meat and in the process he developed fatal pneumonia from his prolonged exposure to the cold.

Sir Walter Raleigh (c. 1552–1618): English statesman, soldier, writer and explorer. With Queen Elizabeth’s patronage, he commissioned and financed expeditions to what is now North America and helped establish the Roanoke colony that soon disappeared under mysterious—and still not definitively resolved—circumstances. Raleigh never personally set foot on the continent, but he did bring potatoes and tobacco to England from what is now South America. In 1617, Raleigh violated a Spanish peace treaty in his search for the mythical “City of Gold” riches of the mythical city of El Dorado in present-day Venezuela, for which he was imprisoned and eventually beheaded by King James.

Thomas Dekker (1572–1632): English writer, dramatist and pamphleteer. He was known primarily for the lively descriptions of English life he published in pamphlets, which were unbound booklets circulated to spread humor, op-ed commentary and political propaganda. While he was also a prolific playwright, he was not regarded as worthy of the pantheon of masters like Shakespeare, Johnson, Marlowe and Middleton. Heck—he wasn’t even regarded as worthy of getting a first name in our lyrics.

John Webster (c. 1578–c. 1632): English dramatist. While he collaborated with many leading playwrights, he is best known for his intricate, subtle, brooding tragedies. The two most famous of these tragedies—The White Devil and The Duchess of Malfi—are still studied, revered and performed to this day.

Ben Johnson (1572–1637): English playwright, satirist and poet. Generally regarded as the second most important dramatist after William Shakespeare, he popularized the character-driven comedy-of-humors genre that directly combatted Shakespeare’s signature emotion-, adventure- and fate-driven romantic-comedy genre. Though intellectual rivals in writing style and worldview, Johnson and Shakespeare had great respect for each other and Johnson called Shakespeare the “Sweet Swan of Avon” in tribute of the publication of the First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays seven years after his death.

Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593): Arguably the most famous of the Elizabethan playwrights and poets outside of Shakespeare. The first English author to receive critical fame using blank verse—unrhymed poetry written in a consistent meter and thought to more closely mimic natural human speech and inflections—Marlowe had a profound influence on Shakespeare, who quoted his work and referenced his existence in Antony and Cleopatra, The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, Macbeth and many other plays. Marlowe died relatively young (age 39) under mysterious circumstances variously attributed to a violent bar fight, blasphemous libel against the church, homosexual intrigue, betrayal by another playwright and assassination due to espionage.

Thomas Kyd (1558–1594): English playwright. His play The Spanish Tragedy (along with a Hamlet precursor often attributed to him) created the Elizabethan revenge-play genre. The genre established tropes like the vengeful ghost and the play-within-a-play used to trap a murderer, both of which drive narratives in Shakespeare’s Hamlet and some of his later works.

Thomas Middleton (1580–1627): English poet and one of the most successful and prolific playwrights of the Jacobean period, which immediately followed the Renaissance. Named for King James I and marked by intense conflicts and threats of civil wars between Protestant and Catholic states, the Jacobean era saw a literary focus on tragedy, revenge, cynicism, satire and human evil. Though Middleton was skilled in writing across all genres, he wrote something literally called The Revenger’s Tragedy and he may have collaborated with Shakespeare on Timon of Athens, Macbeth and All’s Well that Ends Well.

Thomas Moore (1478–1535): English author, lawyer, judge, philosopher, statesman and humanist. Eventually declared the patron saint of statesmen and politicians, his staunch Catholicism made him a vociferous opponent of the Protestant Reformation, the theology of Martin Luther and Henry VII’s separation from the church to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. After refusing to take the Oath of Supremacy to Henry VIII—which was required of everyone taking public or church office—he was executed for treason.

William Shakespeare (1564–1616): Hack “writer” and total nobody who’s completely lost to the ages. If he even existed, he’d probably be one of those obsessive fans of Cats. It’s silly to even include him in this list. God, let’s hate him.


IT’S HARD TO BE THE BARD

But it’s easy to tell you what a bard is. Or was.

