SUMMER READING Part Two

Before we launch back into Part 2 of Leanne's Summer Reading Series...as promised...although much much much delayed...

A 2010 Cannes Fashion Retrospective

One of those useless Victoria's Secret models that thinks transitioning from laying around in your bra and underwear to having a two line speaking part as "random bitchy girl at the party" in Party Scene 12 in a teen movie makes you a "real actress." Humph. But I do like her pants suit.

I love Princess Cate. But, I dunno. It's the color I think. Because the cut of this is fantastic. But the color and the makeup and the hair...for me, it's "Designing Women."

Another terrible make-up job (is it make-up artists in France?). And more of this pale pink. But this I like more.

I LOVE Kirstin Dunst. I know. I know. You hate her. And that's completely understandable. But I love the Virgin Suicides, and I love her in it. And I love Little Women. And I hate Amy. And Kirstin makes you hate Amy even more. Which is good. It's how it should be. Amy's a little shit, after all. So try not to be too hard on poor Keeks. This is the best she's looked in a while. Beautiful.

On anyone else, this would be a disaster. No, it's not something I would choose, but she owns it. And that's what it's all about.

I have no fucking clue who this is. But I like her dress for about two seconds before I start realizing it's tacky and ugly...but it's shiny and colorful and, like a fish or a barracuda, I gravitate towards the blingy thingy before realizing I'm wrong and the situation suddenly sucks.

Okay enough of that low-brow fashion tripe. Onward, Upward into the Ivory Tower of Book-dom (Hey Shelbs...is that GOOP-y enough for ya!)

The Thirteenth Tale Diane Setterfield

The other day, I wrote about wanting to fall in love. About once or twice a year, I fall head-over-heels, maddeningly, obsessively in love with a book. This is one of those books. It is my favorite summer book thus far. Probably favorite book this calendar year to be perfectly honest. I am in love with The Thirteenth Tale.

Which only makes sense. Because the book, while it is about a lot of things, is mainly a love letter to reading itself. It's a siren call to stories: the ones we read, the ones we tell each other, and the ones we tell ourselves. And, although there are infinite numbers of books that deal with this meta-fictive "reader as story teller as reader" Mobius strip, The Thirteenth Tale never feels trite.

That's probably because the writing is so beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. There are passages that will knock the wind out of your chest and make the tips of your fingers buzz.

And the story moves. It's engrossing. And gothic. And twisty-turn-y but not in the contrived Dan Brown way.

This is an elegant book.

(And...it's Setterfield's first novel. Her. First. Novel. sigh.)

The Historian Elizabeth Kostova

Unless I'm wrong, I think Kostova's The Historian is another Herculian "First Book." She has since written The Swan Thieves which just came out which I haven't read, but I'm pretty sure this is her only other book.

I bet Stephanie Myers finished this book and then went to Kroger and bought out their supply of Chunky Monkey ice-cream before going on a five day calorie bender. Because THIS is how you write a fucking vampire novel.

Before you click away, however, let me tell you this. It's not a Vampire novel with a capital "V." It's historical fiction. It's about Vlad the Impaler who was a very very real person. He was the son of Lord Dracule (which just basically means Dragon in Romanian) and is the man who inspired the fictive Dracula of Bram Stoker's imagination. See? No sparkle penis's, or naked boy wolves, or people referring to each other add nauseum as "my love" "my soul" or other Twi-speak barf.

It's thick as a brick and will take you forever to get through. Unless you can't put it down. It's a fun summer beach read. And it will make you look a lot more interesting than the woman in the beach chair next to you with her copy of "Shopoholics and the City Forever."

So there you have it. My Summer Reading List.

But, I'm curious...what are you reading? What are you liking? What are you Loving?

And thanks to E for her submissions in the comments section of Part One's post. David is actually reading Bonk right now. He really likes it. Except he keeps telling people he's reading this great book called Donk, which I think makes them feel weird inside.

Love!

