Titus Andronicus by William Shakespeare

Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true; witness my knife's sharp point.

So, apparently Titus Andronicus is pretty much universally considered Shakespeare’s worst play. Even Harold Bloom, Bard booster extraordinaire, says the play can’t be taken seriously, and must be read as satire if anything at all is to be gotten from it at all; other critics attack its extreme—sometimes comically so—violence; still others point to the less than nuanced characters, none of which are really worth cheering for, as the play’s biggest weakness. And, I have to admit, on one level, it’s hard to disagree. Apart from Aaron, who’s certainly one of the most despicable villains in all of Shakespeare, most of the players are notable mainly for the gruesome ways in which they die. There are no “Alas, poor Yorick” moments, the poetry is spare, and the genuine emotion is thin—I felt revulsion more strongly than anything else while reading Titus Andronicus.

So, the story: Titus is returning from battle, bearing with him Tamora, Queen of the Goths and her sons, one of which he commands to be mutilated, in spite of Tamora’s pleas for mercy. This act of butchery sets off the whole play, most of which is taken up with Tamora’s revenge, which she plans with Aaron, her Moorish lover, and Titus’s response. You know the drill; it’s a Shakespearean tragedy—everyone dies, pretty much.

The thing is, while the criticisms of Titus Andronicus are basically true, they don’t make it a bad play. For Shakespeare, the man who gave us Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, and scads of literature’s most famous characters, it’s definitely lower-tier. As an entertainment, though, it’s not bad. It’s grotesquely funny, fast-moving, and, as mentioned, Aaron is basically evil personified. It’s not going to change your life, but it’ll probably pass an afternoon, and, at the end (SPOILER) a mother’s sons are served to her in pies. Shakespeare knows pulp.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

"Katniss, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Gale.
"It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think."
"So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice," he says. "You know how to kill."
"Not people," I say.
"How different can it be, really?" says Gale grimly.
The awful thing is that if I can forget they're people, it will be no different at all.

Katniss Everdeen lives in District 12 of Panem, the dictatorship that rose from the ashes of the United States. The Capitol of Panem is surrounded by 12 districts, which it rules with an iron fist, a "fist" that obliterated the revolutionary District 13. District 12 mines coal, and seems to would no doubt at one time been called Apalachia. As a reminder of its power, the Capitol hold the annual Hunger Games. Two teenagers are chosen from each district to fight to the death in a place referred to as "the arena." The last man or woman standing gets to live out the rest of his or her life in relative luxury. Katniss little sister is chosen during this draft, but Katniss volunteers to go in her stead. The other teenager "reaped" from District 12 is Peeta Mellark, who has a bit of history with Katniss. Of course, this is someone who Katniss must view with a kill-or-be-killed mentality.

This book is equal parts: Running Man, Survivor, and Lord of the Flies, with just a dash of teenage romance. The relationship between Katniss, Peeta, and her "friend" from District 12, Gale fits into the YA fiction model. That is to say, it is not very interesting, nor noteworthy. The action that takes place within the arena, however, is worth mentioning. The book is incredibly violent. Blood is nearly its own character. Children are impaled, stung to death, and eaten alive -- not by other contestants, cannibalism is one of the few no-nos in the Hunger Games.

The novel reads quickly, in large part because there are no flourishes to Collins prose. It is fairly straight forward and to the point. Most of the plot moves rapidly, mimicking the pace of its characters as they attempt to outrun and outsmart each other. The second half slows down a bit, with Katniss trying to nurse Peeta back to health. I am sure that Collins was trying to make a statement about the effects of violence and war on children, but there was not enough psychological development of her characters for this to be effective. There were some minor plot points that I simply had to look over. For example, these "games" were supposedly televised to the entire country of Panem, but at no point does Katniss mention seeing a camera. There were other similar plot devises that while annoying did not have a huge effect on my enjoyment of the book.

For YA fiction, this was pretty good.

The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West

Ah, I have been so bad about this blog. I was so close to catching Carlton, but, what with my recent job hunt and all, reading books has been the second farthest thing from my mind, the farthest being posting on the blog. The closest thing to my mind is Michael Phelps. He's as good at swimming as I am lovemaking.

But now it's time to put all jokes aside, because The Day of the Locust is a not a very happy book (though it is very good). I'm not sure if I've read anywhere that it is the quintessential Hollywood book, but you're reading it here now. West's 1930's Los Angeles is populated not by movie stars and celebrities but by has-beens and hangers-on, the fringes of Hollywood culture, who operate, sometimes literally, behind the scenes.

Consider the cast: At the center of it all is Tod Hackett, a set painter who spends half of his spare time painting a masterwork called The Burning of Los Angeles that depicts the final destruction of the city at the hands of its own, like some form of self-cannibalism. He spends the other half of his spare time ogling Fay Greener, a teenage would-be starlet who, shall we say, spreads her affection very thin. But it isn't a story of unrequited love; it's a story of consuming and unfulfilled lust. As the narrator tells us point blank, for Tod, "Nothing short of violent rape would do." Fay's father is an aging Vaudevillian who has been phased out of modern pictures. She also has another suitor in Homer Simpson (I know, I know), a simple man whose doctor has recommended he spend some time in Southern California for his health. West lets the irony of this speak for itself, as it is Simpson's uncomplicated feelings for Fay that eventually cause him to break down and set into motion a massive riot that brings Hackett's painting to life.

The cast actually does very little, and yet it seems like the terrifying final chapters hinge on the tiniest human movements. How sad it is to see Harry Greener stumble drunkenly through his clown act, and how disheartening to watch Tod and Fay and the others loiter and drink and do nothing, as if it were an expression of the totality of their existence. For West, human ugliness arises out of little more than boredom, the symptom of a desire for objects unclear, to be anything else, to do anything else. Hackett's job is to paint worlds, to create the illusion of places, but he cannot satisfactorily define his own world or his own existence. He hates Los Angeles because it is nowhere and offers nothing, and The Burning of Los Angeles is the way that he channels the destructive--and self-destructive--impulse. Others in the book seek more proactive recourse, but like Hackett, they are all intensely miserable.

The Day of the Locust is like Hobbes' famous epithet on human life: Brutish, nasty, and short. What it lacks in length (it and West's novella "Miss Lonelyhearts" add up to a scant 183 pp.) it makes up for in power. If you ever find yourself on a flight to LAX, you may want to pick it up for the ride--just to prepare yourself.