Some Other Citra IPAs, Reviewed

Kelso IPA #4 — B+
Mikkeller Single Hop Citra IPA — B+

Kelso Brewery is one of New York City's few true "local" breweries — by which I mean, they actually brew everything here and don't outsource the majority of the work to Utica. (In fact, they contract brew for Heartland Brewery, which is oddly one of the few brewpubs in NYC. For a city with so many hipsters and beer nerds, it's sad that we're so lacking in actual beer production.)  Anyway, despite their legit local cred, you tend not to see Kelso's brews all that many places — they seem to have a small fraction of the distribution that Sixpoint enjoys. So when I saw that they were brewing an IPA remarkably similar to the IPA I was attempting, I was like "Hey, that's cool." I don't know anything about what went into this IPA other than its hop profile (nor do I know the hop schedule) but nonetheless, Kelso's IPA #4 was a citra-centered ale with cascade and centennial hops backing it. And that is essentially what I did — cascade and centennial are considered extremely similar sister hops, with centennial having a higher alpha acid content, and therefore being most often used as a bittering hop. Which is what I did, though I didn't add in any additional cascade. So anyway — sounded similar; I had to try. Of course, if you've read my assessment of my own beer, you know that it didn't come out anything like your typical, balanced IPA.

I'm not at all surprised that Kelso's citra IPA and Mikkeller's Citra IPA taste nothing like mine, but it is bizarre how little either IPA tastes like what I expect from citra. See, actual citra hops, before they're put into beer, have this remarkable, incredibly fruity mango/peach flavor, but from something that's still distinctly hoppy. It really might be one of my favorite smells in the entire world. I expected citra hops to taste like this once added to beer, but they don't, really. Both Mikkeller and Kelso's citra IPAs taste pretty similar, with what I'm guessing was a more-or-less comparable amount and variety of malts. Both are sort of malty and sweet, as far as IPAs go, similar to other east coast IPAs. Oddly, I think citra benefits from a beer that isn't too sweet, and definitely not too malty. Both seemed like they would have gained from being lighter, letting the juiciness of the hops shine through. Or maybe — as I might have learned from my own citra IPA — citra comes out as kind of tart and grapefruity when it's allowed to contribute to the bitterness. If Kelso and Mikkeller wanted to avoid that, I can see why they would have gone darker. As I concluded before, I think citra is best used, and certainly most unique, as an aroma hop.

As a flavor hop, it's still kind of different in a way I can't quite explain. It still has some fruitiness, but the flavors are all melded together into this rounded, very smooth taste that somehow also has a sharp bitterness at the same time. It's interesting and unexpected, but it's hard to pick out or describe individual flavors. It creates an IPA decidedly unlike other IPAs, and yet it's not as bursting with flavor as I would have expected, or hoped. So, pro's and con's, I guess. It's definitely still a fantastic hop, and both of these beers were among the better IPAs I've had recently. I don't remember either specifically enough to review them individually, but I tasted them a few days apart and was definitely left with the impression that they were quite similar. Single-hop IPAs usually have a hard time achieving complexity, for obvious reasons, so the fact that these were quite good — judged against their general style — just makes me want to see citra used in more creative ways.

A WHOLE ****TON OF IPA REVIEWS

Weyerbacher Hops Infusion (PA) — B-
I think hops tend to fall into about four approximate categories: citrusy (and juicy), spicy, piney (which can blend into spicy), and floral (which can blend with piney.) Weyerbacher's IPA embodies the spicy end of the spectrum, with a very dry, spicy, and slightly piney taste. The bitterness is extremely prominent, with little in the way of sweetness rounding it out, and the spicy character of the hops themselves lending to a consistent mouthfeel and dry aftertaste. If you love hops doing that kind of thing, then this is an IPA for you. Personally, not being a huge fan of spicy dry hops, I'd rate this one as average, though it's good for what it is.

Ballast Point Sculpin IPA (CA) — B+
While I don't know that I'd consider this one of the best IPAs I've had, I can see why Sculpin is often mentioned amongst the top tier of IPAs in the country. It's not overrated, it's just a quintessential IPA that's perfectly executed. It's a little dry and not quite as juicy as I'd like, but I suspect if I had this beer fresh, on tap somewhere, it would be more impressive. As it is, the bitterness is a bit monotone, but tasty nonetheless. There's a nice clean grapefruit taste that accents the light-body lack of sweetness. I don't mind unbalanced IPAs — I like the west coast style because I prefer that they not be overly malty — but I am honestly surprised at how unbalanced Sculpin is, tending toward that dry-mouth bitterness. I would certainly get this one again, though I doubt it'll ever enter the ranks of my all-time favorites.

Great Divide Titan (CO) — B
For an IPA, this beer is intensely smooth and malty, and tastes a lot more like the English variations of the style than what you'd expect from a Colorado IPA. I could be mistaken — or maybe I just got a weird bottle — but I thought Titan sported the unique taste of British yeast, something you don't find much from that part of the US. There's a definite hop kick to the aftertaste, and a bitterness that lingers on the tongue, but otherwise you could convince me that this was a nice creamy Scottish ale. It's tasty though, and a nice unique blend of styles. Even though I'm not entirely sure what's going on here, I wouldn't mind drinking Titan on a regular basis.

Ithaca Flower Power (NY) — A
Flower Power is one of the driest east coast IPAs that I've had; it seems much more like a west coast beer. And it really lives up to its name. Floral and crisp and light in color like a thick golden pilsner, it's shocking to find that Flower Power packs an 8% ABV.  Yet as drinkable as it is, the hops are still what sells this IPA. Flower Power embodies the floral side of the hop spectrum, with enough of a hint of pine and citrus to balance things out. It works well for the beer, especially given its crisp body and mouthfeel. Well done in every way, Flower Power is probably in my top 3 IPAs.

Lagunitas IPA (CA) — A+
This is one of those rare cases where a beer is ubiquitous not just because the company has excellent distribution — although that's probably most of the reason — but also because it's just an all-around excellent (and sessionable) beer. Not that I was paying much attention at the time, but I remember this IPA as one of the first that got me into the style. (And thank god for that; what did I even drink before I became a hophead convert?) It's no wonder to me now. After sampling nearly every IPA I can get my hands on, I keep coming back to Lagunitas as my perfect IPA — perfectly bodied, pleasantly bitter, with mouth-watering citrus / floral / juicy hop flavors. It's everything I want in a beer, and it looks beautiful too. Now, don't get me wrong, I know it's not a very adventurous IPA. But we all need a beer we can come back to anytime, and easily kill a sixpack of, and right now, this is it for me.

Stone IPA (CA) — A-

The hops here are focused on a nice clean bitterness, and only as it warms, on certain sips, do the juicy citrus hops shine through. In another words, this is a pretty quintessential west coast IPA, fairly similar to Sculpin. It's lighter, though, and despite the very present bitterness, it's still quite flavorful. One of my favorites, though I can't think of much else to say about it. Stone knows their way around hops.

Victory Hop Devil (PA) — B+
If east coast IPAs are more your thing, this should probably be one of your go-to beers. Well balanced between malty, hoppy, bitter and fruity, this a great representation of the style, probably one of the best. Since I like my IPAs a little less malty, I'm not sure if I consider this one of my favorites. I can't really pinpoint anything remarkable about it, just that it's good.

Butternuts Snapperhead (NY) — B-
This is a quirky little beer, and not just because it's one of the first IPAs I saw appear in (and only in) cans. Despite its billing, this one doesn't seem much like an IPA; I'd say it's like a cream(y) ale mixed with a pale ale. Judged by those funky hybrid standards, I thought it was pretty good: it's beautiful, creamy, and drinkable, with a pleasant mouthfeel that brings traces of hops, citrus and smooth light maltiness. Don't quote me on this, but I believe I also detected British yeast, adding to the smoothness of the beer's profile. If you're a hophead, this might not be your thing, but it's a decent beer for what it is.

Southern Tier IPA (NY) — B+

While nothing groundbreaking or particularly unique upon first taste, this is one of few IPAs I've had where I can really pinpoint the melding of various hop flavors (without it being jarring or weird.) At first, it seemed not unlike the Lagunitas IPA, as it's the same color and achieves the same almost-creamy smooth mouthfeel, with light malts, a darkened gold hue, and a nice floral/citrus aroma typical of the style. But this one is less juicy or fruity, and actually has a lot of those spicy / peppery hops kicking around. Which sort of masks the fact that this one isn't very bitter — hoppy, but not that bitter. This isn't my favorite combination of hop-types, but it's very well done.

