If you're a fan of director Wes Anderson, you probably already know about the short film "Hotel Chevalier" that serves as a 12-minute prequel to the full-length feature "The Darjeeling Limited." But unless you are in the know, chances are you will miss out on many of the feature's more satisfying subtleties. Bizarrely, the 2005 short will not be released with the film in theaters—and while the prequel will make for a meaty DVD extra, it seems a shame that it won't be available to theatergoers trying out Anderson's oeuvre for the first time (although it is available through iTunes). Anderson's ability to tie in the most minute details throughout both works will largely go unnoticed—and the character development of Jason Schwartzman's Jack may just fall flat without the back story.
Unlike the feature film, which takes place on location in India, the prequel is set in a Paris hotel room, and the tone for the film is vewy Fwench, not least because of the wistful bistro ballad "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)" by Peter Sarstedt, which plays prominently throughout the film (it also recurs in the feature). In the film, Jason Schwartzman's character (presumably the same Jack from the feature, although he is unnamed) receives an unexpected visit from his toothpick-toting ex (Natalie Portman). There's not a lot of dialogue, but obviously a lot of unfinished business. After taking inventory of the hotel room—achieved through Anderson's signature wide-angle close-ups on a quirky collection of props from a numbered piece of luggage to a stuck butterfly beside the gizzards of three music boxes—things take a turn for the extwemewy Fwench, and it is not long before Natalie is in the nude.
Despite Schwartzman's unfortunate tendency to make the act of kissing sound like he is slurping gazpacho, this scene between them is tender, and you can see why Jack will still be obsessed with his ex in the feature film despite the obvious but unspecified hurt she has caused him (Portman makes the briefest of cameos in the feature itself, but her character is a point of discussion between Jack and his two brothers [Adrian Brody and Owen Wilson] as they make their way by train throughout India). The dialogue here is sharp and skillful—the should we/shouldn't we at it's most brutal, honest, and funny.
Schwartzman's character then invites Portman's to see his view of Paris, and there is a lovely slo-mo scene where he carries his robe to her and helps her into it. As he ushers her through the vewy Fwench doors to the balcony, he takes a long look behind him before following after her. Anderson has a wonderful knack for using slow motion to highlight moments like these—and in it, we see their whole relationship.
In Anderson's production design, no item is random. Every quirky prop, color, and set piece usually has a specific character insight or plot point to communicate. In this one, the numbered suitcase with the initials JLW features prominently in one shot, when Portman slips something into it that will reappear in the feature. Several other threads also pick up in the feature, including Schwartzman's barefoot look, which Anderson decided to carry over from the short, despite the drastic change in terrain from hotel carpet to Indian desert.
On its own, the short is tender, intriguing, but a little odd. It doesn't quite tell a whole story. It really needs the greater feature to contextualize it, despite the fairly drastic difference in tone and style between the two films. At the same time, the feature requires the short to complete its meaning as well. It's all the more confusing that they will not be shown together. If you can, see both of them. While neither compares to the taut genius of "Rushmore" (1998) and "The Royal Tenenbaums" (2001), they are certainly good examples of Anderson's talent in their own right. His abilities to mix whimsy and melancholy, and to both entertain and enlighten, are rare delights—and "The Darjeeling Limited" and its sister short "Hotel Chevalier" deliver the delight if not the overall satisfaction of the two previous films.
"Hotel Chevalier": ***
Friday, October 5, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tagged: "Courtesy" of the US Postal Service
When it comes to property defacement, the USPS sees no reason to apologize.
When we moved into our house four years ago, the previous owners left their rocking chair, barbecue, and patio furniture, but took the house numbers. As weird as that seemed at the time, it didn't bother us too much. We hired painters, unloaded our boxes, and settled in to home ownership. Days became weeks and then months and then years, and friends and relatives found us without a problem—and our mail appeared in the painted metal box by our porch steps every day without incident.
Last month, our lovely mail carrier of all of these years retired, and with her, my good will for the postal service. The next week, right before we were leaving for the weekend, the mail box beside the porch caught my eye. More specifically, the numbers written on it with a black Sharpee caught my eye—our house numbers. The new mail carrier was the obvious culprit, being the only person with a motive to commit such a crime.
Now, the mailbox had also been left by the previous owners, but it was cute and decorative, so we kept it. They had taken a metal box and painted a faux patina on it to match the faux patina on the brass panels on the front door. Obviously, removing the Sharpee marks was not going to be an option, because that would also remove the paint. The mailbox was ruined.
Incensed, I quit worrying about packing my toothbrush and camera and scoured the US Postal Service Web site for their customer service number. It took some digging, but I found it and was relieved to learn that it was a 24-hour service. After 45 minutes of waiting on hold and listening to the same two prerecorded USPS advertisements for the entire time, a woman came on the line. She took my name and address, but when I explained my complaint, she stopped me. "Because it's after 5 p.m., I can't help you with that," she said. "You'll have to call back tomorrow." "But you're a 24-hour service," I reminded her to no avail. She wouldn't even take a note. My husband patiently listened to me rant about the entire exchange all the way to the airport.
After a relaxing weekend away, I called the USPS first thing on Monday morning. This time, I waited less than 5 minutes, and the person on the other end of the line took my information right away and said I'd be receiving a call back from a representative from my local branch. Sure enough, within two hours, I got a call from our mail-carrier's boss. It was obvious from her tone that she'd never been wrong about anything in her life and that she rarely lets another person get a word in edgewise.
While she expressed some concern that her mail carrier was going around tagging people's private property with a Sharpee, she was more fixated on our lack of house numbers. When I said that this had never come up in all the years we've lived here as the numbers are painted on the curb, she sort of mentioned that normally we would have received a written notice first, but that everyone had to have house numbers on the house. (Never mind that a walk around our neighborhood revealed that a few dozen other houses are numberless and likely still receive mail.) She was intense, and I wanted off the phone. I was too flustered to remember to ask for compensation for the damaged property. I said we would obviously be getting house numbers, but that we would appreciate being alerted in future before the mail carrier writes on our stuff, and left it at that.
At 11:30 the next morning, the doorbell rang. Although the tall woman with the severely tied back hair and semi-professional attire didn't give me her name, I recognized her voice immediately as the house-number champion. I came out onto the porch and showed her the mailbox, and she proceeded to tell me that not only should we have house numbers but that the mailbox was also too low. I stared at her, not believing that this was the "apology" I was receiving. While I don't dispute the necessity of house numbers, our ignorance didn't seem to warrant property defacement. The mail carrier himself eventually joined us, and his boss pointed to the mailbox, saying, "See that, she didn't like that you did that." And he said, "But I had to see the numbers." And she said, "Well, you could have written them inside the lid of the box." Finally, I found my voice. "No, he shouldn't have. I was here the whole time. He should have let me know the problem so that I could fix it." It was like I hadn't spoken.
By the end of this 5-minute encounter, I had been scolded on two counts of mail-carrier thwarting and had not received one shadow of an apology. Before I had the chance to broach compensation for the defaced property, the woman's phone rang, and she answered it, backing down the driveway. I halfheartedly remembered my own manners and shook her hand as well as the mail carrier's. He assured me he would continue to try to do his best, and I nearly bit my lip trying not to say something about if graffiti was his best, how bad could his worst be?
I fumed and stormed and raged after they left—but I knew further action with this crew would result in dirty bureaucratic fighting and perhaps unexpected deliveries that weren't mail. On the bright side, my husband spent the rest of the week making a customized, attractive set of house numbers that are now proudly displayed above our door.
Of course, apparently, he didn't work quickly enough for the USPS, which sent us a form with the line item "No house numbers" checked. The handwritten comments section of the form looked dishearteningly like it had been composed and filled out by a first grader using unlined paper for the first time. It recapped the face-to-face encounter without any mention of the defaced property and reminded us to put up house numbers as agreed as soon as possible. So much for an apology! While this enraged me afresh, I felt slightly vindicated that the form existed—the very form we should have received before the mail carrier ever uncapped his Sharpee.
USPS customer service: *
When we moved into our house four years ago, the previous owners left their rocking chair, barbecue, and patio furniture, but took the house numbers. As weird as that seemed at the time, it didn't bother us too much. We hired painters, unloaded our boxes, and settled in to home ownership. Days became weeks and then months and then years, and friends and relatives found us without a problem—and our mail appeared in the painted metal box by our porch steps every day without incident.
Last month, our lovely mail carrier of all of these years retired, and with her, my good will for the postal service. The next week, right before we were leaving for the weekend, the mail box beside the porch caught my eye. More specifically, the numbers written on it with a black Sharpee caught my eye—our house numbers. The new mail carrier was the obvious culprit, being the only person with a motive to commit such a crime.
Now, the mailbox had also been left by the previous owners, but it was cute and decorative, so we kept it. They had taken a metal box and painted a faux patina on it to match the faux patina on the brass panels on the front door. Obviously, removing the Sharpee marks was not going to be an option, because that would also remove the paint. The mailbox was ruined.
Incensed, I quit worrying about packing my toothbrush and camera and scoured the US Postal Service Web site for their customer service number. It took some digging, but I found it and was relieved to learn that it was a 24-hour service. After 45 minutes of waiting on hold and listening to the same two prerecorded USPS advertisements for the entire time, a woman came on the line. She took my name and address, but when I explained my complaint, she stopped me. "Because it's after 5 p.m., I can't help you with that," she said. "You'll have to call back tomorrow." "But you're a 24-hour service," I reminded her to no avail. She wouldn't even take a note. My husband patiently listened to me rant about the entire exchange all the way to the airport.