SUMMER READING MASTER POST: PART 1/2*

*Part 2 will post shortly following this one. Book reviews are always long-ish, and I've also farmed some of them out. And thanks for being patient; I know it's been a while.

Summer Reading lists are everywhere.

NPR, The New York Times, USA Today, The Washington Post, The Boston Herald, Barnes and Noble, Oprah.

You can't get past the first week in June without seeing what feels like 8 million "Must Read Summer Reads." Sometimes, the lists are good. But sometimes, it's just a collection of Jennifer Weiner or Jody Piccoult novels for women who want to attempt to read on a beach after 8 mojito margaritas. Which is fine. That's probably the only way to get through and understand a Jody Piccoult novel anyway.

For me, I like a little bit more coherence for my summer reads. But, I'll be honest, I also don't want to read Edwig Danticat or whatever else Oprah is trying to tell me will "level" me and change my life. Not over the summer anyway.

In the summer, I want to fall in love. And lately, I've been lucky. Because there are several books (most not about love) that have perfectly fit my summer literary longings. This, of course, means they might not suit yours. Which is why I want to trade. I'll tell you mine, you tell me yours. Will be summer book swingers on the quest for the perfect fling. But I have to warn you. Because, sometimes what starts out as a fling becomes a deep, maddening love.

The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

It was 1 of the 5 finalist this year for the Man Booker Prize which, if you don't know, is basically the British Pulitzer. It's a big, big deal. And the fact that The Little Stranger was a finalist is an even bigger deal. Because it's definitely NOT an Oprah Book. Or even a Man Booker book in the traditional sense. Because it's not some geo-political, post-post modern, New Yorker type tripe.

It is a thick as a brick, Victorian style, claustrophobic, absorbing, obsessive, possessive novel. Be warned now: This book will OWN you. And I mean this in a good and a bad way. Because, honestly, for about the first 200 pages, it's slow. Not a lot happens. But, for some weird reason, you can't abandon it entirely.

Full disclosure: I can leave books. No, really. I can start and then NEVER finish a book. If it loses me, it loses me. Sorry. I love reading more than 99.9% of the population, but life's too short to read all the good books out there, so if something isn't working, I move on. There are too many other treasures waiting.

Which is why my first few days with The Little Stranger were just so...well...strange. I wasn't absorbed, and yet I couldn't pull the plug. It had gotten inside me somehow in an uncomfortable "It is my duty to see this through" kind of way. And then I got to "the event." You never see it coming. Ever. But the book turns. It pulls the rug out from under you in an all too believable and engrossing way. And then...well...you're done. You realize that the book owns you from then on. (As if it didn't really all along.)

What follows is a brief publisher's synopsis. But my two cents: Just go buy it. Now. And don't give me lip about it still being in Hardback. Use a Border's coupon or buy a used copy offline. The Little Stranger has earned your money.

The Little Stranger follows the strange adventures of Dr. Faraday, the son of a maid who has built a life of quiet respectability as a country doctor. One dusty postwar summer in his home of rural Warwickshire, he is called to a patient at Hundreds Hall. Home to the Ayres family for more than two centuries, the Georgian house, once grand and handsome, is now in decline—its masonry crumbling, its gardens choked with weeds, the clock in its stable yard permanently fixed at twenty to nine. But are the Ayreses haunted by something more ominous than a dying way of life? Little does Dr. Faraday know how closely, and how terrifyingly, their story is about to become entwined with his.

The Millennium Triology (The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest) Steig Larsson

I've already referenced this in an earlier post, so this review will be brief. But, at the time of the aforementioned post, I had yet to read the third and final installment. So, now having finished The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, I can tell you, firmly and unhesitatingly, that you should read the series.

I am a marquis sales skeptic. All those years of "classical" education and Faulkner and Proust have inevitably turned me into a detestable book snob. But I like Steig Larsson. And I like these books. And yes, they aren't great literature. But, really. Who cares? The stories are great. They move. They absorb. They are fruitful for discussion. You stay up all night finishing them and you think about them later. And, really, isn't that what Proust is supposed to do too? So, fuck off if you think you're too good for these novels. You probably shouldn't be reading this blog anyway.

