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Fat Girl Deeply Disturbing, Absolutely Riveting
Basically, the book is a memoir chronicling Moore's life as an overweight girl and woman. From the beginning, she is frank, saying:
Narrators of first-person claptrap like this often greet the reader at the door with moist hugs and complaisant kisses. I won't. I will not endear myself. I won't put on airs. I am not that pleasant. The older I get the less pleasant I am.And she's right. She is not pleasant. Not at all. She describes - coldly and bitterly - what it is like to be an overweight woman. From the injury of insults shouted by teenage boys, to the pain of not fitting into plus-sized pantyhose to the horror on a friend's face when she says she's in love with him, Moore tells it all. Still, in the first third of the book, I found her to be a mean, unlikeable narrator.
When Moore begins talking about her childhood, however, I couldn't stop reading. It was heartbreaking. Sad. And undeniably compelling. She endured a bleak childhood, unloved by her mother and abandoned by her father. Starved for love, she turned to food. If that sounds cliche, she offers other - more disturbing - examples of how emotionally scarred she was:
I began to chew my fingernails. I turned into a voracious eater whose meal was herself. I ripped and I tore at the flesh around my child nails; I licked, delicately and hungrily, at the blood that popped up in bright droplets at my chubby fingers' ends. I ate myself raw. (123)The majority of the book reads like this, describing how lonely and painful she was as a child. The only glimmers of happiness in her life are imagined or real, but short-lived. She talks about the months she lived with her kind uncle, a joyous respite that was cut short when her cancer-stricken grandmother came to live with him. Life in the once happy house soon turned terrifying for young Judith, who had to sit by her mean-spirited Grammy, listening to the woman whimper, "I hurt" and "I don't want to die."
I hoped things would look up for Judith, but they didn't. She grew from an unhappy girl into an unhappy woman. In the book's forward, Moore promises not to sugar coat anything. And she doesn't. She swears, "Rockettes will not arrive on the final page and kick up their high heels and show their petticoats" (2-3), and they don't. Fat Girl does not have a nice, triumphant ending. What it does have is truth, truth so real that it hurts.
Judith Moore's writing is interesting. I mentioned that she isn't a warm and engaging storyteller. She is frank. She is honest. But, she is also coldly matter-of-fact. Her sentences are often awkward, like this one: "Uncle Carl, I don't know where he was, but we were not having the family meal with him" (176). In contrast, she offers brutal, but strong descriptions like this one about her maternal grandmother:
She was the Nazi of the barnyard, entirely businesslike in these procedures, and it seemed not to bother her when blood soaked her apron and blood dried in splotches on her bare arms and legs and in the folds of her neck. "If you want to eat you got to kill," she said, when I ran in fright from her.You can see how ambivalent I am about this book. In one way, it is repulsive in its revelations of hate and abuse (and in several descriptions of sexual acts); in another, it is both compelling and moving. It is well-written in some respects, not so much in others. I couldn't stop reading, but I don't think I would have finished the book if I hadn't chosen it for the Triple 8 Challenge. I'm not even sure if I would recommend it to a friend. Is it angry? Yes. Is it disturbing? Yes. Is it riveting? Absolutely. Am I encouraging you to read it? Not really. I wish I could be more decisive, but I just can't. It's deeply disturbing, utterly heartbreaking, and absolutely riveting.
Grade: C
Another Disappointing Film Adaptation
Don't you hate it when you love a book, and Hollywood announces it's making a film based on the story? You wonder if the writers/actors/producers will do justice to the words and characters that swept you away when you read the book. You cringe to think of the many, many ways Hollywood could alter - or even destroy - the work you love so dearly.
This is why I watched Stardust (the movie based on Neil Gaiman's novel of the same name) with so much anxiety. I loved the book. It was charming, magical and sweet. I hoped the movie would be the same, and that I would adore it as much as I did the book. But, I just ... didn't. Don't get me wrong - I didn't hate the film, I just didn't like it as much as I wanted to. Somehow, it lacked the magic of the book.
On the Plus Side: I did like Charlie Cox as Tristran. I thought he was loveable, with the right mix of vulnerability and inner strength. I also thought Michelle Pfeiffer was well cast as Lamia, the hag. Also, the movie, on the whole, succeeded in being whimsical and lighthearted, which was one of the reasons I enjoyed the book so much.
On the Other Hand: For some reason, I wasn't impressed with Claire Danes as Yvaine. She just seemed awkward in her role. I also think she and Charlie lacked chemistry. Some of the minor characters irritated me as well, especially the dead princes. However, I loathed what the filmmakers did to the kindly pilot, Captain Alberic. They turned him into Captain Shakespeare, a blubbering, cross-dressing fool (Robert DeNiro's most humiliating role since Jack Byrnes in Meet the Parents/Fockers). Ugh.
In general, the movie was disappointing. I really, really thought I would love it and I think I would have if Hollywood had stuck closer to Gaiman's original words and characters. Taking the Gaiman out of the story just took away the magic for me. What did the rest of you think?
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