Outside of Shakespeare hogging the bardness title to himself for all eternity, a bard in the traditional Renaissance sense was one or any combination of the following:
  • A poet
  • Someone who recites poetry to an audience (poetry readings were a popular form of entertainment back in the days before Golden Girls reruns)
  • A writer, composer, singer or orator who recounts epic tales or impassioned narratives using lyrical, poetic language
“Bard” isn’t a formal title; it’s more of a descriptor for an avocation, like pianist or painter or gymnast or cat lady. It comes from a pre-Renaissance Celtic tradition where a wealthy patron would hire someone to tell stories, compose music and lyrics, act as an oral historian and genealogist, and generally shower the patron with praise for his sophistication and benevolence.

By the late English Renaissance, a bard did what Shakespeare and Nick and Nigel Bottom were doing: writing poetry and epic narratives about kings and supernatural beings and good-cholesterol breakfast comestibles.

But Shakespeare wasn’t called The Bard—at least not in a way that took in the public vernacular—until 150 years after his death. The designation is attributed to David Garrick, an English actor, playwright, poet and theater owner, in a 1769 poem he wrote about Shakespeare.

So when Nick Bottom complains about Shakespeare being called The Bard in our merry little play, it’s a bit of an anachronism—but thankfully it’s the only anachronistic cultural reference in our entire show.


A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

Many—but not all—characters in the Somethingrottenverse share names with characters in Shakespeare’s plays. Here’s some background (or not) on the more prominent folks:

Bea: A feisty, sharp-witted protofeminist (full name: Beatrice) in Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice is tricked into falling in love with a soldier named Benedick, with whom she has a will-they-or-won’t-they “merry war.” (Spoiler alert: they do.)

Nigel: The only principal character in Something Rotten! not based on a character from a Shakespeare play. To add insult to injury, Nigel had a brilliant song called “I Suck” that was cut from the show before it got to Broadway.

Portia: A wealthy heiress in The Merchant of Venice. Written as a wise woman ostensibly modeled after Queen Elizabeth I, Portia disguises herself as a lawyer to circumvent the lottery her father established in his will to find her a husband.

Shylock: A greedy Jewish moneylender in The Merchant of Venice. Characterized with rather appalling stereotypes from our modern perspective, he contractually establishes—and tries to literally collect—”a pound of flesh” as payment on a defaulted loan to a Christian. Even more appallingly, his “redemption” arc ends with his conversion to Christianity at the end of the play.

Lord Clapham: The only prominent supporting character in Something Rotten! not based on a character from a Shakespeare play. But he’s happy and he knows it, so clap your hams.

Toby Belch: The pseudonym Shakespeare uses when he infiltrates Nick Bottom’s acting troupe, Sir Toby Belch is originally ingénue Olivia’s boisterous drunk uncle in Twelfth Night. Though he mostly provides comic relief and a few insightful observations throughout the narrative of the play, he also exhibits a cruel streak toward some of the more vulnerable characters.


AWW, SHE’S BEDAZZLED!

Shakespeare isn’t kidding at his party when he brags about making up words. Of the 20,000 words in his plays and poems, he invented more than 1,700 that are still in use today. Here’s an alphabetical sample, except for a sample for X because Elon Musk hadn’t been invented yet:

Alligator: Romeo and Juliet, Act 5 Scene 1

Bedroom:  A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2 Scene 2

Critic: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 3 Scene 1

Downstairs: Henry IV Part 1, Act 2 Scene 4

Eyeball: Henry VI Part 1, Act 4 Scene 7

Fashionable: Troilus and Cressida, Act 3 Scene 3

Gossip: The Comedy of Errors, Act 5 Scene 1

Hurry: The Comedy of Errors, Act 5 Scene 1

Inaudible: All's Well That Ends Well, Act 5 Scene 3

Jaded: Henry VI Part 2, Act 4 Scene 1

Kissing: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 5 Scene 2

Lonely: Coriolanus, Act 4 Scene 1

Manager: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 1 Scene 2

Nervy: Coriolanus, Act 2 Scene 1

Obscene: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 1 Scene 1

Puppy dog: King John, Act 2 Scene 1

Questioning: As You Like It, Act 5 Scene 4

Rant: Hamlet, Act 5 Scene 1

Skim milk: Henry IV Part 1, Act 2 Scene 3

Traditional: Richard III, Act 3 Scene 1

Undress: The Taming of the Shrew, Induction Scene 2

Varied: Titus Andronicus, Act 3 Scene 1

Worthless: The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 4 Scene 2

Yelping: Henry VI Part 1, Act 4 Scene 2

Zany: Love's Labour's Lost, Act 5 Scene 2


THOMAS NOSTRADAMUS? I PROMISE!