For those of you who don't really know what the series is about, it's technically about a shadowy, anti-social, haunted girl named Lisbeth Salander and a hyper-active, amiable journalist-come-detective named Mikael Blomkvist. Over the course of the three novels, we see how they come together to solve the mystery of a friend, only to be lead into the mystery of Lisbeth's past. But, really, that's not what they're about. If I had to condense it down, I would say the trilogy is ultimately about "social justice". Is social justice ever possible? Really? Because, ultimately, how do you measure it? Who dispenses it? And is it possible to maintain your morality in the face of the injustice the starts it all in the first place?

What would Lisbeth Salander say?

The Magicians Lev Grossman

His name really fucks up my shit. I mean, it is one letter away from being Les Grossman, who, if you've been living under a rock, is this guy.

Also known as Tom Cruise. Les Grossman is his character from Tropic Thunder that got him that Golden Globe nomination. So yeah, Lev Grossman the author of The Magicians has a problematic name. Word to the wise, Lev: pseudonym.

Turning to The Magicians, I am not really sure how to feel. Because I'm not in love. Not at all. But I'm not repulsed either. It's more tepid than either of those emotions.

The best way I can explain it is this. Think back to being 17. You've moved past feeling attracted to Tiger Beat teen idols and are suddenly conscious, all the time, everywhere you go, of Men. Like, you find yourself out to a nice dinner with your parents and you see but don't really notice the floppy haired boy from the rival high school sauntering in with his Chuck Taylors and shit eating grin. Instead you are fixated on the guy in the corner. He's maybe 35 and is wearing a non-descript but crisp white business suit, talking quietly into his cell phone while he scribbles something adult and important on a napkin. Then, he clicks his phone shut just before getting up to hug the tall slender woman in the red dress who is late, and as they sit down, before he hands her the wine list, his fingertips kind of graze the outside edge of her hip. It's nothing really. This gesture is not inappropriate in any real way, and she probably barely registers it at all, but for you, it's like the single most erotic thing you've ever seen in your life and all you can do for the rest of dinner is sit sulkily across from your parents and watch that man out of the corner of your eye while you burn up inside. Then, the next day, you're at the beach and the same boy with the Chuck Taylor's who was also there at the restaurant comes up and talks to you and says he saw you last night and don't you have some of the same friends? You kind of remember him, but he's nothing compared to the man in the white shirt. But he's here and you're at the beach, and he wears Chuck Taylors which is a good sign, and he is really cute in the truest sense of the word. So you give it a go.

This is how I feel about The Magicians. Not that The Magicians is a cute book. It definitely is NOT. It's basically a book about the dark under belly of magic and magical worlds. It's what Harry Potter and Narnia would be if they were infected with all the problems of 21st century American greed, mal-content, and post adolescent angst. It's the anti-Narnia then. But for all it's attempts at philosophizing and maturing the "supernatural young adult genre," it still feels juvenile. The writing feels, at times, pre-pubescent. Don't get me wrong. It's not a Bad Read. There's a lot of good stuff here. It is worth a day or two of your time. But that's about it. Because, at the end of the day, it's a bit too precocious for it's own good. It tries to be just a tad more grown up than it is. It's a little like the boy in the Chuck Taylors.

A month.

It has been a month since I have blogged. Sick. Apologies.

So much has happened in a month. The Cannes Film Festival came and went and I didn't utter a word. I regret this. Because now, there's just no way I can go back and re-tread all that ground. But be assured...there was some spectacular fashion. Of both types. Good and bad. Maybe, in order to make up for lost time, I'll try to post a pic or two from Cannes at the bottom of each post as an attempt at re-capping. Okay, that sounds good.

As for the films at Cannes...well, we'll know which ones are actually "good" around December. Because that's when they'll hit theaters State-side.