Redhook Long Hammer (WA) — C+
Long Hammer's main selling point is its price — sixpacks are usually a few bucks cheaper than any other IPAs in the beer aisle — so I wasn't expecting anything great here. In that sense it met my expectations, and it's not bad per se, it's just a little... wonky. The hops don't seem to be quite balanced right, and don't quite blend together. The maltiness is a little off and the carbonation, rather than making the beer pleasant to drink, seems to add a bit of a weird metallic bite. I can't tell if this is the result of capable brewmasters just trying to make an IPA that's more affordable — which is fine, really — or an IPA that for whatever reason didn't come together right, but got released anyway. While I thought it was drinkable, I probably wouldn't buy it again unless I was feeling particularly cheap.

Sixpoint Bengali Tiger (NY) — B

I've had Bengali Tiger various times on tap, but since Sixpoint just released their four main beers in cans, I figured I needed to include their IPA in this roundup. It's a nice blend of the various 'types' of IPAs, with a bit of citrusy, spicy and floral joined together, but not quite as malty and sweet as many east coast IPAs. It makes for a nice well-rounded beer, but also an IPA with nothing particularly distinct going on. Beers like this are great when you're out at some generic bar, and it's likely to be one of the best things on tap — but nothing I'd stock my fridge with on a regular basis.

21st Amendment Hop Crisis (CA) — B-
Technically, this one shouldn't really count for an IPA roundup, but I've sort-of been collecting 21st Amendment's line of interesting cans and badass boxes — which, I have to admit, are usually superior to the beer they contain. Fittingly, Hop Crisis is an okay Imperial IPA, but nothing particularly special. The ABV is on the high end of the spectrum even for the style, at 9.7%, despite the smooth golden color the beer pours. While it's light, it's also a bit syrupy, and the alcohol is a bit too warm and noticeable. The hop flavor is nice and juicy, but I could have gone for even more hops. There's very little bitterness, just a nice citrusy flavor that merges into the sweetness. Okay, but underwhelming.

THE SCAR (BY) CHINA MIEVILLE

Published 2002, 656 pages
Characters: B+
Writing: A-
Plot: A
Pacing: A
Poignancy: B+


I've read a lot of China Mieville books in the last year.  The Scar is probably the best of the those books, on a technical level, though it's not my favorite.  Here, Mieville seems to recognize his strengths while trying a bit too hard to shy away from his weaknesses, creating a novel that is consistently good and often great, yet never quite so stunning or impressive as Perdido Street Station.

The Scar, like seemingly all of Mieville's novels, takes place in a city that eventually begins to shape the plot through its own quirks and circumstances. The Scar is set not long after the events of Perdido Street Station, following an exile named Bellis who had to flee her home following the events of that previous novel. That is the only connection between the two books, really — the events of one set in motion the events of the next, but you could easily read The Scar on its own. Proceeding with the plot summary: Bellis is captured by mysterious pirates, who take her to Armada, a legendary floating city composed of thousands of stolen ships lashed together, existing for hundreds of years as a vagrant metropolis, impossible for anyone to intentionally track down. Of course, the story only begins there. The novel deals with a city of pirates, but the story isn't as topical as that tease-y synopsis suggests — stupid Johnny Depp — as pirating actually has very little to do with the plot. Once Bellis arrives in Aramada, she's soon involved in a complicated conspiracy and a hard-to-explain-without-giving everything-away plot to lead the city into a new era. Shit gets real.

Like with Perdido Street Station, the strength of the novel is all the odd, imaginative stuff that goes down. But Perdido Street Station reads like a fireworks display of creativity, with ideas bursting and arcing away out of nowhere, making little contribution to the plot, yet stunning nonetheless. The Scar is more balanced. The plot unfolds at a steady, well thought-out pace. Everything is well structured. Most of the random ideas Mieville throws out make an obvious contribution to later events in the book. And that's both an improvement and a detriment. The Scar is probably a better novel on a technical level, but it never really blew me away. The plot is more structured, and cleverly executed, there are moments when it doesn't feel quite satisfying. The characters are amongst the strongest Mieville has created, but as I've noticed in his other novels, many of them feel like a tease, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them once they're there — developed to the point where you'd expect some last development from them that never comes. Mieville is also very distant with some of his plot points in The Scar — in particular the Avanc, which he seems to consciously keep at an arms length from the reader, as if worried he couldn't do it justice.

While not his most sprawling or ambitious work, The Scar is a fantastic novel and proof that Mieville has a deep understanding of his craft, an awareness of his own strengths that allows him to create a chaotic, vast world that somehow seems perfectly organic and tangible. In tone — if not in feasibility — The Scar and Perdido Street Station are perhaps the most realistic fantasy-type novels I've ever read. (Uh-oh, gritty... dark... pirates... vampires... how has this not been made into a movie yet?)  Mieville's ideas are so impressive not just because of their variety and uniqueness, but because they fit together like jigsaw pieces, creating something more impressive than any one of them, and somehow, also, creating a rich and compelling narrative.

EMBASSYTOWN (BY) CHINA MIEVILLE

Published 2011, 368 pages
Characters: B-
Writing: B+
Plot: B
Pacing: B
Poignancy: B-

Embassytown is a good book, an OK sci-fi novel, and a slightly disappointing China Mieville novel, given his demonstrated potential. Of the four Mieville books I've read now (I'm concurrently reading The Scar, but that review won't be up for a few weeks) Embassytown is probably the least-great. Probably, that just goes to show how strong Mieville is as an author. Yet here, he shies away from the those things that previously made him such an interesting, unique writer, even as he seems to embrace the same themes and stylistic decisions that should play to those very strengths. Embassytown, like all Mieville novels that I've read, is as much about the city in which it takes place as any of the other plot components. The city is a character — though here, it never becomes the main character, which is maybe the primary difference.

Embassytown only embodies that theme in its setting, a human ghetto set within the borders of an alien city on a frontier planet — it never really deals with the nature of cities within cities the way Mieville's other stories did. Embassytown is the name of a human colony nested within the city of the Hosts, aliens who speak an extremely unusual language. The nature of language itself, rather than that of cities, becomes the main "character" of the novel. There are two quirks to the language of the Hosts: first, they have two mouths, and so their language is layered, a dual language of simultaneously spoken sounds, thus making it impossible for a human to physically reproduce. Secondly, the Hosts are stuck in some bizarre stage of evolutionary psychology, and are not sentient in the way that humans are sentient, despite having evolved society, cities and complex bio-technology. This is also due to their unique language, which isn't a language to them at all, but manifested thoughts. To the Hosts, their words are not 'words' but simply shared, pure reality; they have not evolved the concept of signifiers or metaphors or language as humans understand it. As a result, Hosts cannot lie; what they speak can only directly relate to the world around them. Also as a result, all other organized language is gibberish to them, including their own when not spoken by another Host. In order to communicate with the Hosts, humans have bred special clones, identical dual ambassadors that are able to speak the dual language as one mind. Eventually, naturally, this tedious and imperfect system causes an upset in the balance between the species. Hilarity ensues.

So Embassytown is about language, more than anything. Every plot development is a result of language. The main character herself is caught up in the concept of language — as a child, she was forced to undergo a sort of performance for the Hosts in order to become a living simile, as the Hosts are only able to refer to things that have actually occurred. Embassytown deals with linguistic playfulness far more directly than any other sci-fi book I've read in the past, yet it makes the theme seem obvious and necessary. With an alien civilization, wouldn't the differences in language dominate everything, every relationship and interaction between those societies? And yet, with this interesting and undoubtedly unique conceit, the book takes on a directness that is simultaneously a great idea and its main flaw. Mieville's strengths are in his imagination, and his imagination seems to be best when he gives himself a lot of material to play around with. Embassytown is so straightforward in the themes it addresses that it misses out on the atmosphere and intrigue that usually go with Mieville novels. This isn't a fault — there's nothing wrong with what's actually there, just the sense of missing pieces that could make the story better. The plot seems weak and thin, and so do the characters. Mieville's past novels generally hinge on some mysterious outside force driving the action, but since it's the characters here who push things forward, their flaws become more problematic. I just didn't buy — or even understand — a lot of the developments in the second half of the novel, because I felt no connection to the characters' logic. Worse, a lot of the characters were wholly pointless by the time everything wrapped up.

Embassytown is still good, purely through Mieville's strengths as an author. While much of the book felt a bit thin and arbitrary, it was also consistently interesting throughout, and raises a few interesting concepts — just not as many as I've come to expect from Mieville, and not handled as well. It's easy to criticize a lesser book by a brilliant author, because they've already established their skill, making it hard to ignore when those talents are missing.