After a relaxing weekend away, I called the USPS first thing on Monday morning. This time, I waited less than 5 minutes, and the person on the other end of the line took my information right away and said I'd be receiving a call back from a representative from my local branch. Sure enough, within two hours, I got a call from our mail-carrier's boss. It was obvious from her tone that she'd never been wrong about anything in her life and that she rarely lets another person get a word in edgewise.
While she expressed some concern that her mail carrier was going around tagging people's private property with a Sharpee, she was more fixated on our lack of house numbers. When I said that this had never come up in all the years we've lived here as the numbers are painted on the curb, she sort of mentioned that normally we would have received a written notice first, but that everyone had to have house numbers on the house. (Never mind that a walk around our neighborhood revealed that a few dozen other houses are numberless and likely still receive mail.) She was intense, and I wanted off the phone. I was too flustered to remember to ask for compensation for the damaged property. I said we would obviously be getting house numbers, but that we would appreciate being alerted in future before the mail carrier writes on our stuff, and left it at that.
At 11:30 the next morning, the doorbell rang. Although the tall woman with the severely tied back hair and semi-professional attire didn't give me her name, I recognized her voice immediately as the house-number champion. I came out onto the porch and showed her the mailbox, and she proceeded to tell me that not only should we have house numbers but that the mailbox was also too low. I stared at her, not believing that this was the "apology" I was receiving. While I don't dispute the necessity of house numbers, our ignorance didn't seem to warrant property defacement. The mail carrier himself eventually joined us, and his boss pointed to the mailbox, saying, "See that, she didn't like that you did that." And he said, "But I had to see the numbers." And she said, "Well, you could have written them inside the lid of the box." Finally, I found my voice. "No, he shouldn't have. I was here the whole time. He should have let me know the problem so that I could fix it." It was like I hadn't spoken.
By the end of this 5-minute encounter, I had been scolded on two counts of mail-carrier thwarting and had not received one shadow of an apology. Before I had the chance to broach compensation for the defaced property, the woman's phone rang, and she answered it, backing down the driveway. I halfheartedly remembered my own manners and shook her hand as well as the mail carrier's. He assured me he would continue to try to do his best, and I nearly bit my lip trying not to say something about if graffiti was his best, how bad could his worst be?
I fumed and stormed and raged after they left—but I knew further action with this crew would result in dirty bureaucratic fighting and perhaps unexpected deliveries that weren't mail. On the bright side, my husband spent the rest of the week making a customized, attractive set of house numbers that are now proudly displayed above our door.
Of course, apparently, he didn't work quickly enough for the USPS, which sent us a form with the line item "No house numbers" checked. The handwritten comments section of the form looked dishearteningly like it had been composed and filled out by a first grader using unlined paper for the first time. It recapped the face-to-face encounter without any mention of the defaced property and reminded us to put up house numbers as agreed as soon as possible. So much for an apology! While this enraged me afresh, I felt slightly vindicated that the form existed—the very form we should have received before the mail carrier ever uncapped his Sharpee.
USPS customer service: *
Tagged: Painting the Town Red
Hometown graffiti hotline comes to the rescue.
About nine o'clock on a cool, clear summer night—and a school night at that for all of us work-a-dayers—I walked my friend to her car, which was parked outside of our house. As I hugged her goodbye before she stepped into the driver's seat, the street lamp in front of our yard drew my eye with every suburbanite's horror: graffiti. The word Dhoofuses* dripped redly down the lamp post, each jagged letter standing out against the gray concrete.
After ascertaining that the ne'er do wells had left my friend's car in tact (which they had), I waved her off with repetitive statements about how we'd never seen anything like this—not in this neighborhood. She didn't look terribly freaked out by it, but I certainly was. As my friend drove off, the embarrassment ebbed, and the paranoia set in. Who were these hoodlums calling Dhoofuses? Did they have something against us nerds? Would we be murdered in our beds clinging to our pocket protectors?
My husband didn't buy into my grisly scenarios. He was mostly sorry that the graffiti was emblazoned onto a concrete surface, over which, he imagined, the city would slap an ever obvious, sloppily painted square as cover-up. On the bright side, he told me, the word was legible and not even obscene. Eventually, even I conceded that the "h" was more amusing than threatening, and we could call about it in the morning.
Anger and paranoia kept sleep at bay, however, and I leapt out of bed at an ungodly hour to search for solutions on the Web. Without too much trouble, I found the city's FAQ page and was surprised to see that graffiti had made the list of frequent topics. Like many other communities in the area, our city has a graffiti-removal hotline. You can call any time of day or night to leave a voice message detailing the location of the offending scrawls, your contact information, and any other necessary details. While on the one hand, I felt "handled" and unimportant, it was oddly satisfying to be able to take even this preliminary action in the dead of night. No need to wait until 9 a.m. to talk to a bored bureaucrat! After leaving my message, I had no trouble falling asleep.
In the light of day, my feelings of empowerment were gone, but so was most of my ire. Dhoofuses glared ugly and bright in front of the house, but it didn't seem as creepy in direct sunlight. Sure, I'd left a message on the hotline, but I didn't expect action from the city any time soon. It was likely they'd never even press play. We would just have to figure out something to do in the meantime—maybe wrap it in a sheet, I thought as I pulled out of the driveway to run shopping errands.
As I followed my normal route through the neighborhood, a pattern emerged. Red, scrawly Dhoofuses adorned lampposts and city signs about truck weight limits all the way to the main road. The ruffians had traced their path through the neighborhood—but not a piece of private property sported red letters. Suddenly, I felt better. The scamps weren't calling us Dhoofuses—that was their name for themselves. I also tried to quash the tiny spark of gratitude I felt for their conscientious defacing of only city property. Of course, the result was still ugly and annoying—but didn't it mean something that they weren't tagging houses and family pets? Didn't that make them more likely to be bored teens than psychokillers?
My mind eased, I concentrated on finding whatever goods and groceries were on the list that day and loading them into the car. On the way home, I reminded myself to take note of the various Dhoofuses locations so that I could record them on the answering machine of futility. I turned into the neighborhood and questioned my memory. Hadn't I seen evidence of the Dhoofuses on that truck weight limit sign on the corner? Maybe I hadn't. I slowed to turn into our driveway and stopped halfway. The lamppost was completely clear—no paint of any kind. I got out and rubbed the surface of it, looking for scratches or flecks of red paint. Nothing at all. If I hadn't had witnesses, I would have been hard pressed to prove Dhoofuses had ever been there.
With a rush of gratitude, I thrust my groceries into the kitchen and high-tailed it to the phone. I dialed that precious hotline number and gushed praises of the most sincerely inarticulate nature, describing the phenomenon as if no one on the other side of the phone had ever heard of such a miracle. "There was graffiti, and I called, and now it's gone," I stammered. "It happened while I was at the store. I didn't even see a truck." I couldn't shut up, and it wouldn't surprise me if they changed the hotline number immediately after hitting delete.
But the gratitude is real. When the graffiti appeared on our lamp post, I felt that my faith in the community would be forever shaken, that I would always be looking over my shoulder and wishing for the good old days before the hoodlums put their mark on every tree. But I was surprised to find that just the fast response from my city's graffiti-removal hotline made me feel such civic pride. Dhoofuses will come and go, but we don't need to cherish their memories. Removing graffiti as fast as it appears means my city isn't ready to let the vandals win, and that it's actually trying to keep this a good place to live. It's not often these days for me to feel a surge of pride for my government, but just this one little piece of tax-paid magic in my favor gave me a much needed dose of hope.
Graffiti-removal hotline: *****
*The word has been changed to bring less satisfaction to the guilty—although, presumably, the Dhoofuses know who they are.
About nine o'clock on a cool, clear summer night—and a school night at that for all of us work-a-dayers—I walked my friend to her car, which was parked outside of our house. As I hugged her goodbye before she stepped into the driver's seat, the street lamp in front of our yard drew my eye with every suburbanite's horror: graffiti. The word Dhoofuses* dripped redly down the lamp post, each jagged letter standing out against the gray concrete.
After ascertaining that the ne'er do wells had left my friend's car in tact (which they had), I waved her off with repetitive statements about how we'd never seen anything like this—not in this neighborhood. She didn't look terribly freaked out by it, but I certainly was. As my friend drove off, the embarrassment ebbed, and the paranoia set in. Who were these hoodlums calling Dhoofuses? Did they have something against us nerds? Would we be murdered in our beds clinging to our pocket protectors?
My husband didn't buy into my grisly scenarios. He was mostly sorry that the graffiti was emblazoned onto a concrete surface, over which, he imagined, the city would slap an ever obvious, sloppily painted square as cover-up. On the bright side, he told me, the word was legible and not even obscene. Eventually, even I conceded that the "h" was more amusing than threatening, and we could call about it in the morning.
Anger and paranoia kept sleep at bay, however, and I leapt out of bed at an ungodly hour to search for solutions on the Web. Without too much trouble, I found the city's FAQ page and was surprised to see that graffiti had made the list of frequent topics. Like many other communities in the area, our city has a graffiti-removal hotline. You can call any time of day or night to leave a voice message detailing the location of the offending scrawls, your contact information, and any other necessary details. While on the one hand, I felt "handled" and unimportant, it was oddly satisfying to be able to take even this preliminary action in the dead of night. No need to wait until 9 a.m. to talk to a bored bureaucrat! After leaving my message, I had no trouble falling asleep.
In the light of day, my feelings of empowerment were gone, but so was most of my ire. Dhoofuses glared ugly and bright in front of the house, but it didn't seem as creepy in direct sunlight. Sure, I'd left a message on the hotline, but I didn't expect action from the city any time soon. It was likely they'd never even press play. We would just have to figure out something to do in the meantime—maybe wrap it in a sheet, I thought as I pulled out of the driveway to run shopping errands.