And, although I usually cover the MTV Movie Awards, I didn't this year. But, unlike Cannes, I feel no guilt for not bringing you up to speed. Because they were awful. Please just trust me when I tell you they were not worth my time then and they certainly aren't worth my time now. Like, you know it's bad when my fellow culture critic (my dearest Alice...check her site "In Wonderland") could only comment on the adorable Tom Felton's un-adorable V-neck shirt.

Bland. Boring. Lame. These are the words that now describe the MTV Movie Awards. The same awards show that used to be notorious for it's shock value and salaciousness is only deserving of our pity. Embarassing.

This is why I am choosing to live in the now. And what's happening right now is World Cup. I am about to collapse from anticipation. And, just so you know, I'm cheering for England.

That's right mother-fuckers. Go ahead. Give me your best shot. Call me what you will. Call me un-American. Submit me to some fucking goverment anit-patriotism watch-list. My secret agent dad will just take me right off it anyway.

Because what you don't understand is that pre 2006, I could've given a rats ass about Soccer. Totally didn't know and didn't care. And then I moved to England. And it was the Year of the Cup. And England got killed in the World Cup. And it didn't matter. I was hooked. I fucking loved it. I loved the game. I loved watching England play the game. I loved watching the WAG's and their High Street Tans and Chav hair in the stands. So they are my team. Deal with it. If America beats them on Saturday, of course I'll cheer for the U.S. But the U.S. will lose. And England could go far (don't worry, they won't win it all. Idiots.)

Point is...World Cup is all I will be doing for the next month. That and going to see the new A-Team movie so I can decide if I like Bradely Cooper or not. I'm betting on not. Esepcially since he's up against Liam Neeson who is definitely hotter.

That's enough for now I guess. But it's good to be back. And I'll be blogging often for the next bit. Up next is book chat. Because I have read some awesome stuff lately that I want to share. And I want you to share with me as well.

But for now, here's my girfriend at Cannes. It really always starts and ends with her. Her style sense just can't be beat. Show me someone who's consistently better and I'll root against England.

At the airport

Hours later at Karl Lagerfeld's

The next day

Closing Ceremony day

and night

A few of you have been asking for my opinion after seeing Iron Man 2.

I mean, it was really, really funny. Way better jokes than Iron Man for sure. But a better movie? No.

The best part of Number 2 (besides Bob): Sam Rockwell as Justin Hammer.

He took that shit to the mother-fucking cleaners. Amazing acting. Every time he came on screen, my underboob got sweaty with anticipation. "What will he say next?" "Holy shit, he just made a Ulysses joke. Sucessfully."

Sigh.

Worst part: Scarlett.

Really, it's been a year tomorrow (and yes, there will be another post...apologies), and still when I speak, some of you choose not to listen. She's not a good actor.

I will repeat the statement. She's NOT a good actor. I don't care if you liked "Lost in Translation." Thank Sophia Coppola for writing a good movie. And realize Scarjo didn't do shit but say the lines.

And as Black Widow in Iron Man 2? Please. Are you fucking kidding me? She was terrible. lifeless. Beyond flat.

But here's the real point I want to make with this post. So,

LISTEN UP BITCHES!

(I rarely get serious on this site, but what I'm about to say in a rare example of me being sincere.)

You want to know what really pisses me off the most about ScarJo?

The public's perception of her body.

Let me clarify some things right now: I love fashion. I love clothes. And because of this, some of you will think I'm being hypocritical. But, believe it or not, I do live in the real world. And while I have and will continue to post pictures of women wearing pretty things on this site, please know that I "get it."

Allow me to explain. To a certain extent, it is totally fine to look at what women wear. FUN CLOTHING IS FOR EVERY SIZE and no one should feel ashamed to wear what they want. I firmly believe this. However, I also know that the fetishization of fashion is problematic. Because, you can't look at clothes without looking at the bodies underneath them. And most of those bodies are smaller than you even realize. But this is where a little pop education can help.