FIRST THREE BEAR-FLAVORED ALES

Bear-Flavored Pale Ale #1 (26 IBU)
5 gallon extract batch
Grains: 0.5 lb American crystal 20L / 0.5 lb cara-pils
Malts: 3.3 lb light LME / 3 lb light DME
Hops: 1 oz Perle (bittering) / 1 oz Cascade
Yeast: Safale US-05 dry ale yeast
Expectations: I didn't have every high expectations for my first Bear Flavored Ale — capturing the flavor and essence of bears is notoriously difficult. #1 didn't turn out terrible, in the general scheme of things, but it's so far removed from what I was expecting that I am definitely a bit frustrated with it.  Basically, this beer is just too sweet. There are so many things that could have affected the outcome, given my limited knowledge at the time of brewing, that I'm already done worrying about it. Mostly, I think the outcome was a problem shared between the recipe I was using and my own techniques. For one, this recipe didn't have much in the way of hops, so they were never meant to pop through in the flavor end. But to make matters worse, I think I let the hops go a bit stale, and I'm also pretty sure that I added the flavoring/aroma hops too early in the boil. The beer came out very bready, kind of thick with a definite yeast flavor. This, too, confuses me. These first two recipes came with dry yeast, which most homebrewers recommend avoiding — so partially, it could be that I wasn't using great yeast. But I also wonder if maybe the fermentation didn't quite go right, and maybe cut out before it was meant to. Since I wasn't taking gravity readings, I have no way to know. Lesson learned.
Taste: If I told you that this was some kind of sweet light brown ale or something, you might not be disappointed. It's not terrible, and some bottles have hit me better than others, but the sweet maltiness is just a bit overboard for my tastes, and that yeasty, bready flavor is never going to seem right to me. I can't say that I've ever had a commercial beer with a similar profile. Hopefully I'll be able to avoid it in the future.
Keeper? No. When I return to brewing a pale ale, I'm going to go for something hoppier, dryer and not as bready. There's nothing here worth borrowing from — just a number of things to learn lessons from. But that's why it was my first brew.

Bear-Flavored IPA #1 (43 IBU)
5 gallon extract batch
Grains: 1 lb crystal malt 60L / .5 lb crystal malt 20L
Malts: 3.3 lb light LME / 3 lb light DME
Hop Schedule:
0.5 oz Kent Goldings @60
1 oz Galena @60
0.5 oz Cascade @45
0.5 oz Cascade @15
0.5 oz Kent Goldings @0
Yeast: Safale US-05 dry ale yeast
Expectations: If you understand what IBU's mean, you'll already realize what I wish I would have known before I brewed from this recipe. 43 IBUs isn't very hoppy for an IPA, and is actually more in line with an American pale ale. Unsurprisingly, this came out tasting like what I expected from my pale ale — except it's still got some distinct yeasty / bready flavor that I can't quite pinpoint, and definitely don't like. I think it's mostly the grains, partly the yeast, and very likely the methods I used during the brewing process. Still — you can at least taste the hops in this one, and while it's much darker and maltier than I would like, it's serviceable.
Taste: There's that something about the flavor profile in this IPA and pale ale that I'm not a fan of. It's not bad, but it has something going on that just isn't right for the style, and maybe not right for ales in general.  It's definitely a larger issue than not using enough hops — though in addition, there are not enough hops, so.  There aren't any subtleties going on, and while the mouthfeel and carbonation and all that are fine, this beer just doesn't have a whole lot of character. Even the hops are a little bland and generically bitter, from what you can notice of them. Having said that, I do prefer it over the pale ale.
Keeper: I'll likely be brewing IPAs more than any other style, so it's possible that I'll return to something vaguely similar to this. But as with the pale ale, there isn't enough that I like here to base another recipe off of, so I doubt I'll ever tweak this one intentionally.

Bear-Flavored Peach Wheat (Peafeweizen)
5 gallon extract batch
Grains: 1.75 lb wheat malt
Malts: 3.3 lb wheat malt extract / 2 lb extra light DME
Hops: 1 oz Hallertau (bittering)
Yeast: Wyeast #3068 Weihenstephan Wheat
Adjuncts: 3 lb peach puree (added to secondary)
Expectations: For this beer, I finally strayed from a basic recipe kit and set off into Adventureland, so I had high hopes. Unsurprisingly, and reassuringly, I think this is by far the best beer of the three, and inarguably the closest to the expectations of its style. This tastes like a hefeweizen. Whew. There's none of that bready, yeasty flavor that overtook my first two. Of course, few things are ever perfect, and I'm haunted here by one glaring flaw. For some reason, this beer didn't carbonate properly, and most of the bottles I've had so far have been kind-of flat. Sigh.
Taste: I really am shocked at how much this came out tasting like what I wanted. The peach is on the subtle end of things, but you can actually notice it if you know it's there. Instead of an overpowering, sweet flavor, it contributes more of a general fruitiness and a slightly tart, slightly sour profile that I think goes well with the wheat base. Everything together is fairly subtle, with the effect that this tastes like your basic hefeweizen, except not quite. I really came so close here, but I can't quite be satisfied since — and I'm not quite sure how — the priming sugar hasn't quite done its stuff.  After two weeks of conditioning, this is still coming out with very little head, and mostly flat. Fortunately this doesn't affect the taste very much, but it does reduce the enjoyability of the beer — and it's annoying. I have no idea why wouldn't have carbonated properly, since I added the usual amount of priming sugar, but wheat beers are generally pretty high in carbonation, so it's sad to see this one so lacking. Hopefully a few more weeks of conditioning will help a bit.
Keeper: Most likely I will keep this recipe around to play with in the future, although it has a few things working against it. For one, peach puree is really goddam expensive, apparently. It cost almost as much for the peach as it did for the rest of the beer, and the flavor is so subtle that I wonder if it's really worth it.  (Probably why you rarely, if ever, see any commercial peach beers). While I am enjoying this, I'm not enjoying it significantly more than I would a standard hefe, so it'll likely be a long time before I revisit this recipe. When I do, I may increase the percentage of peach or try to bring out some more unique flavors in order to differentiate it, because, why not?

HOW TO LIVE SAFELY IN A SCIENCE FICTIONAL UNIVERSE (BY) CHARLES YU

Published 2010, 231 pages
Characters: C-
Writing: B
Plot: C
Pacing: B
Poignancy: B-

Every now and then a book comes along that seemingly every Big Name in the literary world decided — possibly through a show of hands after poetry readings at KGB Bar — to just jump on and overhype. It's a great thing for an up-and-coming author, and I guess I can understand the appeal for an industry type, hoping to toss in their hat before everyone else does, so later they can be all "Hey I called it!" So every year, a few books come out that seem to receive all the buzz. (Side note: this happens in music too, obviously.)  Late last year, How to Live Safely In a Science Fictional Universe was one of those books.  I first heard its praises sung at my local bookstore.  Then, seemingly everywhere.  It has a glowing review featured prominently on its Amazon page from an author whose novel I quite enjoyed.  Lots of people thought this book was a poignant masterpiece from a new literary hotshot.  But still, the literary world was restless.  "What did Derek Dellinger think of it?" they asked.  A free copy of the book was quickly ushered along to me, all for me to read and ponder and review, before it's due back at the library.  Well, ever the contrarian, I'm not quite so impressed as everyone else.  There are some interesting ideas here.  It's reasonably well written.  It's a bit of a third-rate Vonnegut knock-off, which I'm surprised no one else mentioned.  "It was okay." - Derek Dellinger.

How to Live Safely In a Science Fictional Universe is about Charles Yu (hey! that's the name of the author AND the main character!), who repairs time machines for a living.  The novel means this in a quote unquote kind of way, because mostly Charles just floats along in between dimensions hiding in his time machine with his dog and his sexy interactive software personality, TAMMY.  There is very little repairing. Or interacting.  Mostly, Charles reminisces about his dad and his own life and how he sucks.  Then a thing happens and he thinks he's trapped in a time loop, doomed to repeat the same events over and over, and the only way to fix things is to reminisce about his dad and his own life and how he sucks.  (Could it be possible that time travel and recursive loops are metaphors?  I'll give you a hint, it's TOTALLY possible!)  And that's pretty much it.  I won't spoil anything.  Not that there's much to spoil.  

