From Page to Stage (er, Screen): Run, Don't Crawl to the Cove

When it comes to books vs. movies, the book is (almost) always better.  But the film adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing is a near doppelganger of Delia Owens' masterpiece.  I say this because when the music started to swell over the marsh, my personal waterworks sprung a leak.    

Daisy Edgar-Jones (Normal People) stars as Kya Clark, the little girl-turned woman who raises herself in the wilds of North Carolina.  Sensitive yet steely, she's exactly who I imagined, her refinement and reverence for nature defying the town's crude opinion of her.  The rest of the cast is spot on too, with Taylor John Smith as the earnest Tate Walker and Harris Dickinson as arrogant Chase Andrews.  

That said, the movie is less gritty and violent than the book.  And although this detracts from the horror that helped shape Kya's worldview, it highlights the parts of the story that are charming yet enshrouded in mystery.  In other words, it's Nicholas Sparks-meets-Agatha Christie -- in the most wonderful way.  To make for a trifecta of icons, Taylor Swift's "Carolina" accompanies the credits, translating the haunting feel of Owens' unforgettable pages.      

So if it's eerie enchantment you crave, then this is the flick for you.  And if not, then no need to grouse about it.  

There are plenty of other crawdads in the marsh.

Twin Flame Game: Home is Where the Heat Is

My mom and I enjoyed reading and discussing Where the Crawdads Sing so much that we decided to do it again with another novel.  This time I chose, and I went with Kevin Wilson's Nothing to See Here.  I wanted something that could, ahem, spark conversation, so a book about twins who burst into flames seemed perfect.  Upon hearing this, my sister wanted in too, and our book club of two grew to three. 

Nothing to See Here begins with Madison and Lillian.  One rich, one poor.  Best friends and perhaps something more.  Forged in the fire of a Tennessee boarding school in the '80s, their friendship is intense, rendering them twin flames of another kind until an incident nearly snuffs out their fire.  Although they write to each other regularly, they don't meet again until 1995, when they're almost thirty.  And that's only because Madison needs Lillian to do her a favor -- raising her senator husband's combustible stepkids.  

Told in Lillian's irreverent voice, Nothing to See Here is part satire and part southern gothic.  The twins, ten-year-old Bessie and Roland, are nearly feral and young for their age despite having survived their mother's death.  They're banished to a balloon-and-polka-dot-bedecked house behind Madison's mansion, and it's Lillian's job to keep them from burning it down.  It's also up to her to hide their flaming freak flags to protect their father's precious career.  Not that they're igniting all the time.  Only when they get upset.  Or slighted.  Or unsure.  Or lonely.  So yeah, the threat of pyrotechnics is real, although the fire doesn't hurt them and is, weirdly, lovely.  Determined to avoid anti-anxiety meds and forbidden to turn to therapy, Lillian relies on yoga and other homegrown remedies to keep the kids even-keeled.  Sometimes it seems like she's treating their conflagrations like panic attacks.  Which they sort of are, if the tingles that precede them -- not to mention the aforesaid emotional triggers -- are any indication.  As Lillian's relationship with Madison becomes more complicated, her bond with the children deepens.  Because despite the constant threat of third-degree burns and the senator's brand of clean-cut creepiness, Lillian loves taking care of them.

Nothing to See Here is about putting out fires, both literal and figurative.  It's also about the power of appearances and what it takes to get to the top.  But mostly it's about family, reminding us that those who love and accept us will stand by us even when it means getting burned.  And Lillian gets that.  Long wronged by a world where she doesn't belong, she finally steps up to do what's right -- and finds something she never knew she needed. 

This was an unusual book, definitely thought-provoking.  Now I'm reading something that can best be described as a beach book.  I thought that was what I craved after Where the Crawdads Sing, Sicker in the Head, and now Nothing to See Here.  But instead it feels a little too easy, like a place I've already been.  It makes me wonder if these messier narratives have ruined me for chick lit for good.

I guess like Bessie and Roland, I just want to feel my feelings -- with a fire extinguisher at the ready.

Habitat for Calamity: The Heart is a Lonely Punter

Where the Crawdads Sing needs no introduction.  Everyone has been talking about this debut novel by enigmatic naturalist Delia Owens; even the cover proclaims it to be "the worldwide sensation."  So why, then, did I resist reading it, relenting only when my mother leant me her copy?  I'd see it in Target on my lunch break, sometimes even going so far as to turn it over, reading and rereading the back cover.  The reader in me didn't want to miss out, but the cynic in me dismissed it as a cross between Dateline and Swamp People.

So, when I opened it last week, my expectations were low.  But as soon as I met Kya Clark, the chip on my shoulder evaporated.  After years of abuse at the hands of Kya's father, Kya's mother leaves their North Carolina swamp shack and never comes back.  Unable to bear Pa's drunken violence, Kya's four brothers and sisters escape one by one, leaving her alone with Pa at the age of six.  But even Pa is away more often than not, leaving Kya to fend for herself.  Which, it turns out, she's astonishingly good at.  By watching the gulls, she learns to dig for mussels, then boats to the gas station to sell them so she can buy grits.  She has one pair of overalls and no shoes, but when she steps on an old nail, tetanus eludes her.  She avoids school until she's seven, when the authorities force her to go.  On her first day, she sits in the cafeteria with her chicken pot pie, the most delicious and nourishing food she's ever eaten.  By anyone's standards, she should finally feel safe.  But the other kids are unbearably cruel, laughing at her because she can't spell "dog" and calling her "Marsh Girl."  So she stuffs the food into her milk carton and returns to the only sanctuary she's ever known, the birds and the trees and the water.  The truant officer hunts her for weeks, but she always outsmarts him.  She never sets foot in school again.  Now, I grew up with two doting parents and am about as outdoorsy as an armchair.  Kya and I should have nothing in common.  Yet when I read this, I felt a near visceral pull, everything in me humming, I get it.  Because I too was a loner who didn't fit in and would've preferred home to school.

Kya's pa finally leaves when she's ten.  As the years pass, Kya becomes more entrenched in the marsh, collecting seashells and other specimens and cataloging each with an exquisite painting.  Jumpin', the Black owner of the gas station, and his wife Mabel give her clothes and food when they can.  When Kya's fourteen, a local boy teaches her how to read, and her capacity for creativity grows.  But for the most part, she remains on her own with nature.  Stirring and strange, Kya's is a story of the world's natural wonders -- but of its horrors, too. 

If you've read it or seen the movie, then you know that there's a murder.  And that, despite her extreme isolation, Kya becomes involved with two men.  The way Owens weaves these with Kya's kinship with nature took my breath away.  

And . . . that's where I'll stop.  So that if you want to read Where the Crawdads Sing, then you can be breathless too.