As I followed my normal route through the neighborhood, a pattern emerged. Red, scrawly Dhoofuses adorned lampposts and city signs about truck weight limits all the way to the main road. The ruffians had traced their path through the neighborhood—but not a piece of private property sported red letters. Suddenly, I felt better. The scamps weren't calling us Dhoofuses—that was their name for themselves. I also tried to quash the tiny spark of gratitude I felt for their conscientious defacing of only city property. Of course, the result was still ugly and annoying—but didn't it mean something that they weren't tagging houses and family pets? Didn't that make them more likely to be bored teens than psychokillers?
My mind eased, I concentrated on finding whatever goods and groceries were on the list that day and loading them into the car. On the way home, I reminded myself to take note of the various Dhoofuses locations so that I could record them on the answering machine of futility. I turned into the neighborhood and questioned my memory. Hadn't I seen evidence of the Dhoofuses on that truck weight limit sign on the corner? Maybe I hadn't. I slowed to turn into our driveway and stopped halfway. The lamppost was completely clear—no paint of any kind. I got out and rubbed the surface of it, looking for scratches or flecks of red paint. Nothing at all. If I hadn't had witnesses, I would have been hard pressed to prove Dhoofuses had ever been there.
With a rush of gratitude, I thrust my groceries into the kitchen and high-tailed it to the phone. I dialed that precious hotline number and gushed praises of the most sincerely inarticulate nature, describing the phenomenon as if no one on the other side of the phone had ever heard of such a miracle. "There was graffiti, and I called, and now it's gone," I stammered. "It happened while I was at the store. I didn't even see a truck." I couldn't shut up, and it wouldn't surprise me if they changed the hotline number immediately after hitting delete.
But the gratitude is real. When the graffiti appeared on our lamp post, I felt that my faith in the community would be forever shaken, that I would always be looking over my shoulder and wishing for the good old days before the hoodlums put their mark on every tree. But I was surprised to find that just the fast response from my city's graffiti-removal hotline made me feel such civic pride. Dhoofuses will come and go, but we don't need to cherish their memories. Removing graffiti as fast as it appears means my city isn't ready to let the vandals win, and that it's actually trying to keep this a good place to live. It's not often these days for me to feel a surge of pride for my government, but just this one little piece of tax-paid magic in my favor gave me a much needed dose of hope.
Graffiti-removal hotline: *****
*The word has been changed to bring less satisfaction to the guilty—although, presumably, the Dhoofuses know who they are.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Cover to Cover: The Robber Bride
Atwood's women characters are more than sweetness and light.
Sugar, spice, and everything nice. If this is the time-honored recipe for little girls, what is the recipe for grown women? Stories don't suggest ingredients, but they often present two outcomes—the beautiful princess with a heart of gold or the evil, ugly crone. While these archetypes have their place in literature, they obviously can't reflect the complexity of real people and, more particularly, the intricate relationships between women. Few authors bring these neglected themes to the page better than Margaret Atwood, whose female characters are made of equal parts bitter and sour to blend with the sweet.
I recently read Atwood's The Robber Bride (Doubleday, 1993), which deliciously balances friendship and betrayal within a group of women. Three friends, whose husbands and lovers have been seduced by the same woman named Zenia, meet every month for lunch—both for the company and to support each other as they move on with their lives. During one such meeting, Zenia, thought to be dead, walks into the restaurant more alive and more beautiful than ever. The revelation shocks the three friends, and the novel takes us back through each of the women's histories as they try to make sense of their relationships with their lovers, families, Zenia, and each other.
Even though Zenia is obviously the wicked witch in this story, none of the three heroines is a perfect princess. No one knows this better than they do. Although they appreciate each other and fill a needed space in each other's lives, they still grate on each other's nerves. They don't even like themselves some of the time. What they don't say to each other is just as weighty as what they do say, maybe more so. While they share their heartbreaks and biggest fears, the little things they keep to themselves create tension. Two friends don't like it when the third spaces out over lunch, but they never tell her in so many words. One friend secretly rues enlisting the interior decorating passions of another. Another wants to replant her friend's garden but is too shy to ask again. Atwood laces each chapter with these little cracks in their trust, but even the subtle examples reveal so much about the characters and the ultimate strength of their friendship despite these fractures.
Each relationship is finely balanced so that the friends keep each other at bay while still being intimately connected. They try not to step on each other's toes, but are careful that they don't get stepped on either. Atwood does all of this consistently but lightly, and the lightness is what makes the relationships plausible. So much of the communication results from minute, almost involuntary, calculations of words, gestures, and silences—calculations any reader who has ever wondered "Is it me, or is she giving me a look?" will recognize as authentic.
These nuances help unlock the mysteries of each of the three friends' lives, which keeps eager readers like me turning pages. Unfortunately, like other Atwood novels, the ending comes abruptly and half formed, as if the author just ran out of paper (the last chapter even says, "Every ending is arbitrary, because the end is where you write The end."). But I don't regret the time I spent with her characters, who are so richly developed. With Atwood's novels, her delightful and compelling beginnings coupled with strong, intriguing characters usually make the journey worthwhile.
The Robber Bride: ****
Sugar, spice, and everything nice. If this is the time-honored recipe for little girls, what is the recipe for grown women? Stories don't suggest ingredients, but they often present two outcomes—the beautiful princess with a heart of gold or the evil, ugly crone. While these archetypes have their place in literature, they obviously can't reflect the complexity of real people and, more particularly, the intricate relationships between women. Few authors bring these neglected themes to the page better than Margaret Atwood, whose female characters are made of equal parts bitter and sour to blend with the sweet.I recently read Atwood's The Robber Bride (Doubleday, 1993), which deliciously balances friendship and betrayal within a group of women. Three friends, whose husbands and lovers have been seduced by the same woman named Zenia, meet every month for lunch—both for the company and to support each other as they move on with their lives. During one such meeting, Zenia, thought to be dead, walks into the restaurant more alive and more beautiful than ever. The revelation shocks the three friends, and the novel takes us back through each of the women's histories as they try to make sense of their relationships with their lovers, families, Zenia, and each other.
Even though Zenia is obviously the wicked witch in this story, none of the three heroines is a perfect princess. No one knows this better than they do. Although they appreciate each other and fill a needed space in each other's lives, they still grate on each other's nerves. They don't even like themselves some of the time. What they don't say to each other is just as weighty as what they do say, maybe more so. While they share their heartbreaks and biggest fears, the little things they keep to themselves create tension. Two friends don't like it when the third spaces out over lunch, but they never tell her in so many words. One friend secretly rues enlisting the interior decorating passions of another. Another wants to replant her friend's garden but is too shy to ask again. Atwood laces each chapter with these little cracks in their trust, but even the subtle examples reveal so much about the characters and the ultimate strength of their friendship despite these fractures.
Each relationship is finely balanced so that the friends keep each other at bay while still being intimately connected. They try not to step on each other's toes, but are careful that they don't get stepped on either. Atwood does all of this consistently but lightly, and the lightness is what makes the relationships plausible. So much of the communication results from minute, almost involuntary, calculations of words, gestures, and silences—calculations any reader who has ever wondered "Is it me, or is she giving me a look?" will recognize as authentic.
These nuances help unlock the mysteries of each of the three friends' lives, which keeps eager readers like me turning pages. Unfortunately, like other Atwood novels, the ending comes abruptly and half formed, as if the author just ran out of paper (the last chapter even says, "Every ending is arbitrary, because the end is where you write The end."). But I don't regret the time I spent with her characters, who are so richly developed. With Atwood's novels, her delightful and compelling beginnings coupled with strong, intriguing characters usually make the journey worthwhile.
The Robber Bride: ****
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Backyard Buzz: Tales of a Live Bee Removal
Finding your hidden hive is only the first step.
Just one beehive can produce 100 lbs of honey in a year, a lesson we learned the hard way when a bee-suited man removed 20 lbs of the golden stuff from behind a panel of our hot tub. We were lucky—the egg-laden hive was ready to hatch a new generation of worker bees, who likely would have set up a new home 10 feet from their birthplace. The dog, who had refused to go into the western half of the backyard since the bees established dominance, would have been beside herself.
Obviously, with a three-month-old hive humming away under our noses, we were pretty slow on the uptake. Sure, we noticed more bees in that part of the yard, but it didn't seem like anything serious. It was the dog that brought them to our attention. One day, she burst through the dog door, an angry bee riding her rear straight into the house. There must have been more encounters like this, because once in a while, she'd have a swollen eye or toe. Eventually, the dog didn't even venture into that half of the backyard. She'd pull up sharply at the avocado tree with a wistful glance at the ball we'd thrown for her on the other side.
As a general rule, we don't like assaulting creepy crawlies that take up residence in the backyard. But no one messes with our dog, so I started looking for bee-removal services.
Breaking Out in Hives
It's no secret that bee colonies are declining, a crisis with the potential for severe environmental impact, especially for agriculture, which relies on cross-pollination. So, I was surprised to find that standard bee-removal service leaves no survivors.
It took a little digging, but I eventually found a company called Wilson's Honey and Bee Removal that will transfer bees to a new home. Naturally, this is the more expensive option—but we couldn't bring ourselves to kill nature's best pollinators. The next day, I greeted the bee man, who glanced at the line of bees streaming steadily in and out of the spa. "Oh yeah, you see that?" he asked. "When they have a highway like that, there's definitely a hive."
As he pulled on his bee suit over his jeans and T-shirt, he chatted pleasantly about some of his more recent jobs. Apparently, he'd pulled 200 lbs of honey out of a Hollywood celebrity's mansion, requiring the star to build a whole new wall. I could feel my eyes bug out. Before this, my understanding of beehives had come from Winnie the Pooh cartoons, which showed them as small, endearing shapes the size of birdhouses. It had never occurred to me that one could actually bring down the house.