So here it goes...my one and only personal post.

I'm 5'2 with breasts and body dysmorphia. Therefore, I am hyper-sensitive to the representation of women's bodies in the media. Because it is honestly disgusting.

I will say this now. Scarlett Johansson is beautiful. Beyond gorgeous. But for all of you out there who think she's "A Real Woman" with "Real Woman Curves," it's time for you to GET A FUCKING CLUE.

Because, I've met Scarlett in person. And I've done the research. And guess what? She's skinny.

I will repeat that for you: She is SKINNY. Like, Skinny Bitch skinny. When I met her, she was THIN. I know, I was shocked. Because, like you, I had seen the "photos" of her looking all breasty. But, in case you were born yesterday, pictures lie.

Because, people DO look heavier on camera. But, there's photoshop to help things along. Photoshop can suck and shrink and then plump and pump where it needs to.

Point-and-case:

On the left is the Iron Man 2 Poster Image: On the right is a screen capture from the film.

Still don't believe me? You want the numbers game to prove it? Fine, I'll play if it'll get you all to wise up. I am 5'2 and currently weigh, on average, somewhere between 110-113 pounds. And I'm in shape. Like, probably the best cardio-strength shape I've been in since I was 18. And, as a result, I no longer have curves.

Scarjo is 5'3 (it's listed everywhere online) and weighs less than me. I will repeat. We are basically the same height and she weighs LESS THAN ME.

Look at the image above. That is her, in the film, WITH the extra 10 pounds the camera adds to a person. Can you imagine how thin and UN-curvy she is in person?!!!

So...wake up, people. Because those women you idolize...they are crazy when it comes to their bodies. They don't eat chips and salsa. They don't drink beer. Or eat cheese. They go to the gym twice a day for 2 hrs. They have colonics. And they are disgustingly thin.

So, Men.... next time you want to admire a woman for having a "real woman's" body, go have sex with your girlfriend.

And Women...know that I know. We all want to be thin. It's a struggle I face every day. But on those days when you haven't worked out in a month and you just ate a burger...look in the mirror and feel good about yourself. Go buy that dress you secretly love and want to wear. Because it's YOU who has the "real woman's" body, not ScarJo. Because she's just a fucking Hollywood Illusion.

I'll leave you with this. It's an un-photoshopped image of three models for one of those "women come in all sizes" issues. The woman ON THE LEFT is the "Super HoT, Super CuRvY" Victoria's Secret Model Alexandra Ambrossio. Yeah. That's the body of death. And those are A-Cup breasts.

And yet, this is the image of her you see in stores:

And, the coup-de-gras: Here's the "Final" cover picture for that magazine they were shooting. See how they've cleverly photoshopped out any major differences between the woman into One Homogonized Size 4.

Now, all the bodies are secretly the same but are being sold to you as "Different!"

And we wonder why we are a generation of disordered eaters.

Will you be lining up?

Because I will be lining up. In fact, if you're reading this and it's Thursday evening, then you know where to find me. Because I'm at the movie theater. Waiting in line for the Midnight showing of Iron Man 2.

I love midnight showings. Always have, always will. Because yes, you're tired, and yes, you have work the next morning, and sure you can see it later...but it won't feel the same. For all you Avatar advocates who got onto me about how movies are made to be "experienced," then you should be seeing all of your movies at 12AM. The crowds, the group anticipation, those people that show up in costume (!), the audience reactions and comments during the film...LOVE IT ALL!!!

And movies like Iron Man 2 are made to be seen at The Witching Hour.

Right now, the reviews are pretty good...it's a fun, fast, loud movie that you will love to watch. I don't really care if it's "as good as the first one." I don't care if "The Dark Knight was the best SEQUEL EVER." This isn't that. This is 2 and a half hours of Bob being charismatic and doing fun things with his pretty friends. To which I say...Sign. Me. Up.