Michel de Nostredame (1503–1566), usually Latinized as Nostradamus, was a French astrologer, apothecary and reputed soothsayer who is best known for his 1555 book Les Prophéties, a collection of 942 poetic quatrains—none of which involved the discussion of gyrating one’s ass—allegedly predicting future events.

Les Prophéties was by no definition a work of scholarly merit; it was filled with anagrams and references to mythology and astrology, and it very vaguely predicted (inevitable) natural disasters (Beware! It will rain someday in the future!). And Nostradamus wrote it in his own hybrid of French, Greek and Latin—most likely to stay vague enough to avoid being persecuted for heresy during the Holy Inquisition.

Soothsayers, seers and oracles—a list that is objectively more fun to say than “lions, tigers and bears”—were people (or sometimes just things) revered for their ability (?) not only to predict the future but to provide insight and counsel to everyone from royalty to lazy playwrights with giggly last names. Their powers (?) were said to come from both deities and the occult. And they were almost never named Greg.

You’ve probably already figured this out, but since the real Nostradamus died 29 years before the events of our merry little play, the Something Rotten! writers invented his ass-gyrating nephew Thomas to help drive our narrative. You might say they tapped him for the job. But please don’t. Nobody should ever say that.


THE MOST LAMENTABLE COMEDY

The men in Nick Bottom’s terrible acting troupe are named for the men in a terrible acting troupe made up of menial laborers from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In Midsummer, the troupe barely holds it together enough to very poorly perform a version of a Greek tragedy they call The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe at a wedding celebration. Here’s a bit about each of them:

Francis Flute: A young, over-excited actor and a bellows-mender by trade, Francis Flute is forced to play the female role of Thisbe, who talks to her lover Pyramus (played by Nick Bottom) through a gap in a wall.

Tom Snout: A tinker (a name for a tinsmith) by trade, Tom Snout plays the aforementioned wall, holding two fingers of one hand open to be the aforementioned gap. He even has two lines as The Wall.

Peter Quince: An amateur playwright, Peter Quince is the author of The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisbe. He and the troupe perform it at a wedding celebration for Theseus (the Duke of Athens) and Hyppolyta (the Queen of the Amazons).

Snug: A joiner who literally joins wood for a living, Snug plays a lion who indirectly causes the deaths of Pyramus and Thisbe. Though The Lion was only supposed to roar, Snug was worried he’d forget his lines. In the end, Peter Quince gave The Lion a few lines explaining that he’s not a real lion so the audience shouldn’t be scared of him.

Robin Starveling: A tailor by trade, Robin Starveling plays the role of Moonshine in the play. He makes a fool of himself using a lantern to create moonlight, and he’s thoroughly derided by the audience for it.

BONUS CHARACTER!
Sir John Falstaff:
In our play, Shakespeare calls the Master of the Justice “Lord Falstaff.” It’s not a withering insult, but it’s not necessarily a compliment either. Falstaff was actually a recurring character in three of Shakespeare’s plays: Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2 and The Merry Wives of Windsor, and Shakespeare eventually killed him off with casual mention in Henry V. (All four plays were written after the events of our narrative, so it could be said that Shakespeare invented the character in our courtroom.)

Falstaff was mostly a comic figure: a vain, boastful drinker who hung out with petty criminals and lived off of stolen money. While he certainly led people into trouble, he’s generally regarded as being a jolly, debauched figure, and he’s lived on in other works by Giuseppi Verdi, Ralph Vaughn Williams, Edward Elgar (whom you know for writing Pomp and Circumstance) and even Kenneth Branagh.