The bee man pulled a protective mesh veil over his face, then wrapped duct tape around his wrists to ensure no bees got between his sleeves and his gloves. I had expected him to arrive in a full Hazmat suit complete with oxygen tank, because there is no way I would go near a bee highway without such a thing. But the final product resembled a painter's suit, and a well-worn one at that, with tears and rips barely patched with more duct tape. He grinned at me through the mesh, then told me he was going to walk over to test whether these were killer bees.
I put on my brave face. "Excuse me? Did you say killer bees?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Most of the bees in Southern California are killers now." He pointed over to the spa and said that if the bees tried to attack him instead of protecting the hive, that would confirm it. Pretty soon, he walked into the fray, and immediately, agitated bees flurried around him, angrily head-butting his veil and painter's suit. He got a distance away from them, but a few stragglers persisted. As he casually swatted them away, he told me, "Yep. Killers."
Killer Curiosity
Getting stung by one killer bee is not going to kill you—but if you incur the wrath of a swarm, you can die from the effects of hundreds of stings. Alternating between terror of killer bees and guilt over letting our dog share a yard with them for so long, I stood in the far corner of the yard with my camera to watch the bee man pull the side panel off of the spa. He explained that I should be fine at that distance because they'd be concentrating their wrath on him—but if a bee started head-butting me on the forehead, I'd better head inside. Apparently, that's the warning signal before the attack, as stinging is fatal for a bee and, therefore, a last resort.
It didn't take long before a disgruntled bee gave me the warning in no uncertain terms, and I fled behind the screen door to watch as the bee man used a shop vac to suck in as many live bees as possible. "The live removal still applies to killer bees?" I asked, not wanting to exterminate them but less sure we were doing the planet a favor.
"Oh, yeah," he said, "with the exception of the queen." Killer bees are still honey bees and play a vital role in the pollination process. The bees from our hot tub would be trucked out to a bee farm in the California desert where they'd be placed in a hive with a European queen bee. By cross-breeding the bees with regular honey bees, their violent streak would be watered down in future generations.
Honey Dos—and Don'ts
Between bouts of running the shop vac, the bee man scraped out the honey comb with its 20 lbs of honey inside. He stuffed the side panel of the spa full of cotton-candy-colored insulation, then screwed the panel shut again. He poked insulation in every gap he could find on the other sides of the spa, then waited for more bees to cluster so he could collect the stragglers. He told me that we'd see bee traffic for the next four to ten days, as many bees would still be out collecting pollen, but eventually they'd get the message and move on.
Before he packed up his truck, he handed me a plastic grocery bag with a chunk of honey comb from our very own hive. I proudly carried it to the kitchen sink, settled up with the bee man, and called my mother-in-law with a full report of the adventure.
Halfway through the conversation, I heard buzzing and tried to ignore it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one bee struggling through the plastic bag. No big deal. Then there were two sitting on top of the bag. Then four. Now it felt like a horror movie.
If my mother-in-law hadn't brought me back to my senses, I would still be standing there agape as a zillion bees took up residence in the kitchen. With all bee compassion drained from me, I bashed the bag with the best weapon at hand (the spaghetti pot) and hurled the whole mess into the outside trash. It was a low point for this live-bee-removal supporter, and I hoped this was the final test of my loyalties. After all, how many hives can one house have? Surely, one is enough.
Epilogue
"Uh-oh," said my husband, as we watched a few bees hover in the general vicinity of the spa last week. We'd been seeing them for a few days and hoped it was just a fluke. But as we saw ten or more of them entering a hole in the front panel, we knew we had to summon the bee man.
He arrived yesterday with his shop vac and cleared out a hive from behind another panel of the spa. This time, the bees weren't killers, and there was only a little bit of honey, probably only two weeks' worth. The bee man took special pains to ensure the honey comb he saved for us was bee-free, and we can now enjoy the one benefit of a backyard bee infestation.
As the bee man left, I tried to hide my dismay when he handed me the refrigerator-magnet version of his business card—the kind you put up for services, like pizza delivery, that you use all of the time. As much as we appreciate the good work the bee man does and would gladly recommend him to friends and neighbors, we hope we never have to call that number again! With an extra layer of pink insulation protecting the spa, bees won't be getting in any time soon—hopefully, that means they'll buzz off for good.
Wilson's Honey and Bee: ****
Just one beehive can produce 100 lbs of honey in a year, a lesson we learned the hard way when a bee-suited man removed 20 lbs of the golden stuff from behind a panel of our hot tub. We were lucky—the egg-laden hive was ready to hatch a new generation of worker bees, who likely would have set up a new home 10 feet from their birthplace. The dog, who had refused to go into the western half of the backyard since the bees established dominance, would have been beside herself.
Obviously, with a three-month-old hive humming away under our noses, we were pretty slow on the uptake. Sure, we noticed more bees in that part of the yard, but it didn't seem like anything serious. It was the dog that brought them to our attention. One day, she burst through the dog door, an angry bee riding her rear straight into the house. There must have been more encounters like this, because once in a while, she'd have a swollen eye or toe. Eventually, the dog didn't even venture into that half of the backyard. She'd pull up sharply at the avocado tree with a wistful glance at the ball we'd thrown for her on the other side. As a general rule, we don't like assaulting creepy crawlies that take up residence in the backyard. But no one messes with our dog, so I started looking for bee-removal services.
Breaking Out in Hives
It's no secret that bee colonies are declining, a crisis with the potential for severe environmental impact, especially for agriculture, which relies on cross-pollination. So, I was surprised to find that standard bee-removal service leaves no survivors.
It took a little digging, but I eventually found a company called Wilson's Honey and Bee Removal that will transfer bees to a new home. Naturally, this is the more expensive option—but we couldn't bring ourselves to kill nature's best pollinators. The next day, I greeted the bee man, who glanced at the line of bees streaming steadily in and out of the spa. "Oh yeah, you see that?" he asked. "When they have a highway like that, there's definitely a hive."
As he pulled on his bee suit over his jeans and T-shirt, he chatted pleasantly about some of his more recent jobs. Apparently, he'd pulled 200 lbs of honey out of a Hollywood celebrity's mansion, requiring the star to build a whole new wall. I could feel my eyes bug out. Before this, my understanding of beehives had come from Winnie the Pooh cartoons, which showed them as small, endearing shapes the size of birdhouses. It had never occurred to me that one could actually bring down the house.
The bee man pulled a protective mesh veil over his face, then wrapped duct tape around his wrists to ensure no bees got between his sleeves and his gloves. I had expected him to arrive in a full Hazmat suit complete with oxygen tank, because there is no way I would go near a bee highway without such a thing. But the final product resembled a painter's suit, and a well-worn one at that, with tears and rips barely patched with more duct tape. He grinned at me through the mesh, then told me he was going to walk over to test whether these were killer bees.
I put on my brave face. "Excuse me? Did you say killer bees?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Most of the bees in Southern California are killers now." He pointed over to the spa and said that if the bees tried to attack him instead of protecting the hive, that would confirm it. Pretty soon, he walked into the fray, and immediately, agitated bees flurried around him, angrily head-butting his veil and painter's suit. He got a distance away from them, but a few stragglers persisted. As he casually swatted them away, he told me, "Yep. Killers."
Killer Curiosity
Getting stung by one killer bee is not going to kill you—but if you incur the wrath of a swarm, you can die from the effects of hundreds of stings. Alternating between terror of killer bees and guilt over letting our dog share a yard with them for so long, I stood in the far corner of the yard with my camera to watch the bee man pull the side panel off of the spa. He explained that I should be fine at that distance because they'd be concentrating their wrath on him—but if a bee started head-butting me on the forehead, I'd better head inside. Apparently, that's the warning signal before the attack, as stinging is fatal for a bee and, therefore, a last resort.
It didn't take long before a disgruntled bee gave me the warning in no uncertain terms, and I fled behind the screen door to watch as the bee man used a shop vac to suck in as many live bees as possible. "The live removal still applies to killer bees?" I asked, not wanting to exterminate them but less sure we were doing the planet a favor.
"Oh, yeah," he said, "with the exception of the queen." Killer bees are still honey bees and play a vital role in the pollination process. The bees from our hot tub would be trucked out to a bee farm in the California desert where they'd be placed in a hive with a European queen bee. By cross-breeding the bees with regular honey bees, their violent streak would be watered down in future generations.
Honey Dos—and Don'ts
Between bouts of running the shop vac, the bee man scraped out the honey comb with its 20 lbs of honey inside. He stuffed the side panel of the spa full of cotton-candy-colored insulation, then screwed the panel shut again. He poked insulation in every gap he could find on the other sides of the spa, then waited for more bees to cluster so he could collect the stragglers. He told me that we'd see bee traffic for the next four to ten days, as many bees would still be out collecting pollen, but eventually they'd get the message and move on.
Before he packed up his truck, he handed me a plastic grocery bag with a chunk of honey comb from our very own hive. I proudly carried it to the kitchen sink, settled up with the bee man, and called my mother-in-law with a full report of the adventure.
Halfway through the conversation, I heard buzzing and tried to ignore it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one bee struggling through the plastic bag. No big deal. Then there were two sitting on top of the bag. Then four. Now it felt like a horror movie.
If my mother-in-law hadn't brought me back to my senses, I would still be standing there agape as a zillion bees took up residence in the kitchen. With all bee compassion drained from me, I bashed the bag with the best weapon at hand (the spaghetti pot) and hurled the whole mess into the outside trash. It was a low point for this live-bee-removal supporter, and I hoped this was the final test of my loyalties. After all, how many hives can one house have? Surely, one is enough.