How to Live Safely In a Science Fictional Universe is a slim book, in every way.  My main problem was that there just isn't enough to it.  Charles Yu is essentially the only character in the entire book, and as a narrator, he's never particularly interesting.  He's not funny or clever enough, he doesn't inspire much tension or drama; he barely manages to push the plot forward.  The only "person" Charles actually interacts with in the course of the narrative is his on-ship software, TAMMY, who isn't any more interesting than Charles is. (She's an operating system that's become depressed and doesn't think she's any good, like the beginning of an idea Douglas Adams might have had and then forgot to run with.)  There's a dog with hardly any role in the story, and then Charles' absent father, who he spends the majority of the novel thinking and moping over, essentially just an emotional MacGuffin.

I mean, okay. It's a story about time travel. I'm not complaining that essentially everything that happens, happens in the "past."  But even then, nothing much happens.  I suppose a large part of my problem is that I'm entirely fed up with Daddy Issues in entertainment.  I have never and will never find Daddy Issues remotely interesting.  Sorry.  I don't care that your dad didn't love you enough.  Being a teenager sucks, I know.  Family dynamics are hard and most people felt mistreated by their parents and whatever, yeah, okay.  I just really was hoping we could move this whole Daddy Issue business now, in our post-Lost world.  But I guess the entertainment industry is never going to give it up.  

Too bad this book didn't have any more on its mind, because Yu seems like he has the potential to be a clever writer.  There are some good ideas here, some decent writing, even if everything is overly-satured in an air of Literary Poignancy.  There are some attempts at humor, and some of them land.  But mostly they blend into the whole post-modern air of Too Clever For Its Own Good.  In a way, this really does remind me of a third-rate Vonnegut book.  Obviously, I love Vonnegut, but the man wrote a ton of books in his career, and sometimes his ideas just got regurgitated, spread too thin.  That's what it feels like here — moments of cleverness and insight, but drowned out by the overwhelming assumption throughout that it's all a grand statement on the nature of life and regret and memory and humanity.  Really, there are only a short-story's worth of memorable ideas here.  I read this book very casually, never more than a few pages at a time, and I found that pace to be indicative of my opinion of it.  I never disliked it, I was never bored, but otherwise, it seemed a whole lot more interesting before I actually started reading it.

PERDIDO STREET STATION (BY) CHINA MIEVILLE

Published 2001, 710 pages
Characters: B
Writing: A
Plot: A
Pacing: A
Poignancy: A

Perdido Street Station is the most impressive book I've read in a long time.  One of the best, too.  It's not a perfect book, but goddam does it feel good to be blown away by an author's sheer imagination sometimes.  It's why I got into this whole 'reading' nonsense, isn't it?

Last fall, I read China Mieville's The City and the City. It wasn't a perfect book, and the end lacked a certain punch that might have made it truly profound, but it was nonetheless a vividly atmospheric read, dripping with creativity and literary ingenuity.  Perdido is another love letter to Mieville's baroque, labyrinthine cities, somehow both gritty, convincing and surreal at the same time. The two books of his that I've read share a similar impact, but Perdido is bigger, more ambitious, and simply better.

Unfortunately, it's not even fair to give a basic plot summary of Perdido Street Station, as the twists and turns the story takes before settling into its main trajectory are a big part of the fun.  The back cover blurb is wonderfully misleading, but for good reason, so I'll try to mimic it. Perdido Street Station is sort-of about an unorthodox scientist named Isaac, who finds himself forced into new avenues of research when he's hired by a mysterious foreign visitor to research the mechanisms of flight.  Of course, that doesn't begin to explain anything.  In the first hundred pages or so of the book, the story seems poised to go in any number of directions, before finally committing to an eerie, thriller-esque plot. And that plot is fine, but it's not actually what makes Perdido Street Station shine. It's the messiness of the whole thing, the many imaginative tangents Mieville is willing to take for the sake of atmosphere and immersion, and the hundreds of seemingly unimportant details he tosses out along the way.  The man is apparently a fountain of knockout ideas.  Any given ten pages of Perdido Street Station could have formed the whole concept behind another novel, but Mieville somehow finds room for them all here. I cannot stress enough how vividly imagined this book is; it's what I really loved about it.  The Weaver, the ribs, the Construct Council, the moths, the Ambassador, Torque and all the rich history that's dished out just for passing conversation — Mieville doesn't seem to mind whether his creations affect the plot for five pages or 500, they're all inventive and interesting and actually suck you into this impossible city.

Because really, this novel is about the city where it takes place more than any one component of its plot.  All those details and tangents that seem irrelevant, or tangential, are not.  By the end, the city of New Crobuzon seemed more likely and believable a place to me than, say, Detroit.  In another, broader sense — embracing the themes rather than specifics of the story — Perdido is about the state of crisis.  Multiple disparate events, each as unlikely as the one preceding it, all joining impossibly to propel things forward.  Perdido Street Station could have had a very simple plot.  If it was made as a movie, it would seem like a standard genre thriller that just happens to have an interesting gothic backdrop.  Only a book this long and rambling could capture that theme, the sense that chaos often coagulates in unlikely ways, driven by its very unexpectedness.

Of course, as a messy book, Perdido can't be perfect — just really impressive.  I thought some of the plot threads resolved in unsatisfactory ways, and the book is definitely at its best when it's introducing all its inventive ideas, rather than shutting them down toward the end. Still, for a book this dense, it sticks the landing far better than most. The characters are interesting, if not particularly memorable, and Mieville's writing is consistently excellent, matching the tone of this dark-fantasy steampunk sci-fi horror hodgepodge. (A sidenote that I'd like to address, even though it's not directly relevant to the review of the book:  Fantasy novels always seem to take place in some technologically frozen world, where society has remained static for hundreds or thousands of years, never advancing beyond Medieval sciences.  This is rarely explored or mentioned outright, and I'd love to see some more deconstruction of the reasons for this, other than plot-necessity.  It almost makes sense, really: the introduction of 'magic' to a world would confound science, or even replace it. I loved that Perdido Street Station addressed this indirectly, once more tossing off a brilliant idea as if it were nothing. The novel features a society that seems to have integrated what we'd call 'magic' as simply another branch of science, creating an industrial age society that's in many ways as advanced as our own, its wildly multi-cultural society progressing and developing while still laboring under an oppressive authoritarian government.  Once again, it's a subtle, creative blend of ideas, where steampunk technology and old-world ideals lead to slightly-weird union labor strikes as often than surreal adventures.)

I rate Perdido Street Station five out of five Orson-Welles-slow-clap.gifs.

THE RUNNING MAN (BY) STEPHEN KING

Published 1982, 336 pages
Characters: B
Writing: B-
Plot: B+
Pacing: B+
Poignancy: B

It's not terribly important that I decided to pick up the Running Man because I read countless discussions online pointing out its similarity to the currently-popular Hunger Games trilogy, which I read in March. But out of the dozens of novels Stephen King has written — which I will probably never entirely catch up on — that's why I decided to pick up this one just now.

Though nearly three decades separate the publication of the novels, the similarities are pretty glaring. The Hunger Games is an almost perfect synthesis of The Running Man and Battle Royale. Stephen King's 1982 novel is only set in 2025, and as with the best, most convincing near-future sci-fi, not much is all the different — everything is just a bit shittier. The people tune in to a series of increasingly dangerous reality-TV show contests for amusement, run by a sinister government entertainment Network. A man named Richards, desperate for money to save his diseased young daughter, enters into the most dangerous and popular reality program in the country: The Running Man. It's pretty much what it sounds like, a nationwide manhunt which nearly everyone watches, and in which anyone can participate. If Richards manages to survive for 30 days, he's set for life, rich beyond meaning. In the history of the game, no one has ever survived more than 8 days.

So you have the evil corrupt government, the death-game, the reality-TV angle being used to control and manipulate the masses. The main reason I bring up these comparisons is because The Hunger Games utilized that reality-TV angle so poorly, when it was clearly a goldmine idea with a lot of potential. It was never clear who watched or who cared or what significance any of it might have in the world at large. King clears that problem here, making it all feel tangible and believable, with plenty of first-hand demonstration on what effect this reality-TV population control has, and why people in a society like ours might even buy into it. He does this while breezing through the action of the novel, too, integrating exposition with pacing and plot development. It's impressive, and only the beginning of the novel suffers for it, with the first few beats of the story seeming a little rushed and jarring.

The world is convincing, and the story is tight. There's really not much beyond that — like The Hunger Games, this is a lean book and a fast read. (I read nearly the entire thing on a four hour bus ride back to Lebanon.) It's appropriately gritty and uncompromising, and Richards makes for a sympathetic, jaded, smug, noir-ish narrator. I should note that The Running Man was written under King's long-defunct Richard Bachman pen-name, and thus there are some interesting and fitting stylistic differences from King's usual stuff. The prose is much leaner and harder, less folksy and rambling than typical. Richard the character fits Richard the pen-name, and everything fits this grim but sardonic world.

