The Boy Who Lived, and his awesome friends

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 1:

3.5 burning bats of out 4

The third Potter book and film had always been my favorites in the series. After seeing part 1 last night though I may  have a new favorite. The opening scene of Bill Nighy's character's chilling speech to the wizard community and the chilling scene with Hermoine and her family set the one for not only the darkest, but deepest Potter film yet.

I, like many fans of the series, felt that Harry himself had a horseshoe stuck up his ass. I think the same can be said about Daniel Radcliffe. I am not in love with him as an actor, as he still struggles with really dramatic scenes. I mean he's been doing them since he was about 10, he should have it down. Also he desperately needed to shave during the film (the live in a tent bigger then my room). I think though that he may be just playing the part well, or he is just surrounded by such a good cast. This film had so many characters that I who have read all the books, had trouble remembering all of them. They pop up and then disappear too often. But, Part 1 centers on the coming of age of Harry, Hermoine and Ron, and because of this focus, the film succeeds, largely to Rupert Grint, who plays Ron.

It's early and may be a stretch, but I believe Grint deserves a best supporting actor nomination (I also believe he will be the most successful of the three). He not only plays Ron spot on, but also makes him more real than the books did. The way he portrays the jealousies Ron feels about being thought of as second to Harry, but also the doubt that creeps into him about Hermoine's true feelings for him were perfect. His humor is natural and dead on, and so are his interactions with Hermoine.

The choice to break up the final book into two films was necessary. I felt there was too much missing from the beginning in this film (Mad eye moody scene, c'mon!), but luckily it was replaced by Harry and Hermoines being bummed out, and sitting under trees or in brilliant back drops. The cinematography was great, especially contrasting the sometimes dizzing scenes in London. When Wizards transport (i know thats not the right word) does it have to make my head hurt? It has happened in the last few films, the bodies twisting into a vortex. Why can't they just puff, disappear?

Oh, and it was great to see Emma Watson on the big screen for a good hour and a half, and she plays Hermoine perfectly. She's worth the price of admission, but her on screen boyfriend steals the show.

Happy Turkey Day

I stuffed my face with food today and gave thanks for my family (those that I like) and friends. I don't have much to write tonight. I thought i'd list some goals for my long winter break:

submit a 30 word story to Smokelong Quarterly (by the end of the month!)
submit to PANK.
submit to Slow Trains.
find other places to submit.
before submitting revise like hell.
put ideas onto page (bribe fingers to collaborate with brain)
read from the ever increasing tower of lit. on my nightstand.
find more interesting authors to read, add to tower.
download music, review it.
do yoga, some push ups.
bake bread.
eat lots of soup.
wear long johns as much a possible.
research grad schools.
grow civil war quality beard.

First post

Today is the birth of my blog. I will post flash fiction, short stories, poetry, prose poetry, book/ album/movie/t.v.show reviews, sports commentary, pictures and random thoughts. I am a junior creative writing major at DePaul. I dream of being published, being the youngest author of One Book, One Chicago and running around New Zealand. I am currently sitting in my parent's kitchen, watching the dishes dry themselves. I am wearing a Croatian soccer jersey. I am not Croatian, I think.

What I'm reading:   Live Nude Girl by Kathleen Rooney (amazing DePaul professor)
                              Tinderbox Lawn by Carol Guess (lent to me by KR)
                              Love Drugged by James Klise (my high school librarian)

On Deck:               Slow Trains Overhead by Reginald Gibbon
                              Daddy's by Lindsay Hunter (also lent to me by KR)
                              The Middle of the Night by Daniel Stolar (DePaul professor I'll have next quarter)

In the hole:             Ruins by Achy Obejas (another amazing DePaul professor, who gave me a free                           autographed copy of her novel!)
                             The Devil in the White city by Erik Larson ('bout half way done)
                             In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (reread)

I also did some early Christmas shopping for myself a few nights ago. arriving in my mailbox shortly: Tinkers by Paul Harding, Trash by Dorothy Allison, Zen in the Art of Archery by Eugen Herrigel and Best European Fiction ('11) edited by Alexander Hemon. I had also ordered films: Reprise, (which arrived today, and a review of it will be up shortly) The Fall and The Prestige. I also ordered some new shoes and a new coat.

What's coming out of the ear phones:          Sidewalks (Matt and Kim)

Soon to be downloaded:                            All Day (Girl Talk)
                                                                 My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (Kanye West)
                                                                 Best of Gloucester County (Danielson) featuring Jens Lekman  AND Sufjan Stevens!

I think that is enough. The 'Hawks and Sharks are calling.

The Burning of the Bat

It was a pitch at the hands that cracked the bat, and the split was heard throughout the deep forest. The batter dropped the bat upon making contact. First he looked down at his red hands, then at the massacre that lay at his feet. A treme run through the handle of the timber. The infield huddled around it, kneeling, caps bowed. The catcher picked up the splintered sultan swatter, and placed it in the middle of the fire pit. Pine tar and sunflower seeds were placed beside it, under a tepee of dry logs. When the sun fell, the fire was lit, and propelled by unused mosquito repellent and greasy pizza boxes. The fire grew to 60 feet 6 inches, but the players remained. There were no hymns and campfire songs, and no playing capture the flag under the starlight. They all just watched the bat slowly burn. The gloss made the bat glow; the fire curve. As the fire died, the bat turned from oak to ash. The players retreated to their cots, with their mitts under their pillows and their stirrups still on and fell asleep, but dreamed no more. When the sun returned, they huddled around the remains of the bat and each of them wiped the ashes under their eyes, as eye black.