Epilogue
"Uh-oh," said my husband, as we watched a few bees hover in the general vicinity of the spa last week. We'd been seeing them for a few days and hoped it was just a fluke. But as we saw ten or more of them entering a hole in the front panel, we knew we had to summon the bee man. He arrived yesterday with his shop vac and cleared out a hive from behind another panel of the spa. This time, the bees weren't killers, and there was only a little bit of honey, probably only two weeks' worth. The bee man took special pains to ensure the honey comb he saved for us was bee-free, and we can now enjoy the one benefit of a backyard bee infestation.
As the bee man left, I tried to hide my dismay when he handed me the refrigerator-magnet version of his business card—the kind you put up for services, like pizza delivery, that you use all of the time. As much as we appreciate the good work the bee man does and would gladly recommend him to friends and neighbors, we hope we never have to call that number again! With an extra layer of pink insulation protecting the spa, bees won't be getting in any time soon—hopefully, that means they'll buzz off for good.
Wilson's Honey and Bee: ****
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Tube Talk: The Bear Necessities
"Man vs. Wild" introduces couch potatoes to the great outdoors.
For most Discovery Channel watchers, braving cross-town traffic is an adventure, and an unairconditioned movie theater is roughing it. But every week, we couch potatoes can watch as Bear Grylls—the man in Discovery Channel's reality series "Man vs. Wild"—overcomes challenges in the most hostile environments on Earth, from the scorching Australian Outback to the frigid French Alps. Given only the clothes on his back, a knife, a flint, and a water bottle, Grylls must find a way back to civilization while feeding, hydrating, sheltering, and protecting himself throughout the journey.
Vicarious Viewing
"Man vs. Wild" puts viewers in the odd position of watching passively while a man scrambles to find basic needs. It's especially guilt-inducing to tune in during dinner. While I savor mouthfuls of home cooking, Grylls scrambles in the dirt to collect nutritious creepy crawlies, such as ants, termites, and maggots, or something more substantial, such as turtles, live fish, or meat from a lion's fresh zebra kill. While I sip my wine and adjust the volume, Grylls writhes in discomfort after drinking unboiled water in the rain forest. As I settle back into the cushions, Grylls flattens out in a snow cave he dug with his bare hands.
The chances that this TV junkie will set foot in a place containing quicksand, lions, sharks, or avalanches are next to nil. But I still appreciate Grylls' do-it-yourself narration style. Here's what I mean: While making his way through Utah's Moab Desert, Grylls purposely immersed himself up to the chest in quicksand to give viewers a tutorial on how to escape it:
"And the way to try to get out of it is that you've got to stop fighting and try and then lift your body up and wriggle to the surface and change the angle," he said between gasps as he demonstrated the technique. "Pull an arm out. Then ease the left leg out. Try to monkey crawl your way out. Okay, now I'm on the surface, and then just monkey crawl, and you can cross a lot of quicksand in this way." Grylls went on to explain that muck like this would require him to swim the Colorado River rather than walk across to civilization.
Believe it or not, these tips rub off on you. For example, while reading a novel, I called foul when a character who was pulled from freezing water was immediately swaddled in sweaters. Anyone who watches Grylls knows that to avoid hypothermia, you have to strip off all of your clothes, dry off with nearby powdery snow, get your blood pumping with some push-ups, then find some dry clothes and huddle by the fire. Not bad for someone who thinks going to the grocery store at rush hour is too risky, eh?
Grylls also gives facts about the terrain, its people, and its history as he makes his way along. At least once in every episode, he recounts a story about specific hikers, how they got lost, if they survived, and why or why not. My hope is that these episodes become mandatory watching for anyone who wants to travel these areas. His clever thinking, extensive knowledge of the plants and animals in each area, and navigation strategies would certainly heighten awareness of the dangers in the areas for future visitors.
Survival Skills
In a recent interview with KROQ's Kevin and Bean, Grylls modestly described his current career of survival as "one of the few things in life I can do well." Grylls, 32, spent three years in the British Special Forces, which involved rigorous survival training (including being dropped in the Alps wearing nothing but a trenchcoat and laceless boots while evading search teams and dogs for three weeks). During his time in the Special Forces, he broke his back in three places in a parachuting accident. Miraculously, he was able to make a full recovery in 18 months, and he went on to become the youngest man to summit Mt. Everest and survive.
Discovery Channel producers approached him with the idea for the show, and he has had a pretty rigorous shooting schedule ever since. He travels with at least one cameraman, who is not allowed to intervene unless there is a life or death situation. Unlike Grylls, the cameraman is equipped with all of the rations and gear that he needs as well as a radio to call for help only in desperate situations.
During an interview with Conan O'Brien, Grylls said that the show's producers want to up the ante in upcoming epsodes, which means greater personal danger. Yes, Grylls is well qualified for his intense job. Still, I worry about him. Does he sneak some sunscreen to keep melanomas at bay? Without mosquito protection, can he avoid their deadly diseases? Will he tumble down a mountain with the picture of his wife and two boys still tucked securely in his shoe? At some point, he will have to wonder whether it is worth it to undergo these perilous adventures for the entertainment of people who press the volume button for exercise. Hopefully, his survival instincts will let him know when to quit.
Man vs. Wild: *****
(This just in 7/24/07: Times Online recently reported that Grylls doesn't necessarily grin and bear it in the wild, but spends some nights in nearby hotels. This is very disappointing. While it doesn't change the fact that many of the stunts he performs are amazing, it troubles me that he hunts animals for food if he's got a continental breakfast waiting for him at the nearby inn.)
For most Discovery Channel watchers, braving cross-town traffic is an adventure, and an unairconditioned movie theater is roughing it. But every week, we couch potatoes can watch as Bear Grylls—the man in Discovery Channel's reality series "Man vs. Wild"—overcomes challenges in the most hostile environments on Earth, from the scorching Australian Outback to the frigid French Alps. Given only the clothes on his back, a knife, a flint, and a water bottle, Grylls must find a way back to civilization while feeding, hydrating, sheltering, and protecting himself throughout the journey.
Vicarious Viewing
"Man vs. Wild" puts viewers in the odd position of watching passively while a man scrambles to find basic needs. It's especially guilt-inducing to tune in during dinner. While I savor mouthfuls of home cooking, Grylls scrambles in the dirt to collect nutritious creepy crawlies, such as ants, termites, and maggots, or something more substantial, such as turtles, live fish, or meat from a lion's fresh zebra kill. While I sip my wine and adjust the volume, Grylls writhes in discomfort after drinking unboiled water in the rain forest. As I settle back into the cushions, Grylls flattens out in a snow cave he dug with his bare hands.The chances that this TV junkie will set foot in a place containing quicksand, lions, sharks, or avalanches are next to nil. But I still appreciate Grylls' do-it-yourself narration style. Here's what I mean: While making his way through Utah's Moab Desert, Grylls purposely immersed himself up to the chest in quicksand to give viewers a tutorial on how to escape it:
"And the way to try to get out of it is that you've got to stop fighting and try and then lift your body up and wriggle to the surface and change the angle," he said between gasps as he demonstrated the technique. "Pull an arm out. Then ease the left leg out. Try to monkey crawl your way out. Okay, now I'm on the surface, and then just monkey crawl, and you can cross a lot of quicksand in this way." Grylls went on to explain that muck like this would require him to swim the Colorado River rather than walk across to civilization.
Believe it or not, these tips rub off on you. For example, while reading a novel, I called foul when a character who was pulled from freezing water was immediately swaddled in sweaters. Anyone who watches Grylls knows that to avoid hypothermia, you have to strip off all of your clothes, dry off with nearby powdery snow, get your blood pumping with some push-ups, then find some dry clothes and huddle by the fire. Not bad for someone who thinks going to the grocery store at rush hour is too risky, eh?
Grylls also gives facts about the terrain, its people, and its history as he makes his way along. At least once in every episode, he recounts a story about specific hikers, how they got lost, if they survived, and why or why not. My hope is that these episodes become mandatory watching for anyone who wants to travel these areas. His clever thinking, extensive knowledge of the plants and animals in each area, and navigation strategies would certainly heighten awareness of the dangers in the areas for future visitors.
Survival Skills
In a recent interview with KROQ's Kevin and Bean, Grylls modestly described his current career of survival as "one of the few things in life I can do well." Grylls, 32, spent three years in the British Special Forces, which involved rigorous survival training (including being dropped in the Alps wearing nothing but a trenchcoat and laceless boots while evading search teams and dogs for three weeks). During his time in the Special Forces, he broke his back in three places in a parachuting accident. Miraculously, he was able to make a full recovery in 18 months, and he went on to become the youngest man to summit Mt. Everest and survive.
Discovery Channel producers approached him with the idea for the show, and he has had a pretty rigorous shooting schedule ever since. He travels with at least one cameraman, who is not allowed to intervene unless there is a life or death situation. Unlike Grylls, the cameraman is equipped with all of the rations and gear that he needs as well as a radio to call for help only in desperate situations.
During an interview with Conan O'Brien, Grylls said that the show's producers want to up the ante in upcoming epsodes, which means greater personal danger. Yes, Grylls is well qualified for his intense job. Still, I worry about him. Does he sneak some sunscreen to keep melanomas at bay? Without mosquito protection, can he avoid their deadly diseases? Will he tumble down a mountain with the picture of his wife and two boys still tucked securely in his shoe? At some point, he will have to wonder whether it is worth it to undergo these perilous adventures for the entertainment of people who press the volume button for exercise. Hopefully, his survival instincts will let him know when to quit.