One last thing: that Arnold Schwarzenegger film of the same name is, in fact, based off of this book. I have never seen it. I doubt it's very similar but I'm curious to check it out. King doesn't pull any punches with the ending, and without changing that part around significantly, this is one story I can guarantee that Hollywood will never be tempted to remake.

IN THE DOLL HOUSE (BY) DANDY LIONS

Indie / Pop / Gypsy Folk
2011, Self Released
Free Download: Bandcamp, last.fm

I'm always a sucker for male/female vocals, so I wasn't terribly surprised to find the Dandy Lion's songs frequently getting stuck in my head.  It's not particularly rare to find indie bands with dual male/female vocals these days, but few bands have such an instinctive knack for shaping songs around the strengths of those vocalists.  The brother/sister songwriters behind Dandy Lions — Dante and Lena DeLeo, joined by drummer Ben Goldstein and bassist John Feliciano — don't have the typical voices you'd expect from such a duo, either.  Their deep, forceful vocals and stretchy tricks of enunciation add to the unique vibe of this ethereal baroque pop, music that isn't afraid to wear its oddness on its sleeve even as it pushes an unashamed, unpretentious reliance on melody.

At first, I just accepted that the Dandy Lions were going to be much poppier than the dreary stuff I normally listen to.  While never depressing, the music is a bit moody — not melodramatic, and less stiff and awkward than other baroque sounding stuff, but there's a bit of a haunted edge creeping in.  Songs often come unhinged without warning, devolving into a chorus of shouts and frantic instrumentation, adding an off-kilter sense of unpredictability to what starts out as bouncy upbeat indie-folk. It's frenetic pop music with a surreal edge. Some bands successfully pull off quirk, and plenty of bands succeed with catchy accessibility, but both at once is a much rarer feat. The duality that forms the basis for the Dandy Lion's music somehow allows them to be both — accessible, and yet weird enough that you can't quite pin down whether you've heard anything like it before.

The vocals of the singers – which are themselves just a bit different, and yet entirely natural when balancing each other — provide the backbone. Dandy Lions take excellent advantage of the back-and-forth, male-and-female style, writing songs that compliment both voices, rather than just using one as seasoning for the other.  It's fine that most bands with male/female singers write like that: one vocalist dominant, the other joining here and there as a sort of lyrical accent. But these siblings' voices are a perfect fit, and their dependence on this good fortune shapes the album, giving it a sense of confidence and sincerity, a refreshing lack of cynicism and calculated aloofness.  Many recent indie bands passive-aggressively embrace their pop aspects, combining semi-catchy melodies with a stuffy twee sensibility that runs the risk of making the music feel stilted, and distant.  With the Dandy Lions, there's no awkward over-instrumentation or insecure dancing around the band's poppy nature. Everything contributes: those complimentary dual vocals, the forceful rhythm section, the rarely-dominant but never-superfluous accordion, which compliments the guitar with a similar playful back-and-forth as the musician's vocals, neither one truly leading the other. Goldstein and Feliciano provide genuine, pounding energy to match, pushing the music along at a speed that prevents any chance of it all seeming too-cute.

Bands that focus on melody often focus only on melody, which usually leads to me quickly losing interest.  Melody creates catchyness, but melody itself generally doesn't contribute to texture or depth. If the Dandy Lions didn't have a distinct personality — a moody duality and an off-center sense of unpredictability — they would be just another redundancy in the recent surge of quirky indie-pop bands, bands that make up for a lack of interesting songwriting by copping interesting musical trends. But nothing here is trying to be trendy, cute, or desperately different. Dandy Lions let their music carry itself with the confidence that their songwriting is interesting — and it is — rather than propping it up with splatters of semi-interesting flair to support a limp essence. Quirky charm like this works as well as it does because the band — for all their skill — gracefully lacks pretension.

UNIBROUE SIX/MIX PACK

La Fin Du Monde
With a name like La Fin Du Monde (so badass), I'd almost expect something more aggressive, or darker.  Yet Monde is a fairly light example of the style — almost light and citrusy enough to seem like a very yeasty white beer.  The smell is a bit strange here, almost too floral for its own good, but the floral fruity yeast taste is pretty standard.  Again, there's an almost orange-like flavor at the back-end, but it adds a bit to the smoothness of the mouthfeel.  Perhaps the most surprising thing about this triple is how creamy it is — it's really, really drinkable, even at 9%.  You definitely run the risk of drinking this one too fast.  I don't drink Belgian triples too often, so I feel I'm always a bit off when trying to describe them.  The more of this one I drink, the more I'd like to claim it's one of the best triples I've had, but that may just be the ABV talking.

Maudite
Maudite is listed on BA as a Belgian Strong Dark Ale — a strong "amber-red" according to the box — but it'd be awfully easy to mistake this for a double. There's that creamy, bread-like feel to it, and a caramel brown-sugar taste with hints of fruit.  The hints of fruit add a sweetness, but muted — everything here is tightly controlled.  Perfected, I'm tempted to say.  Even the high alcohol adds a hit of warmth, rather than bite.  The carbonation compliments the sweetness, and makes this extremely drinkable but not too light.  If you like this kind of beer, you'll like this beer.

Trois Pistoles
Halfway through the sixpack now, I'm noticing some trends.  Unibroue beers have something characteristic about them, something in the mouthfeel or the yeast.  They're all solid — not crazy, or particularly complex, but still tasty and on the drinkable side of the spectrum for such Belgian styles.  The lighter, weaker presence of the beer makes them go down easier, even if it sacrifices a bit of complexity.  Trois Pistoles is another Belgian Strong Dark Ale, so it's obviously a bit similar to Maudite, and maybe even a little thinner.  Thin and light doesn't have to mean it lacks taste, fortunately.  This one is sweet, with a sharp burst of that sweetness hitting right away, alongside the malts.  It lingers pleasantly and doesn't stick or leave any unpleasant tastes behind.  The high alcohol content is extremely well hidden, and there's a nice warmth that hits well with the plum/raisin fruitiness.  Unibroue knows what they're doing with these.

Ephemere
I'm glad this one isn't sweet. I expected it to be — I think I may have had all of one apple beer before, and it was as cidery as you'd expect.  Not here.  Ephemere is almost sour, with a sugary apple taste that's almost like candied fruit, something savory and tart but not obnoxious.  It doesn't taste fully natural, and I'm sure there's no way they got this result just by tossing a few apples into the brewpot.  Still, even if it doesn't taste natural, it tastes good.  There seems to be some kind of wheat-beer base, something light but substantial enough to actually provide backbone.  Fruit beers need that, they need to have the taste and mouthfeel of beer, otherwise they just taste like syrup.  Ephemere manages a strong but balanced blend of taste and consistency, which can't be easy to do.

MOCKINGJAY (BY) SUZANNE COLLINS

Published 2010, 390 pages
Characters: B-
Writing: B-
Plot: B
Pacing: B
Poignancy: B

Suzanne Collins Hunger Games trilogy could have gone either way for me after its second installment, the disjointed and choppy Catching Fire. Book one, The Hunger Games, was an unflinching speed-read, even if it wasn't particularly inventive or well written.  All those problems came to a head with the middle installment, but Collins makes an impressive effort to right them here.  The writing improves, just enough. The plotting improves, just enough.  The characters — alright, the characters are still either surprisingly dark or totally bland, but I suppose its forgivable.  These books were always about plot, and here again, Collins writes like she knows what she's doing.

After Katniss wins her first Hunger Games, wrapping up the main conflict of the first book, Collins was obviously in something of a bind.  The hero of the story needed something to do in the second installment, so Collins had her accidentally spark a rebellion — which, it turns out, is a surprisingly passive role anyway.  Still lacking anything direct to do with Katniss halfway through, Collins threw her into a second Hunger Games, which helped to develop the action, but not the story or the outside factors shaping it.  Finally, in Mockingjay, Collins figures out what to do with the larger world, forcing Katniss to participate in the war against the Capitol as rebellion sweeps across the land.  When the bad guys eventually crumble, it feels inevitable and unearned, but it's still exciting.  When Katniss and her pals launch one last huge offense against the Capitol itself, it feels satisfying, like the series is at last achieving what it was meant to, even if it's not doing so in particularly groundbreaking fashion.

