Shadow and Bone & Siege and Storm: A Sexy Kick-Ass YA Twofer

A friend* sent me both these books, the first in Bardugo's Grisha Trilogy. I was more than a little over the whole "YA heroine in a dystopian world finds her inner strength and also there's a love trilogy and also Jennifer Lawrence could totally play her in the movie" - you know, that old chestnut. But I'm a sucker for a book with a map in the beginning, and a killer session with Rasputin by Boney M in Just Dance 2 had just gotten me a new high score, so I was open to a story set in an alternate reality best described as Tsarist Russia + witches. And lo -  I was rewarded. 

What I love about this series is that it's dark as shiiiiit. So much YA fiction doesn't have teeth (It took Harry Potter four books before a kid died - where's the fun in that?). Bardugo's Ravka is a messed up land ruled by a milquetoast King and a sexy and mysterious Grisha (basically a wizaaaaaard but sexier? Like, Manganiello stubble instead of a long grey beard? You got it) called the Darkling.  There's a literal rift across the country, in the form of the Unsea, an area of permanent darkness and man-eating monsters; and a metaphorical one, between the powerful Grisha army and the rest of the population, who both need & fear the Grishas' power. Enter the heroine, Alina Starkov. And yes, she's great and written with depth - but The Darkling is the star here, people. So much so that my only criticism is that the books lose some oomph when the story strays too far from the powerful commander-in-chief and his murky motives. 

I read both books in a weekend. I want more. Also CAPES, can capes come back in style? There are mad capes in these books.

In conclusion: Hunger Games? More like HUNGER LAMES. Books 1 & 2 of the Grisha trilogy: 4 dramatic cape swishes out of 5. 

*the friend works for MacMillan, who published these books. Thanks Claire! I need to disclose that? To the 20 people who read this blog? MOM I MADE IT I GOT A FREE BOOK! 

The Walking

I have a love/hate relationship with horror novels.  When a book is so unsettling that you change your movements in the physical world, that’s love:  when you have to jerk your foot up onto the bed so nothing grabs it, when you have to look over your shoulder, when you have to put the book in the freezer.  I feel like novelists who can produce those moments are some of our greatest talents – as opposed to the movies, when a jump scare is enough to get the blood pumping, readers need to be crept up on and slowly worked into unsettling paranoia. Sadly, a lot of horror novelists lean more toward the cheap thrills of B-list horror cinema than the sublime creepiness of a well-crafted spooky story. I hate feeling like I just waded through a schlocky soup of blood & guts – pages of gory, cartoonish description might put my off my lunch slightly, but they aren’t really scary.  

Bentley Little, according to this story of mysterious deaths ( and even more mysterious posthumous behavior), falls in the middle of the spectrum. There were some unsettling passages and creative visuals, but the cheesy gore seemed to drive the plot, instead of punctuate it. And, speaking of plot, it’s never a good sign when, in an effort to illuminate the twists & turns of the story, one of the characters has to say “sometimes there just isn’t an explanation.” NO. TRY AGAIN. That’s not even a Deus Ex Machina, that’s…a Deus Ex Quicquid. Stephen King, don't you ever betray me with a cover quote like that again. Throwing some side-eye at you too, ghost of Bram Stoker.

In sum: I did not put this book in the freezer. I kept it on my nightstand and slept soundly and restfully with my limbs splayed over the edge of the bed & the window wide open. Horror fail. 

2 overly-gratuitous Saw sequels out of 5 (I heard the first one is pretty good but I can’t see it – too scary!) 

Just Kids

If this book had a smell, it would be beer, piss, sweat, charcoal dust, and that musty thrift-store clothing odor. I’m sure certain people would also add “pretension” to that list, but I never got that vibe from Patti Smith’s memoir of her time spent in late 60s/70s NYC with Robert Mapplethorpe.  Sure, if Paris Hilton wrote “The artist seeks contact with his intuitive sense of the gods, but in order to create his work, he cannot stay in this seductive and incorporeal realm,” I’d be rolling my eyes with the best of them and looking forward to the inevitable reading by James Lipton on Conan. But pretension can’t exist if you have the chops to back it up, and I’d make the argument that Patti Smith, the Godmother of Punk, has got some fierce chops.

Besides, the memoir is really a love letter to Mapplethorpe and to the gritty New York City I can barely imagine. Hustling on 42^nd street, rooming with junkies at the Hotel Allerton, shoplifting raw steaks...it all has a seedy glamour* when seen through the lens of Smith & Mapplethorpe’s complicated relationship. Sometimes lovers, always friends, and often muses for each other, they navigated the city and its art scene together. The intimacy, warmth, and affection that comes through in Smith’s writing is powerful enough – take away Warhol, Hendrix, Max’s Kansas City, Joni Mitchell, CBGB’s; even the protagonists' eventual fame & fortune, and it’s still a worthwhile read. Actually, it would have been more interesting if both of them had grown up, moved to suburbia, become tax attorneys, and gotten together occasionally to reminisce about their wild youth over a glass of Pinot. Oh well - sometimes people grow up to be rock stars.

4 androgynous haircuts out of 5.

*A seedy glamour I am happy to appreciate from afar: I hate having dirty feet & I’m terrified of bedbugs, so I’m fairly content with the sanitized version of NYC that exists today.