(Spoiler Alert: This is a clip...not a trailer...ahem...you're welcome, David).

Speaking of pretty people....

The Met Costume Institute Gala was this week. And it was sooooo blah it made my eyes hurt. Seriously, I spent so long flicking through agency photos trying to find something that "changed my eye" in a good way. Nothing. Completely blank.

Because, at the Gala, it's not about "the prettiest column dress with the chiffon overlay in the most beautiful jewel tone"...BARF! NO. It's about what you DON'T see on every OTHER red carpet. It's about taking a mother fucking fashion risk!!!

So yeah...there were lots of absolutely gorgeous dresses. Any one of them would have kicked the shit out of 90% of the Oscar dresses from this past year. But there was also, like, no originality.

What's listed below is what I guess has to be called my favorites of the evening. Scratch that. I don't favor any of them. They are just the least of all evils. Yeah, that's what we'll call it.

Leanne's reluctant picks:

This pattern is great. But again, the whole "dress as Jackson Pollack art" thing has been done. (I do love Coco Rocha's facial expression though. She's such a loud and out bitch!)

Another loud and out with the facial expression to match. Love MIA's dress and fuck off face ensemble. (And can your new album come out sooner, please?)

And now...for the Cinderella Dress of Irony.

Love Zac Posen. Love that he chose the Gala to be a snarky bitch. Because this dress is hysterical. And he means it to be that way. Because, if you've been paying attention, more and more actresses have gotten into the bad habit of wearing these horrific Cinderella ball gowns to all the Hollywood events. Except they've been wearing them in earnest. So, Zac Posen decides to give the ladies what they want. And then laugh at their ignorance. LOVE LOVE LOVE. (Especially the woman in the foreground of this picture who is eyeing this dress with envy thinking, "Damn, I need one of those").

In terms of trends...(because every carpet has trends, even the Gala)...the colors were white and dark blue. White and dark blue EVERYWHERE.

Sienna had the best Dark Blue.

But, I'm also going to say that, although not really "fashion forward" in any way shape or form, Oprah Winfrey looked Wonderful. Like, I kind of gasped when I saw her. She just looks soooo pretty.

Finally...the Best White/Best Execution Award goes to my girlfriend.

And this will take some explaining because I know how some of you are. But listen to me. This is a HARD dress to wear. Like, about TWO people on the planet can pull this thing off. Because a dress this form fitting requires a great body. One that is perfectly fed and exercised. I mean it. Skinny Bitches can't wear this dress. You put it on an Olsen twin and it becomes a death shroud.

But on Diane, it fits every curve and yet doesn't look heavy, or like her skin is suffocating (because there is not a square inch of skin visible). Can you imagine how hot she must be? And yet she looks crisp, and clean and fresh. And her boobs don't look too saggy, but there also not riding up her chin. And she's rocking a center part in her hair, which again, not everyone can do (I most certainly Can NOT). So, yeah, on the surface the dress is pretty simple. But underneath, that is some serious sartorial execution. Well done, babe.

Other than that...it was kind of sad and uninspired. And there were some that were down right ugly. Click here for full re-cap.

I know it was a long one today, but I probably won't post again for a while. So, as a little parting gift, I'm leaving you with this.

This is for those of you who (somehow!) don't understand why Bob is #1...

please watch. It really is worth your time.

And if you won't then at least watch the first one: it's a clip from the show where he talks about meeting Susan. Susan is his wife. And he LOVES her. I mean looooovvvveesss her. Practically worships her.

And it's not a game, or for show. He really doesn't notice her ugly shirt or care that (although very pretty) she's not a super-model.

So fucking adorable. The American Bad-Ass meets and falls in love with the Un-interested High Powered Business Exec. (And for her side of the story, click over here. Precious.)

(You really should watch the whole thing).

I can't embed Part 2, but here's the link. It's where he talks about Chaplain for which he was Oscar nominated (It's especially interesting if you're interested in Acting. He talks about how he preps for stuff).