The real strength of the trilogy was never Collin's originality, whether in the broad scope and direction of the plot, or the little details that provide the mayhem.  At its worst, the series could sometimes feel like a video-game, a series of arbitrary problems with arbitrary solutions that the characters never had to work for. What made the trilogy work — especially as a YA series — is how dark Collins was willing to go, and that's really the case here.  Mockingjay gets dark.  Never particularly visceral or gory, which would have almost been easier; some of the directions the plot takes are unnerving in a subtler, stranger way, things you wouldn't expect to pop up in a story meant for a younger age group.  What makes the plot here stand out — to become maybe the best of the trilogy — is how that sense of darkness and cynicism creeps into the background and tone of the story, creating a world where, remarkably, a battle of rebels against their tyrannical government doesn't just turn into an easy case of good versus evil.  It would have been simple for Collins to leave out the shades of gray, but she doesn't flinch.  The deeper into the story we go, the more clear it is that there are no good guys and bad guys. While Mockingjay may lack the nuance of social critiques like 1984, it also has the good sense to maintain a completely sincere "trust no one" cynicism.

These unexpectedly dark turns help to conceal what remains one of Collin's greatest weaknesses: the dullness of the series' side-characters.  As before, Collin's choices as an author remain more interesting than the choices her characters make.  Many side plots end in ways that I did not expect at all, despite revealing nothing new or interesting about the characters making those choices.  (The love triangle that strung out through the whole trilogy certainly ends differently than I was expecting, without resorting to cheap melodrama.) Ultimately, the trilogy works as a series of action novels, as long as you aren't expecting anything particularly clever. Here in the last book, Collins must have felt obliged to up the ante and add some craziness, but she just doesn't seem to have the imagination for it.  The last third of the book reads like a video game, with a silly, extremely-forced series of challenges set up to provide danger to the characters.  The big dramatic climax is something of a let-down as well, and kind of nonsensical — odd, considering how tight the action in the series generally was. Collins can't seem to break out of a certain formula of violent adventure sequences, even when those sequences make no sense to the world she's scripting.

Then there's the whole reality-TV angle the series takes — a major background device that I haven't even discussed before, because I honestly don't know what to make of it.  Collins seems to be attempting some sort of commentary on war as spectacle, the role of television in both controlling the masses and inspiring them. The idea is there, the basic framework to draw out some kind of statement, but she just never does anything with it.  It sits awkwardly at the fringes of the plot, like that weird college dormmate who would come into your room, sit on your bed, and watch you write from over your shoulder, and you were like, "Hey Zach, did you want something?"  But he didn't want anything.  He was just sitting there, with nothing better to do, like the reality TV subplot of The Hunger Games. There's the assumption throughout the series that everything Katniss does is going to be televised — first for the Capitols' benefit, because I guess they're into that real horrorshow stuff, and later to keep the rebellion going.  But once the Capitol is being invaded, the last battles are being fought, who's sitting at home still watching their TV?  And why?  Everyone we see is described as poor and overworked.  No one, in the entire series, is ever shown even watching a television, or owning one — they're just forced to watch some big screens in the town square when the Hunger Games are being broadcast. It feels like Collins is writing a device for our world, not this one — TV shouldn't have much impact on these characters, and she never even attempts to explain why it would.

With the nature of the world around Katniss so unclear, the actions and directions of the plot seem sort of context-less when you think about them too much.  Things just happen because, well, they happen.  So much here serves the action, makes the danger momentarily more thrilling, but actually reduces the overall coherency of the book. These issues didn't ruin any one of the books or the impact of the series as whole, but they were bothersome enough to keep anything from really resonating with me.  I was entertained, but not particularly impressed. Still — if I had kids, I would give them the series.  The Hunger Games trilogy may not answer any profound questions, but at least it sort-of, kind-of raises them.

CATCHING FIRE (BY) SUZANNE COLLINS

Published 2009, 391 pages
Characters: B-
Writing: C+
Plot: B-
Pacing: B-
Poignancy: B

I don't really understand how Collins does it, but Catching Fire (aka book 2 of The Hunger Games trilogy) continues a series that is somehow, simultaneously, one of the catchiest yet sloppiest series I've ever read. Random internet visitors who accidentally stumble upon my site while deciding how to spend their government bailout dollars by purchasing a large boat, multiple crates of red wine, and copies of their favorite YA action-adventure series will no-doubt jump down my throat in the comments section for this slight. So don't get me wrong: I'm still plowing through the series like a fat man going down a flume-ride poured with gravy. And I'm definitely still enjoying the ride. These are some catchy books, but Catching Fire begins to form noticeable cracks that irritate the critic in me. The Hunger Games showed signs of those same flaws, but its relentless pacing and well-written action bullied them to the side.  Here, facing middle-book-of-the-series syndrome, only a sense of momentum really keeps the novel from falling apart.

Sadly, most of the book's flaws are fairly obvious. Collin's strength is as a plot-architect, not as a writer, but she undermines herself as both here.  A good chunk of the story, particularly in the first quarter of the book, is basically told in expository chunks of summary.  As a first person narrative, obviously a lot of the tale will be internal musings by Katniss, its main character.  But when you're writing around a fast-paced, action-packed plot, its a really bad idea to have half the action happen not only off-screen, but in the past.  Katniss spends an awful lot of Catching Fire summarizing what happened in the first book, then explaining events going on in the present that she's just not around for. Other great books have violated that fundamental show-don't-tell principal — specifically, I'm thinking Lord of the Rings, which had a lot of off-screen action summarized neatly for the audience, but only because the world was so big and dense and rich.  Everything about the Hunger Games trilogy, on the other hand, already seems sparse. We're never directly shown enough of the world in the first place to make those off-screen events truly resonate.  And with Collins forced to move away from the simple brutality of the Games, into the complex political tensions of the Capitol and its districts, I remembered why the running background tensions of longer series like Harry Potter led to a real sense of urgency and in-world reality — because we had time to get attached, to care about places we'd already been to.  The tension of the Hunger Games world — the struggle of some peasants against their tyrannical government — rushes through standardized emotions and developments that work mostly because they're so familiar.  There's not much to feel here, just a lot to experience.

And fine, Catching Fire doesn't need to be an exquisitely detailed book.  I think 90 percent of its charm is its rapid pace, its thin-ness, and a more structured narrative would work against its lightning plot.  But the plot of Catching Fire should have been stronger, that's all.  When all the summarizing and plot-setup are finally out of the way, freeing the story up to move forward, what does Collins do?  Give us a second-half twist that turns Catching Fire into a rehash of The Hunger Games.  It does move the plot along, but as fun as it is, the change of pace basically destroys any tension, like there's even less at stake than the first time around just because everything is so rushed. Once again, few side characters are given a chance to develop.  And while Katniss herself becomes a more interesting heroine than I expected, the people she bases most of her emotions and actions around never have the chance to demonstrate why. One of Katniss' main motivations in the book is, at least as she explains, saving her younger sister from any more pain.  But that sister is only in the book for a few pages — and not many more in the first installment — making her something of an emotional human MacGuffin.  Same with Gale, one of the two boys competing for the affections of Katniss.  (Rather inexplicably, considering she's a selfish asshole most of the time, but that level of unlikeability is actually one of the most surprising, interesting things about the series.)  Gale is never developed, or even really described, as anything more than a handsome, surly teenager, yet this blank slate of teenage hormones drives half the things that happen in the book.

For all its shortcomings, Catching Fire is still an entertaining book.  And The Hunger Games trilogy is still a series I would recommend that anyone check out.  I should probably be about 14 years younger than I am to fully enjoy it, but I do think it's better — and darker, and more daring — than most of what I likely read at that age.  I don't think it will go down as one of the classics.  Not unless the movies are gangbuster, anyway.

THE HUNGER GAMES (BY) SUZANNE COLLINS

Published 2008, 384 pages
Characters: B-
Writing: B-
Plot: B
Pacing: A
Poignancy: B

The many thousands of loyal readers of The Luxury Review may have noticed that it's been a long time since I posted a book review.  Well, that's because it's been a while since I've been able to finish a book. Pretty sad, I know; I feel nightly remorse about this. These last few months, I guess I just had too much on my mind.  Too much stress to detach from my own world and enter another.  I couldn't get through anything — dense, intricately-written literary medications were just not appealing to me.

I guess that's exactly why books like The Hunger Games remain incredibly popular.

Usually I don't spend much time writing out a plot synopsis for the books I review.  Here, I don't think I really could.  The plot of The Hunger Games is literally Battle Royale. Haven't seen or read it?  Well, here: Kids are drafted via lottery by the evil government, tossed into a giant playing field and forced to fight to the last-man-standing in a sort of reality TV brutal death game. Our heroine, the unfortunately named Katniss Everdeen, has to try not to die.  Boom.  It's straightforward. It's short and lean and uncomplicated. It is also, thankfully, riveting.

