Confessions of a Shopaholic

            The first novel I read by Sophie Kinsella was The Undomestic Goddess. This novel tells the story of a hard-working London Lawyer with an IQ of over 180 who is forced to flee to a small town and become a housekeeper. The main character was a strong, determined woman equipped with witty comebacks and a bank account big enough to replace all the clothes she ruins on her first attempt at laundry.

            Unfortunately, the powers that be decided that the first novel of Kinsella’s to make it to the screen would be Confessions of a Shopaholic; which, although still demonstrates the wit and talent of the author, features a selfish, dense main character who lost my interest by the third chapter.

            The movie itself is made even worse by the change the main character from English to an American. Being an American, I tend to like us, but I’m also a purist. The main reasons I love the Kinsella books are their British humor and that element of propriety that makes Britain-based characters so charming. The bitter irony is that the changes were obviously made to attract a larger audience, and the film ended up at a humiliating 25% on Rotten Tomatoes.

            That is not to say the film is not worth watching, necessarily. I love me some Hugh Dancy, and Isla Fisher is adorable. The plot is not overly predictable (unless you’ve read the books, obviously) and it’s a nice little story if you aren’t expecting too much out of it.

            I might even have been too harsh with the book; I just prefer strong characters that I can aspire to be like, and I hate shopping. I would much rather read something like Can You Keep a Secret or Remember Me?, also by Sophie Kinslla.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

            There are certain things Tim Burton should never do. For instance, he should never again attempt to direct a movie featuring an iconic comic book character. Neither should he tackle a remake when the original movie starred none other than Charlton Heston. He’s simply out of his league. However, give the man a script with just enough edginess to make a normal audience slightly uncomfortable, allow him to cast his dynamic duo—Johnny Depp and Helena Bohnam Carter—and the man will produce (er, direct) miracles.

            Roald Dahl’s books have a certain indefinable element that can only be understood when you consider who the man was. This was the author who, when his kids had sleepovers, would march them all down to stand under a bridge at midnight, and tell them ghost stories as the trains thundered overhead. Most parents would probably prefer that he wouldn’t have that strange way with storytelling; yet without it, his stories would be so much less than what they are.

            Tim Burton is able to see that element and place it in a corner of every scene. The audience can’t really point it out with any accuracy, but they know it’s there, adding that essence of Dahl to his beloved stories. The “original” Willy Wonka (from the 1971 movie) was not the character from the novel; it was Gene Wilder in a purple tophat. In his novel, Roald Dahl presented an eccentric, creative man with limited social skills and the energy of a toddler. Gene Wilder’s portrayal was that of a man who was pretending to be all these things in order to make the point at the end.

            Johnny Depp, on the other hand, embodies more of the character from the page. True, he is a bit creepier than the Willy Wonka from the book, but his performance adds even more depth to a unique and fun character. Freddie Heighmore, as Charlie, is able to hold his own against the formidable Mr. Depp. The rest of the cast does a fantastic job of filling in the rest of the scenes. I love seeing Missy Pile in any role, and David Kelly as Grandpa Joe was a delight.

            The book is, in itself, a good story. Unfortunately, it contains one of those plots that has been talked about so often that it falls a little flat on the page. Since there is no “litmus test” where Charlie has to prove he’s worthy of the Chocolate Factory, beyond merely outlasting the other children, the end seems rather anticlimactic. However, it is seldom appropriate to watch the movie and never read the book. Etiquette kindly asks that you peruse the pages before sitting in front of the screen.

The Devil Wears Prada

            The closest I have ever been to living in a “real” city is Charlottesville, which is still rural and tourist enough to fall far short of cities like Chicago or New York City. I have been to the Big Apple, though, so I can use those vague memories from a decade ago to fill in whatever scenic elements Lauren Weisberger leaves to the reader’s imagination in The Devil Wears Prada. Thankfully, the scenes are clearly depicted, so one does not have to rely too much on one’s own memories. It’s a nice balance.

            The book is entertaining, the characters well-crafted, and the plot engaging. From the beginning, the reader is able to understand the main character’s motivations, although it is also easy to see why her friends and family are so baffled by her drive, and concerned by her withdrawal.

            I had a little trouble with how quickly her friends and family protested her new working conditions—Weisberger might have jumped the gun a little. Also, most of their protestations of concern seemed to show more concern for themselves than for Andrea. All is forgiven in the ending chapters, however, with the gloriously satisfying conclusion.

I own three incarnations of The Devil Wears Prada: the paperback, the audiobook, and the movie. I listened to the audiobook first (those things are great for long drives, aren’t they?) which is an abridged version. Rachel Leigh Cook narrates, and does it well. There are a few passages for which she has to assume an accent, and she handles them nicely.

The movie was a bit of a letdown; although, to be fair, that’s probably because I forgot to separate the two. The movie removed from the book has the same elements of character development and satisfying moments of triumph for the main character. I felt that the cast was amazing—with one exception: I could not buy Simon Baker as Christian. It’s sad when such a small role can throw off an otherwise exemplary cast. I am completely in love with Stanley Tucci, and even though his character tended more toward the type of characters he usually plays than the character in the novel, it was a pleasing difference. Stanly Tucci excels as the shoulder to lean on and the wind beneath the main character’s wings, and it was nice that Andy wasn’t quite as alone in her struggles as her novel counterpart was.

The Help

The Help

I must confess that I read this book the week before I saw the movie. The book had been recommended to me by a friend; she lent it to me, and there it sat on my shelf until another friend asked if I wanted to see the movie with her.

Thank goodness for my friends.

Reading this book was like listening to a talented storyteller weave a tale of her southern roots. The plot is woven together like a patchwork quilt, with the different sections masterfully kept in harmony with the other to make a stunning whole. I have read several books recently in which the sections, in an attempt to differentiate in time, character voice, or tone, are jumbled together like so many scraps in a ragbag. It is a storytelling style the reader usually endures rather than enjoys. Kathryn Stockett succeeds in this delicate art, turning the lives of so many different women into a story-telling quilt whose individually fascinating pieces make up a soul-stirring whole.

The characters are written with such unassuming clarity that the reader believes them, believes in them, and feels what they feel. One aspect about the book I found so refreshing and moving was that some of the more “climactic” events happened off the page, and were talked about in the aftermath by other characters. I feel that, too often, by the time the cringing reader gets to these “big scenes” that boisterously spout their overwhelming emotions, getting through the scenes is uncomfortable and breaks the mood of the book.

The movie truly honors the book. As is the case with most cinematic attempts based on literature, the book is better, and the movie does change a few things in the plot line. However, these changes are acceptable when the audience realizes how hard it is to build certain subplots into a 2-hour movie. Beyond these small discrepancies, however, the movie shows the audience what they read on the page; it brings to life the multi-colored toilets on the lawn, Mae Mobley’s chubby smile, and Celia’s quiet pain. One of my favorite aspects of the movie is that Minny’s husband is never given screen time (he appears off-camera) I love the symbolism that this dirty crumb of a character is simply brushed off to the side. I also love Celia’s roses.