Man vs. Wild: *****
(This just in 7/24/07: Times Online recently reported that Grylls doesn't necessarily grin and bear it in the wild, but spends some nights in nearby hotels. This is very disappointing. While it doesn't change the fact that many of the stunts he performs are amazing, it troubles me that he hunts animals for food if he's got a continental breakfast waiting for him at the nearby inn.)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Wii View: Sweeping the Floor With Harry Potter
How can a game with boring tasks be so addictive?
Unless you're Mary Poppins, you probably don't think of tidying up as a game. But the makers of the Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix video game hope you will. Players who haven't seen the film of the same title will come away thinking that wizards and witches spend more time straightening up the hallowed halls of Hogwarts than actually saving the magic world from evildoers. That said, the game is surprisingly fun. Plenty of puzzles complement the story line, and the Wii Remote acts as a wand that allows you, as Harry Potter, to lift, repair, repel, and grab items the magic way.
A Wizard's Work Is Never Done
The game follows the storyline of the fifth film in the Warner Brothers' Harry Potter series, which is based on the book by J.K. Rowling. While this means a few combat scenes, most of your time is spent meeting characters who send you on miniquests to collect items all over the castle. This can get tedious at times, especially as Hogwarts is a sprawling place, but to keep your interest, programmers have hidden "discoveries" in every room. As you make your way through each floor, you can hang portraits, repair vases, find statues, and uncover other hidden treasures for points. These discovery points boost your power and unlock bonus features (including videos about the making of the game) located in a room on the second floor.
Some "discoveries" are so cleverly hidden and delightful to find that they keep the game moving despite the mundanity of the tasks. For example, you can produce a feast in the Grand Hall or release each of the four house ghosts. Other tasks seem pretty mundane. To chase down all of the discoveries, you'll find yourself making beds, mopping floors, sweeping courtyards, and watering plants. The creators seem obsessed with chores—the game even starts with Harry tidying up the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix—perhaps to show that kids with magical powers also have to help with the housework.
Discovery points also are rewarded for winning minigames, such as snaps or chess, and you can go on miniquests for professors to unlock lesson-related games, such as practicing charms in Professor Flitwick's classroom. Most of these activities rely on spells taught by different characters at various points of the game. One of the best activities is actually part of the main storyline—Severus Snape's occlumency lessons demand that you wave the Wii Remote furiously to keep the intimidating professor from reading your mind.
The game relies on cut scenes (and sometimes sloppy transitions) to keep you moving through the story. While you have only one formal task after the final cut scene, you can take your time exploring Hogwarts to build more discovery points or just admire the trophies you've collected. The story remains faithful to the film, and while it isn't complex, the world of the game is enjoyable enough to keep you engaged.
Building Hogwarts From the Ground Up
Although the Wii doesn't do as good a job of rendering graphics as its competitor consoles, most of the visuals in the game come through well enough. However, up close, the details dissolve, especially when you "examine" a note or a wall hanging, and it's hard to tell whether this is intentional. Overall, however, the people at EA Games, who also developed the games based on the other films in the Harry Potter series, did a good job of creating the sprawling property of Hogwarts and remained very faithful to the film's set design. The Grand Hall is especially accurate, and even places that aren't featured in the film, such as the boathouse, are well imagined.
In an effort to be even more accurate, EA Games employees scanned the faces of every cast member from the film—but the result is ghastly up close. Alan Rickman's Professor Snape likeness has the pupilless eyes of a horror-film ghost, and Maggie Smith's Professor McGonagall looks like death warmed over. Still, from afar, the characters are recognizable, and details like these make the film come alive.
The game incorporates excellent sound design. EA Games licensed composer John Williams' "Hedwig's Theme" from the film, which adds an aura of authenticity. In 5.1 surround sound, there are plenty of background noises populating the halls, from chattering portraits and heckling students to the ambient sounds of bird calls, wind, and even dishes scraping together. Twenty-two cast members from the film—including Rupart Grint, who plays Harry's sidekick Ron—also voiced their characters, which adds to the feeling that you're navigating through the film's world.
Not So Smooth Moves Slow You Down
While effort obviously went into the visual and sound design of the game, navigation didn't get the same treatment. Using the Marauder's Map, you choose your destination, and dark footsteps appear to show you which direction to go. Unfortunately, these footsteps are often difficult to see and do not render quickly enough when you move at top speed. They also go missing periodically, and you have to reselect your target to find them again. Savvy players will work to unlock all of the secret passages to cut down on navigation time, especially the tedium of running up and down the seven flights of the Grand Staircase.
Rendering errors contribute heavily to navigation frustration. Certain areas of the map are slower than others, and you can feel the system chugging to render the room in some cases. The characters of Ron and Hermione, who constantly follow Harry, often get in the way when you change direction. Camera angles don't shift easily, making it difficult to view targets at the roofline, and sometimes the heads of Ron and Hermione will block your view during a cutscene (although, sometimes these heads aren't rendered correctly and you can see through them). There are also bizarre rendering artifacts throughout the game, such as on the Grand Staircase where four rectangular shadows stutter and flare as you pass by.
Falling Under Its Spell
These annoyances aside, the game is fairly engaging and a fun way to explore the film's re-creation of Hogwarts. Harry Potter fans will enjoy the chance to cast spells and interact with the characters in this world, especially while waiting for Book 7 to arrive!
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix game for the Wii: ***
Unless you're Mary Poppins, you probably don't think of tidying up as a game. But the makers of the Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix video game hope you will. Players who haven't seen the film of the same title will come away thinking that wizards and witches spend more time straightening up the hallowed halls of Hogwarts than actually saving the magic world from evildoers. That said, the game is surprisingly fun. Plenty of puzzles complement the story line, and the Wii Remote acts as a wand that allows you, as Harry Potter, to lift, repair, repel, and grab items the magic way.
A Wizard's Work Is Never Done
The game follows the storyline of the fifth film in the Warner Brothers' Harry Potter series, which is based on the book by J.K. Rowling. While this means a few combat scenes, most of your time is spent meeting characters who send you on miniquests to collect items all over the castle. This can get tedious at times, especially as Hogwarts is a sprawling place, but to keep your interest, programmers have hidden "discoveries" in every room. As you make your way through each floor, you can hang portraits, repair vases, find statues, and uncover other hidden treasures for points. These discovery points boost your power and unlock bonus features (including videos about the making of the game) located in a room on the second floor. Some "discoveries" are so cleverly hidden and delightful to find that they keep the game moving despite the mundanity of the tasks. For example, you can produce a feast in the Grand Hall or release each of the four house ghosts. Other tasks seem pretty mundane. To chase down all of the discoveries, you'll find yourself making beds, mopping floors, sweeping courtyards, and watering plants. The creators seem obsessed with chores—the game even starts with Harry tidying up the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix—perhaps to show that kids with magical powers also have to help with the housework.
Discovery points also are rewarded for winning minigames, such as snaps or chess, and you can go on miniquests for professors to unlock lesson-related games, such as practicing charms in Professor Flitwick's classroom. Most of these activities rely on spells taught by different characters at various points of the game. One of the best activities is actually part of the main storyline—Severus Snape's occlumency lessons demand that you wave the Wii Remote furiously to keep the intimidating professor from reading your mind.
The game relies on cut scenes (and sometimes sloppy transitions) to keep you moving through the story. While you have only one formal task after the final cut scene, you can take your time exploring Hogwarts to build more discovery points or just admire the trophies you've collected. The story remains faithful to the film, and while it isn't complex, the world of the game is enjoyable enough to keep you engaged.
Building Hogwarts From the Ground Up
Although the Wii doesn't do as good a job of rendering graphics as its competitor consoles, most of the visuals in the game come through well enough. However, up close, the details dissolve, especially when you "examine" a note or a wall hanging, and it's hard to tell whether this is intentional. Overall, however, the people at EA Games, who also developed the games based on the other films in the Harry Potter series, did a good job of creating the sprawling property of Hogwarts and remained very faithful to the film's set design. The Grand Hall is especially accurate, and even places that aren't featured in the film, such as the boathouse, are well imagined.
In an effort to be even more accurate, EA Games employees scanned the faces of every cast member from the film—but the result is ghastly up close. Alan Rickman's Professor Snape likeness has the pupilless eyes of a horror-film ghost, and Maggie Smith's Professor McGonagall looks like death warmed over. Still, from afar, the characters are recognizable, and details like these make the film come alive.
The game incorporates excellent sound design. EA Games licensed composer John Williams' "Hedwig's Theme" from the film, which adds an aura of authenticity. In 5.1 surround sound, there are plenty of background noises populating the halls, from chattering portraits and heckling students to the ambient sounds of bird calls, wind, and even dishes scraping together. Twenty-two cast members from the film—including Rupart Grint, who plays Harry's sidekick Ron—also voiced their characters, which adds to the feeling that you're navigating through the film's world.
Not So Smooth Moves Slow You Down
While effort obviously went into the visual and sound design of the game, navigation didn't get the same treatment. Using the Marauder's Map, you choose your destination, and dark footsteps appear to show you which direction to go. Unfortunately, these footsteps are often difficult to see and do not render quickly enough when you move at top speed. They also go missing periodically, and you have to reselect your target to find them again. Savvy players will work to unlock all of the secret passages to cut down on navigation time, especially the tedium of running up and down the seven flights of the Grand Staircase.
Rendering errors contribute heavily to navigation frustration. Certain areas of the map are slower than others, and you can feel the system chugging to render the room in some cases. The characters of Ron and Hermione, who constantly follow Harry, often get in the way when you change direction. Camera angles don't shift easily, making it difficult to view targets at the roofline, and sometimes the heads of Ron and Hermione will block your view during a cutscene (although, sometimes these heads aren't rendered correctly and you can see through them). There are also bizarre rendering artifacts throughout the game, such as on the Grand Staircase where four rectangular shadows stutter and flare as you pass by.