It would be tempting to say that writing a "young adult" book limits an author, since you can only get away with so much gore and sex and darkness and pain when you're writing for teenagers.  But it works both ways, and I think Suzanne Collins made a smart, calculated choice when writing this series for a youngish audience.  As a "regular" book, The Hunger Games would be accused of lacking complexity.  There's never a sense that there's much out there, beyond the walls of the arena or the simple narrative.  Granted, this is just the first book of a trilogy, a trilogy that was planned from the start, so maybe the scope opens up a bit with later installments.  Regardless, it seems okay — it's obvious that Collins set out to write this book for a specific audience, so it never feels like she's just being lazy  (I'm not saying teenagers all have short attention spans.  Obviously, the latter Harry Potter books were gigantic, but books trying to break in to a younger audience are expected to be fast-paced, quick reads, regardless of their length.)  Of course, writing a book this fast and lean and engaging takes skill too, just of a different sort than writing dense Pynchon-ian epics.  You have to know what to cut, what to leave, and how to make the little material left in your streamlined plot as engaging as possible. Short and lean can still be boring, but not here.  There isn't a dull moment or unnecessary page in this whole novel.  As simple as the tale is, Collins knows how to tell it well.

So while I found The Hunger Games entertaining, even refreshing, it's not without its surprises.  And it's certainly not without weaknesses.  Despite what I just said about YA adults not getting away with as much complexity as "regular" novels, The Hunger Games does get surprisingly dark.  This is a book about two dozen teenagers forced to brutally murder each other, after all, and Collins doesn't take easy outs even when she could.  Some of the scenes in The Hunger Games are genuinely disturbing, despite the characters driving them lacking depth.  In other ways, Collins does take the easy way out, tossing in a half-dozen deus ex machinas that she could have easily worked around.  The nature of the game itself is sort of a DEM, since the Gamemasters can control everything and anything within the arena, apparently — they control the temperature, the weather, the food, the animals, the water, etc.  And this is where the lack of depth in the world at large becomes problematic — when writing about an evil dystopian government, it helps to give them some context, some general clues as to the scope of their powers.  Cameras film every move of everyone in this vast forested arena, but no character ever mentions seeing a camera, or any piece of technology at all.  (I guess the cameras were some kind of omnipresent nanobot swarm or something.)  And while there's suspense, the book remains fairly predictable.  The surprises deal more with how than what, since the actions every character takes seem a bit pre-ordained by their generic types.  In other words, Collins' choices as an author hold more surprises than any of her characters do.

Still, The Hunger Games is designed to not need context most of the time.  It's kill or be killed, and everything is just solid enough to hold up that premise without cracking.  Side characters are archetypal, and never have enough page-time to develop the quirks and habits that might make them truly believable.  The world, too, is generic, but it's never the focus of the book, so it doesn't matter.  Everything here is so focused on what does matter — survival, etc. — that there's no chance to look away, and no point when you'd ever want to.

21ST AMENDMENT BEERS

Back In Black - 21st Amendment (CA)
This beer has a bit of identity crisis, but as Americans — a hodgepodge mix of those bold immigrants who found refuge here over the years, after rebelling against their imperialist governors and slipping into the sweaty, moist-palmed embrace of democracy — don't we all have a bit of an identity crisis?  It's a question that, I can only assume, 21st Amendment is trying to pose with Back In Black, the brewery's black IPA.  This style's been popping up a bit more in the last year, but black IPA's are still far from common. And for an IPA, this beer is extremely malty. It's sweet not in the way many double IPA's are, or even 21st Amendment's Bitter American — it's sweet in that slightly-tangy, almost grapefruity way Belgians sometimes are, with hints of coffee and brown sugar.  Like a Belgian double got mixed in with an pale ale.  The hops are present, but aren't the focus at all, which tips the balance oddly far from bitter.  And as dark as it is, the mouthfeel is a bit like a porter, making the combination all the stranger.  It might not be for everyone, but I think it works.  If I have a major complaint, it's that the overall effect could be a little smoother.  The tangyness is a bit much, and it's almost like drinking juice, but it fades quickly enough into sweetness that I never really cared.  This isn't a beer you would want to drink a sixpack of all at once, but I enjoyed every one of them on their own. 

Bitter American - 21st Amendment (CA)
The can rules. This beer rules — definitely my favorite of the three, easily. I'm having a hard time pinpointing exactly what 21st Amendment's "thing" is.  It seemed like maybe they aim for the more experimental side, little subtle differences that compliment the uniqueness of their packaging.  Yet Bitter American is just all-around solid.  For a pale ale, or even just a hoppy ale, it's very drinkable — an easy session beer for a few reasons.  It's well-blended, well-balanced, and slightly sweet, with a more noticeable malts presence.  The hops are surprisingly subdued, especially for a beer with "bitter" in its name.  It's light and sweet almost to the point of being creamy, and only in the aftertaste do you get a bit of that floral, spicy hoppiness, with a bitter kick that might have some of the aluminum-can taste jumping around.  Or that might just be my imagination — you hardly notice it, either way.  The ABV on this one is low, so that probably helps.  Too bad this is a seasonal, because I'd be quick to drink this all year round. 

Fireside Chat - 21st Amendment (CA)
Riding on top of a strong, already-sharp prune flavor, this is the only beer of the bunch where I definitely noticed some metallic flavor lingering from the can.  It wasn't significant, and really, it might have all been in my head, or even part of the spices. Those spices end up rising sharply into the aftertaste, making the beer seem initially flat and almost bitter, and later leaving a lot of 'leftover' flavor in the mouth.  Regardless, I would not advise drinking this straight from the can — or any of these, for that matter. For the love of god, pour it into a pint glass.  At least as Fireside Chat warms and mellows out, the mouthfeel becomes smoother and richer, rather than sharp.  This one is a lot like other winter spice beers, similar even to a Belgian double, just without the complexity.  Not bad, and perfectly drinkable, but not as interesting as I was expecting.

127 HOURS AND INTO THE WILD

127 Hours - Danny Boyle, 2010
Into The Wild - Sean Penn, 2007

It's not easy for a director to make a film where the ending doubles as the selling-point, where there's no real potential to surprise your audience with the outcome. Sure, maybe there were a few people who innocently went to see the movie about "the guy who gets trapped beneath a rock," wondering what would happen to the poor fellow. I'm extremely curious how such a person's reaction to 127 Hours might differ from someone who went to see the movie about [SPOILER?] "the guy who has to cut his own arm off to escape from under a rock." The focus of the movie would seem to change completely — likewise with Into The Wild, a story about [again, SPOILERS, I guess, but you might as well stop reading and just go see the movies] Chris McCandless, a young kid with a bad case of Kerouvac Syndrome, who hiked into the Alaskan wilderness, lived in an abandoned bus for four months, and never made it back out. Most people know how these stories end, but that's not the point. They're still remarkable stories, made much more remarkable because they actually happened. The danger for those translating them to film is how easily they demonstrate a few really obvious lessons. The same holds true for almost any non-fiction account of tragedy, but the important difference here is the tragedy is self-perpetuated. It's an unwritten law of cinema that any movie about a hiker / adventurous type (see also: people who have survived the apocalypse) must scream in 72 point font, Comic Sans: HEY SO OTHER PEOPLE ARE REALLY IMPORTANT YOU SHOULD TOTALLY VALUE THEM IN YOUR LIFE. Of course, no one realizes this until they're hallucinating and on the verge of death. Because, let's face it, if the value of other people has never impressed itself upon you before, you're not going to have this epiphany waiting on the platform for the G train at 9 in the morning. Or in your cubicle, listening to your coworker's stupid story about spooning his girlfriend and throwing his back out. This lesson is so broad that it will mean a lot more when we, as viewers, understand why it has to be learned in the first place.

Hikers and outdoorsy types come in any number of varieties, like any demographic big enough to have entire department stores catered to them, but there are a few broad archetypes. Aron Ralston, as depicted by James Franco in 127 Hours, seems to be a classic adrenaline junky. Into The Wild's Chris McCandless, played by Emile Hirsch, is what I'd describe as the "misguided hippie" archetype. The obvious link between these two men is their love of the outdoors. An adrenaline junky could get their fix in any number of ways, but a climbing nerd is a special sort, in it for both the nature, the spectacle and the rush. McCandless undoubtedly felt the need for adrenaline as well, but his appreciation of the outdoors is a more thoughtful, patient sort, influenced as much by literature and some deep-seated family issues than the pure embrace of adventure. These two archetypal mindsets strongly influence the direction and pacing of their respective films, which makes sense. Unfortunately, like the men they're based on, both take it just a bit too far, and neither quite nails the landing.