THE STUPIDEST THING THAT I HAVE EVER HEARD!

The characters in our merry little play break into song in two separate worlds: the one they live in and the one they create onstage.

And there’s a very cool—and rarely useful—word for the world-they-live-in singing: diegesis (say it: die a JEE sis)

Diegetic (say it: die a JET ik) songs are songs sung between characters who in the backs of their minds keep wondering WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING? The songs in almost all musicals are diegetic—or, more specifically, the songs that characters sing to each other are diegetic. The songs that characters sing to themselves or about themselves to the audience are diegetic-adjacent, which is objectively a terrible name for a puppy.

On the flip side, songs in a show that are sung as performances by the characters in the show are mimetic (say it: meh MET ik).

Memesis (say it: meh MEE sis) has a number of contextual meanings in theater—and a bunch more in the various disciplines of science—but for the sake of this already-too-long explanation, they’re play-within-a-play or stage-upon-a-stage songs performed for a scripted audience.

So in our merry little play, “God, I Hate Shakespeare” and “A Musical” are diegetic because the characters sing them to each other instead of talking like normal people. And “The Black Death” and “Omelette” are memetic because they’re being intentionally performed.

“Bottom’s Gonna Be on Top” and “Hard to Be the Bard” are the aforementioned diegetic-adjacent soliloquies that the characters sing to themselves or directly to the audience. And “To Thine Own Self be True” and “We See the Light” muddy the diegetic-adjacent waters even further because it’s not always 100% clear to whom they’re specifically being sung.

Finally: If your cholesterol’s high, you’re probably diegetic. Or not. In either case, you should definitely get it checked out.


NOTHING RHYMES WITH AMERICA!

What did the Bottom brothers and their merry band of misfits encounter when they reached the New World?

Our narrative takes place entirely in 1595 and the average transatlantic travel at the time took two months, so it’s safe to assume Nick et al. had arrived on the first ship to the New World by 1596.

But Hamlet was written between 1599 and 1601 and transatlantic travel wasn’t a terribly regular occurrence at the time, so let’s assume word of the play’s success wouldn’t have reached the New World until 1602.

Sir Walter Raleigh had founded the Roanoke Colony in what is now North Carolina in 1585. Virginia Dare, the first known English child born on the North American continent, was born in 1587. But the Roanoke Colony disappeared under mysterious and never yet fully resolved circumstances in 1590. So it’s safe to say there wasn’t much of an English-expat welcoming party—or even an audience—for the brothers and their epic tale of leaving Cornwall when they arrived.

Kinda-lost-to-history explorer and privateer Bartholomew Gosnold was the first Englishman to land on the New England coast—exploring and naming Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard—in 1602. But if he was the first person (and potential audience member) in the area, it’s unlikely that the Bottoms were in their dressing rooms waiting for anyone to call places as soon as their New England house was full.

Another Bartholomew—Bartholomew Gilbert—landed in the Chesapeake Bay in 1603, but he was killed by Native Americans as soon as he came ashore. And his season tickets were probably non-refundable, so his seats sat empty during any possible performances.

BUT! The American social landscape wasn’t completely barren. There were Native American settlements all along the Atlantic coast—though their insatiable hunger for ponderous, derivative musicals about British perseverance in the Renaissance was debatable.

BUT AGAIN! All was not lost. The Pilgrims arrived in what is now Plymouth, Massachusetts, in 1620. An offshoot of the Puritans—their main difference involved the Pilgrims’ belief in some degree of separation between church and state—the Pilgrims’ hunger for bawdy musical theater was also dubious. But I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for sure.

A pilgrim is just a person who journeys—and the Mayflower Pilgrims arrived two decades after the Bottoms—so history is very unclear about who might have been on Shylock’s Pilgrim Productions Board of Directors.

In any case, our adventures at Theatre Cedar Rapids come to a close today, just as the Bottoms’ adventures in England eventually came to a close in 1595. And I’m gonna put a stake in the ground and say we had waaaay better—and more attractive—American audiences.

Land of opportunity indeed!

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