Falling Under Its Spell
These annoyances aside, the game is fairly engaging and a fun way to explore the film's re-creation of Hogwarts. Harry Potter fans will enjoy the chance to cast spells and interact with the characters in this world, especially while waiting for Book 7 to arrive!
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix game for the Wii: ***
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Dog Spot: Huntington Beach
This Orange County city gives dogs the run of the beach.
The minute you bring home a puppy, you are unofficially initiated into a group you probably never knew existed—the dog owners' network. Almost immediately, you get sympathetic smiles from more experienced dog walkers as your 20-lb pup pulls you around the neighborhood. When you finally tangle leashes with another owner on your block, it escalates to encouraging words, and pretty soon, you're swapping stories and trading tips on everything from nutrition to discipline.
Probably the most valuable pearls of wisdom involve public places where dogs are welcome. In Los Angeles suburbs, many parks, beaches, and restaurants are off limits to canine companions, and with good reason. Not all owners are diligent about cleaning up after pets, and there are also discipline and safety issues to consider, especially when dogs are around small children. However, dogs also need places to run—and small suburban backyards don't always cut it.
Some communities offer parks and other areas where well-behaved dogs can play off leash—mostly thanks to lobbying efforts from organized dog owners. The Orange County community of Huntington Beach gives dogs plenty of play options, making it one of the best destinations for So Cal dogs. The area's crown jewel is a one-mile, leash-free stretch of beach—a rare treat for you and your dog.
Hit the Surf
Each year, more than 100,000 dogs take to the sand at Huntington Dog Beach, located off of Pacific Coast Highway between 21st Street and Seapoint Street. The designated beach is below street level, which keeps your dog safely away from traffic on the main road. When you arrive, park in one of the two parking lots, and bring plenty of quarters, as metered spots run 25 cents for every 10 minutes. If you plan to be a regular, membership parking permits are available.
A nonprofit organization administers the beach and employs cleaners who work every weekend and some weekdays. You will appreciate the ready supply of clean-up bags available from 60 dispensers along the beach, and there is even a dog drinking fountain located beside one of the towers.
Dogs of every size and breed play on the shore and in the surf, and many humans enjoy the beach along with them. Surfers and swimmers brave the water, and plenty of people lay out on towels and blankets despite a steady stream of dogs rushing by. With so much activity, dogs can be distracted easily by water fowl and other dogs. To keep your dog engaged, bring Frisbees or tennis balls—and pack a few extras, as it's easy to lose one in the waves.
Even though dogs are off leash, most owners keep their pets under control, which makes Huntington Dog Beach a fun and safe place to spend the day. While your dog enjoys running about unfettered, you can relax a little, too. Most people there will actually welcome attention from your canine friend!
Park It Here
After a full day at the beach, you and your dog will probably be ready to eat. In the nearby Huntington Central Park, you'll find a popular pet destination for refreshment—the Park Bench Cafe. Dog owners sit around plastic tables shaded by umbrellas, while at their feet, dogs enjoy bowls of fresh water. The menu tempts humans with wholesome cafe fare, and there's a also a special selection for dogs, including chicken strips and ice cream. For pets watching their weight, there's a kibble option as well. It may take a little while to be seated, but friendly service, good food, and pleasant atmosphere make it worth the wait!
After lunch, take a stroll around the park. While dogs have to be leashed here, they won't be bored. There are plenty of ducks and other water fowl to keep them entertained as you walk along tree-lined paths beside the pond. A fenced-off dog park on the premises gives your dog another place to play off leash, if chasing birds at the beach didn't prove to be as tiring as you'd hoped.
Find a Spot
As dog owners become more organized in their communities, efforts are underway to encourage more dog-friendly places in L.A. For example, lobbyists hope to open up Dockweiler Beach in Playa del Rey to dogs, which would mean that L.A. residents and their pets wouldn't have to travel to Santa Barbara or Long Beach for a day on the sand.
To find places that welcome dogs in your community, the Internet provides great information about restaurants, hotels, and other businesses that cater to dogs. But one of the best resources out there is The Dog Lover's Companion to California. This comprehensive guide will walk you through the best parks, eateries, and other dog-friendly destinations in every area of the state.
Huntington Dog Beach: *****
Park Bench Cafe: ****
The Dog Lover's Companion to California: *****
The minute you bring home a puppy, you are unofficially initiated into a group you probably never knew existed—the dog owners' network. Almost immediately, you get sympathetic smiles from more experienced dog walkers as your 20-lb pup pulls you around the neighborhood. When you finally tangle leashes with another owner on your block, it escalates to encouraging words, and pretty soon, you're swapping stories and trading tips on everything from nutrition to discipline.
Probably the most valuable pearls of wisdom involve public places where dogs are welcome. In Los Angeles suburbs, many parks, beaches, and restaurants are off limits to canine companions, and with good reason. Not all owners are diligent about cleaning up after pets, and there are also discipline and safety issues to consider, especially when dogs are around small children. However, dogs also need places to run—and small suburban backyards don't always cut it. Some communities offer parks and other areas where well-behaved dogs can play off leash—mostly thanks to lobbying efforts from organized dog owners. The Orange County community of Huntington Beach gives dogs plenty of play options, making it one of the best destinations for So Cal dogs. The area's crown jewel is a one-mile, leash-free stretch of beach—a rare treat for you and your dog.
Hit the Surf
Each year, more than 100,000 dogs take to the sand at Huntington Dog Beach, located off of Pacific Coast Highway between 21st Street and Seapoint Street. The designated beach is below street level, which keeps your dog safely away from traffic on the main road. When you arrive, park in one of the two parking lots, and bring plenty of quarters, as metered spots run 25 cents for every 10 minutes. If you plan to be a regular, membership parking permits are available.
A nonprofit organization administers the beach and employs cleaners who work every weekend and some weekdays. You will appreciate the ready supply of clean-up bags available from 60 dispensers along the beach, and there is even a dog drinking fountain located beside one of the towers.
Dogs of every size and breed play on the shore and in the surf, and many humans enjoy the beach along with them. Surfers and swimmers brave the water, and plenty of people lay out on towels and blankets despite a steady stream of dogs rushing by. With so much activity, dogs can be distracted easily by water fowl and other dogs. To keep your dog engaged, bring Frisbees or tennis balls—and pack a few extras, as it's easy to lose one in the waves.
Even though dogs are off leash, most owners keep their pets under control, which makes Huntington Dog Beach a fun and safe place to spend the day. While your dog enjoys running about unfettered, you can relax a little, too. Most people there will actually welcome attention from your canine friend!
Park It Here
After a full day at the beach, you and your dog will probably be ready to eat. In the nearby Huntington Central Park, you'll find a popular pet destination for refreshment—the Park Bench Cafe. Dog owners sit around plastic tables shaded by umbrellas, while at their feet, dogs enjoy bowls of fresh water. The menu tempts humans with wholesome cafe fare, and there's a also a special selection for dogs, including chicken strips and ice cream. For pets watching their weight, there's a kibble option as well. It may take a little while to be seated, but friendly service, good food, and pleasant atmosphere make it worth the wait!
After lunch, take a stroll around the park. While dogs have to be leashed here, they won't be bored. There are plenty of ducks and other water fowl to keep them entertained as you walk along tree-lined paths beside the pond. A fenced-off dog park on the premises gives your dog another place to play off leash, if chasing birds at the beach didn't prove to be as tiring as you'd hoped.
Find a Spot
As dog owners become more organized in their communities, efforts are underway to encourage more dog-friendly places in L.A. For example, lobbyists hope to open up Dockweiler Beach in Playa del Rey to dogs, which would mean that L.A. residents and their pets wouldn't have to travel to Santa Barbara or Long Beach for a day on the sand.
To find places that welcome dogs in your community, the Internet provides great information about restaurants, hotels, and other businesses that cater to dogs. But one of the best resources out there is The Dog Lover's Companion to California. This comprehensive guide will walk you through the best parks, eateries, and other dog-friendly destinations in every area of the state.
Huntington Dog Beach: *****
Park Bench Cafe: ****
The Dog Lover's Companion to California: *****
Monday, July 9, 2007
Tube Talk: Hours of Bauer
When you tune in to "24," one of Jack's days is also one of yours.
Catching the regular air time of the Fox television series "24" is dangerous enough to TV addicts, but the DVD boxed sets are even more lethal to reformed couch potatoes. Each of the one-hour episodes occurs in real time, which means every 24-episode season takes place during the course of one day.
But unlike the average person's day, each hour is fraught with life or death situations that demand decisive action from hero Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland), an agent for a government counterterrorist agency. Of course, every hour ends on a cliffhanger to keep viewers in knots between episodes. Thanks to the DVDs, however, that suspense doesn't have to last long. If you're not careful, popping "24" discs could eat up every spare hour of your weekend.
The show's premise alone was enough to keep our household "24"-free for six whole seasons. The irony is that while Jack Bauer combats terrorists, plans intricate rescue missions, and rockets through L.A. traffic, his viewers are practically inert. The series logo—the number 24 presented like the display of a digital clock—tells you exactly what tuning in will cost you, and we didn't want to waste an entire day in front of the TV. Of course, we have no trouble finding time for the ABC series "Lost," which had 24 one-hour episodes during its second season. But there is something alarming about seeing the total time so flagrantly advertised. Also, "24"'s premise adds pressure—obviously every hour has to count, so how can you possibly miss an episode? It smacked of a trap, and we carefully avoided it.