Comparing any two films is an arbitrary exercise, of course. They're not competing against each other and they were not intended to compliment each other, but these are similar films with similar messages. James Franco does a terrific job capturing what Ralston went through in 127 Hours, the nuances of a man who can barely move but watches his life flash before him over the days he's trapped. Yet it's Boyle's direction that truly drives the emotion — even when Franco doesn't have much to do but shout and scream in pain. Boyle proves that it required a full movie to show us Aron Ralston's plight — and maybe in some unintended ways, as I would argue that the movie doesn't show enough. Eventually the screaming / shouting / pain comes to an end, and the movie finishes on the most obvious of lessons: people are important. Totally don't ignore your mom's phone calls. Is it effective? Yes. I was very moved, even inspired. The movie leaves you feeling good, but when I thought about it later, I wanted more. 127 Hours is a bit of an adrenaline junky itself, rushing toward that quick fix, the broad, bold conclusion. It's a technical accomplishment to film an action movie where the main character can barely move, but technical accomplishments often aren't as interesting as their context. The nuances Franco manages to convey by reacting to his limited environment are impressive, but we're never given a hint of why he is this way — the psychological background that would make his eventual triumph feel like catharsis, rather than just relief. What makes an adrenaline junky the way he is? And how much of a loner was he, anyway? Boyle offers hints of explanation, indications that he could have been closer with his parents, that he misses an ex-girlfriend, but these background issues could apply to nearly any character ever. Telling us that Ralston is pining over some failed, undefined relationship leaves vague loose-ends tangling in the past of the character.

It's interesting that Franco's character only begins to appreciate the sexual interest of his three female co-stars when he's on the verge of death. In Into The Wild, Chris McCandless is even more asexual, never once pursuing a romantic relationship, even when he's offered one flat-out. But it's not just romantic relationships that he walks away from, it's all relationships. Hirsch's character seems incapable of forming any permanent bonds, yet he's happy with his lifestyle. He knows what he wants in his life, and creates a charismatic specter of wish-fulfillment that sucks in those around him and leaves them heartbroken when he so casually moves on. It's not that he doesn't get along well with people. He's great with people, excels in their company in fact, but he views these interactions as experiences building up to something greater, something more personal, more about Chris McCandless. Ralston and McCandless are men who are in love with nature, and probably, in love with themselves. Neither film addresses this head-on, but it's obvious, and Into The Wild does a far better job of character development simply due to the structure of the film. We understand the relationship McCandless had with his parents. We figure out how he could leave behind his old friends so easily. And while he's never shown with any sort of romantic past, it's easy to see why. Though 127 Hours is a marvel of direction, and the superior movie on a technical level, Into The Wild nonetheless manages to tell a more developed story.

There's really no reason Into The Wild couldn't have been told the same way as 127 Hours. Chris McCandless only spent about three or four months in the Alaskan wilderness, and in the last week or two of his life, he was also trapped. Not by a rock, but trapped by a river and his own recklessness. Both films could have unraveled their stories with a similarly narrow focus. Yet Into The Wild wisely chose to spend much of its running time showing the past of the character, cutting to his time in Alaska only for brief scenes. Penn is far from the director that Boyle is, and in a sense, he had to take this direction — Boyle's character lived, giving him a lot of artistic freedom in building up to that moment, whereas Penn's tale would have been much more of a downer without that broad context and character development. I don't blame Boyle for taking the material he was given and trying to make his movie as unique as possible; he pulled it off. But Into The Wild manages to explain a great deal of what 127 Hours leaves dangling. To be fair, Into The Wild is far from perfect itself.  Apart from some odd directorial choices, there's simply too much material crammed into its running time, making the same point so often that the ending seems almost insincere. We understand everything McCandless abandoned to reach his final destination, even if we never do see him really cherish anything. Only on his deathbed does he seem to miss the company of other people, and even then, his drive is still sort-of selfish: "happiness only real if shared." Aron Ralston only learned to update his Facebook status so people know where he's hiking. (Too bad we'll never get the sequel, "127 Days Later.") 127 Hours isn't a failed movie due to its lack of context. Into The Wild demonstrates how too much context can drag a film down, but I still believe a lot of the most interesting material in Aron Ralston's story was dropped because it didn't fit into Boyle's dramatic vision. And anyway, that's okay. Sometimes drama is self-fulfilling. I'm not sure whether I'd call 127 Hours a great movie, but it is a great experience. No matter what you believe about the importance of people, you have to admit — great experiences are pretty sweet too.

ANCHOR STEAM XMAS, SARANAC VANILLA STOUT, ET AL

Our Special Ale 2010 - Anchor Steam (CA)
VERDICT: Good winter beer (B+)
Every year, Anchor Steam's Christmas Ale (aka Our Special Ale) is apparently slightly different — I don't know how different, but I do know that 2009's and 2010's have been two of the tastiest winter beers I've had.  This "winter warmer" is sweet and rich, with a sort of malty, spicy molasses taste not far removed from a Belgian double, but toned down for drinkability.  Despite the dark mahogany color, the Special Ale is relatively light, almost creamy, with only a slightly sticky mouthfeel hindering its smoothness.  The spices manage to create a distinct Christmas flavor, and while I remember liking 2009's recipe maybe slightly more, this is still a delicious seasonal beer that I highly recommend grabbing if you find it.

Saranac Vanilla Stout - The Matt Brewing Company (NY) 
VERDICT: Good stout, could use more vanilla (B)
Saranac (aka Matt Brewing Co) is one of my most trusted breweries, consistent and workmanlike as the Adirondack mountains they call home, but their lineup can be surprisingly adventurous too.  Their caramel porter really impressed me, so I was excited to find a vanilla stout in my winter mix pack.  The idea of a vanilla stout is as appealing to me as a folk-influenced post-rock band comprised entirely of bears, but I've only found one other example — Southern Tier's Creme Brule Stout, which is incredibly delicious.  Saranac's vanilla stout is much more down-to-earth, as one might expect from the brewery, and the vanilla flavor is just not strong enough.  It's there, making for a smoother, cleaner mouthfeel (and giving the beer a pleasant smell), but it doesn't do enough to distinguish this beer from other stouts.  It's like a milk stout but not quite as smooth — in fact, the vanilla seems to somehow blend in with the slightly-bitter hop notes rather than smothering them.  It's not that this beer is lacking in taste, though — beer drinkers who prefer their experiments on the subtle side should enjoy this one, as it's an all-around good stout, well-balanced, drinkable and very tasty.

Pumpkin Ale - Kennebunkport (ME)
VERDICT: Pumpkin-flavored soda (C-)
At six dollars for a sixpack, Kennebunkport's pumpkin ale is the cheapest pumpkin beer I've ever seen, but since I got it at Trader Joe's, that didn't seem too unusual until I realized that it was brewed by a genuine brewery from Maine.  Then I noticed that the bottle reads "ale with natural flavor added," which makes this the only pumpkin beer I know of where the pumpkin flavor is added via some kind of syrup, instead of incorporating it into the brewing process (or skipping pumpkin altogether and just throwing in pumpkin pie spices, as most do.)  At first, I was surprised — cheating on the pumpkin at least gives this beer a stronger flavor than most, and the pumpkin taste is extremely pronounced.  Unfortunately, it's just not very good.  The beer is so light, the syrupy pumpkin flavor so clear, it's more like drinking soda than beer.  There's a sort of sticky sweetness that might be initially pleasing, but wears out its welcome quickly. Pumpkin flavor is inherently too subtle to be overpowering, but this is the pumpkin ale most likely to disgust avid beer drinkers.

Josephs Brau Dunkelweizen - Trader Joe's (CA)
VERDICT: Good, and cheap (B)
If you've had any of Trader Joe's store-brand beers before, you should know what to expect: solid representations of traditional styles that taste better than they have any right to, while remaining ludicrously cheap.  Their hefeweizen remains one of my favorite American takes on the style, so I'm not surprised that their recently released dunkel similarly impresses.  Appropriately dark and rich, this dunkel isn't notably different from the hefeweizen except in color and a heightened reliance upon malts.  Which is not unusual for the style, though some might knock it for not being bolder, and for being slightly watery.  Personally, the taste and mouthfeel are pleasant enough that I don't mind it being a little unadventurous — it's hard to imagine a beer with as nice of a flavor as this being any more drinkable (or cheaper.)  Sure, I'm grading this beer on a scale.  Nonetheless, it's delicious and a great deal.