Our resolve completely broke down when my brother thrust the six DVDs for season one into our hands. We recoiled like it was poison, then started the first disc. The show has all the elements TV addicts crave—fast-paced action, high-stakes drama, and surprising twists. A show with this premise risks slowing down for long stretches, but by constantly shifting the focus to different characters, the episodes hardly lose their breakneck pace. Before we knew it, we'd pounded seven episodes in a row! Of course, we were chagrined, but not surprised. It was everything we'd feared, only worse: We'd enjoyed every minute of it.
It's a small consolation that each episode lasts only 44 minutes without commercials, so DVD viewers can get away with 17.6 hours in front of the TV instead of the whole 24. Even so, 17.6 hours! Multiply that by six seasons, and you get a number I can't bear to think about, and that doesn't even account for inevitable future seasons (there may be a feature film as well).
Obviously, the time viewers commit to "24" is really no greater than what they spend on other hour-long dramas, most of which have at least 24 episodes per season. But these are still dangerous times for TV addicts. It used to be that you could catch TV shows only in real-time, with occasional VCR recordings reserved for favorite programs you couldn't bear to miss on your nights out. This encouraged selection. But with digital video recorders and DVDs, any show you ever had a passing curiosity about is within reach. For TV lovers, this could mean more couch time than ever before. In 2004, Americans spent an average of 10 hours per week watching television, with an additional 10 hours per week on the Internet. I would love to research how TV on DVD has affected those statistics, but I can't. We're about to start Season 2 of "24."
First season of "24": ****
Catching the regular air time of the Fox television series "24" is dangerous enough to TV addicts, but the DVD boxed sets are even more lethal to reformed couch potatoes. Each of the one-hour episodes occurs in real time, which means every 24-episode season takes place during the course of one day.
But unlike the average person's day, each hour is fraught with life or death situations that demand decisive action from hero Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland), an agent for a government counterterrorist agency. Of course, every hour ends on a cliffhanger to keep viewers in knots between episodes. Thanks to the DVDs, however, that suspense doesn't have to last long. If you're not careful, popping "24" discs could eat up every spare hour of your weekend. The show's premise alone was enough to keep our household "24"-free for six whole seasons. The irony is that while Jack Bauer combats terrorists, plans intricate rescue missions, and rockets through L.A. traffic, his viewers are practically inert. The series logo—the number 24 presented like the display of a digital clock—tells you exactly what tuning in will cost you, and we didn't want to waste an entire day in front of the TV. Of course, we have no trouble finding time for the ABC series "Lost," which had 24 one-hour episodes during its second season. But there is something alarming about seeing the total time so flagrantly advertised. Also, "24"'s premise adds pressure—obviously every hour has to count, so how can you possibly miss an episode? It smacked of a trap, and we carefully avoided it.
Our resolve completely broke down when my brother thrust the six DVDs for season one into our hands. We recoiled like it was poison, then started the first disc. The show has all the elements TV addicts crave—fast-paced action, high-stakes drama, and surprising twists. A show with this premise risks slowing down for long stretches, but by constantly shifting the focus to different characters, the episodes hardly lose their breakneck pace. Before we knew it, we'd pounded seven episodes in a row! Of course, we were chagrined, but not surprised. It was everything we'd feared, only worse: We'd enjoyed every minute of it.
It's a small consolation that each episode lasts only 44 minutes without commercials, so DVD viewers can get away with 17.6 hours in front of the TV instead of the whole 24. Even so, 17.6 hours! Multiply that by six seasons, and you get a number I can't bear to think about, and that doesn't even account for inevitable future seasons (there may be a feature film as well).
Obviously, the time viewers commit to "24" is really no greater than what they spend on other hour-long dramas, most of which have at least 24 episodes per season. But these are still dangerous times for TV addicts. It used to be that you could catch TV shows only in real-time, with occasional VCR recordings reserved for favorite programs you couldn't bear to miss on your nights out. This encouraged selection. But with digital video recorders and DVDs, any show you ever had a passing curiosity about is within reach. For TV lovers, this could mean more couch time than ever before. In 2004, Americans spent an average of 10 hours per week watching television, with an additional 10 hours per week on the Internet. I would love to research how TV on DVD has affected those statistics, but I can't. We're about to start Season 2 of "24."
First season of "24": ****
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Wii Views: A Nongamer's Game Guide
Best buys exploit the controllers' surprising range of motion.
There's a reason that demand for the Wii console quickly exceeded supply when Nintendo launched the game system late last year. Released as an underdog to Sony's much touted PlayStation 3, the Wii flew off the shelves, overshadowing Sony's upgrade in number of units sold, if not in graphics quality. The secret? While Sony and Microsoft systems target serious gamers, Nintendo's unit is designed for casual gamers—people who know a joystick when they see one but rarely sit through anything more involved than Minesweeper or Tetris.
The novelty lies in the Wii controllers. The first is the Wii Remote, a remote control-like device with a wrist strap. For most games, players move the Wii Remote to mimic the movements of real-life activities from bowling to mixing cake batter. A supplemental controller, called the Nunchuck, features a traditional joystick. The controllers hook together for two-handed games such as boxing and even semaphore.
Successful Wii games offer players a range of motion and activity, without involved button presses. The best games have no barrier to entry, which makes the console attractive to gamers of all ages and ability levels. Will families give up excruciating board games like Candy Land for a round of Wii tennis? One can hope!
As with any system, some games are better than others—and at $50 a pop, gamers can't afford not to be choosy. Some games incorporate unique uses for the controllers, while others rely on old standbys, such as complicated button combos. The best games make it easy to pick up the Wii Remote and play as soon as the disc loads.
There's a reason that demand for the Wii console quickly exceeded supply when Nintendo launched the game system late last year. Released as an underdog to Sony's much touted PlayStation 3, the Wii flew off the shelves, overshadowing Sony's upgrade in number of units sold, if not in graphics quality. The secret? While Sony and Microsoft systems target serious gamers, Nintendo's unit is designed for casual gamers—people who know a joystick when they see one but rarely sit through anything more involved than Minesweeper or Tetris.
The novelty lies in the Wii controllers. The first is the Wii Remote, a remote control-like device with a wrist strap. For most games, players move the Wii Remote to mimic the movements of real-life activities from bowling to mixing cake batter. A supplemental controller, called the Nunchuck, features a traditional joystick. The controllers hook together for two-handed games such as boxing and even semaphore. Successful Wii games offer players a range of motion and activity, without involved button presses. The best games have no barrier to entry, which makes the console attractive to gamers of all ages and ability levels. Will families give up excruciating board games like Candy Land for a round of Wii tennis? One can hope!
As with any system, some games are better than others—and at $50 a pop, gamers can't afford not to be choosy. Some games incorporate unique uses for the controllers, while others rely on old standbys, such as complicated button combos. The best games make it easy to pick up the Wii Remote and play as soon as the disc loads.
- Wii Sports. Packaged with the console, Wii Sports offers the perfect introduction to the controllers. The Wii Sports games allow players to use Miis, or avatars that they customize on the main console menu. Novice players are bound to fall in love with Wii tennis, which is the easiest game to play and the most addictive. Gamers swing the Wii Remote like a racquet to serve and return the ball, and the controller even vibrates when the racquet makes contact. This "freebie" has one of the best multiplayer capabilities for the console—up to four players can participate in a tennis match. Also included: baseball, bowling, golf, boxing, a series of training games for each sport, and a daily skill-level test. Rating: *****
- Raving Rabbids. If you buy only one game, this is the one you want. A group of disturbing-looking rabbits kidnap your character (Rayman, for gamers in the know) and drag you off to a Romanesque arena where you face a variety of rabbit-ridden challenges to earn your freedom. These activities range from the tame (sheering sheep) to the gross (pulling worms from rabbit teeth). Players have to beat at least three of the four challenges in each level to advance to the boss round (usually a first-person shooter involving suction cups). If you're not in the mood for story mode, you can play any of the unlocked games in single- or multiplayer settings. Rating: *****
- WarioWare: Smooth Moves. Players have to think fast to beat minigames throughout Wario's home town of Diamond City. In each leg of the story arc, gamers must change how they hold and move the controller to complete successive, timed activities, including sauteing vegetables, shaving mustaches, and posting flyers. Offering some of the best uses of the Wii Remote, hilarious challenges, and entertaining (and skippable) transitions, WarioWare: Smooth Moves is delightful for single players. However, it falls short in multiplayer mode: Gamers are forced to take turns and share a controller—which is easier said than done and not nearly as much fun as a real-time competition. Rating: ****
- Mario Party 8. This disappointing successor to the GameCube version irks from the opening screen when a frogman with a talking top hat promises to manage every minute of your play. Gamers must beat a series of board games, relying more on luck than on skill, to unlock second-rate minigames. Several of the minigames—especially those that involve hammering, shooting, or navigating—feel like rough drafts for the Raving Rabbids or WarioWare: Smooth Moves versions. Unskippable transitions and an overactive "save game" reflex constantly interrupt play. Even multiplayer gaming feels like a chore with minigames that require too many button combos and delicate movements. Rating: **
- Wii Play. Packaged with a Wii Remote, these nine games offer more multiplayer opportunities, but on a less polished level than Wii Sports. Gamers use their Miis to play pool, table tennis, and Pong, or just go fishing—there's even a game resembling Duck Hunt. Rating: ***
- The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. For gamers looking to commit, the latest of Link's princess-saving adventures comes to life with both the Wii Remote and the Nunchuck. While the game relies on many button combos, movement is mostly intuitive, and each sword trick is explained as it comes up in the story. The narrative may be melodramatic at times, but it's engaging enough to keep you moving from challenge to challenge, and the content-rich settings offer several minigame breaks and collection quests. The dungeons are fairly extensive—if you start to lose interest in puzzle-solving, there are a variety of Internet walkthroughs, but the most detailed, sympathetic, and easy to navigate is at GameSpot. Rating: *****
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