Flowers in the Attic clocks in at exactly 411 pages, and I can tell you right now that nothing happens on 395 of them. For a book which is a bit of a pop-culture phenomenon, I find this strange. Surely the incest and the whippings and, well, the incest deserve whole chapters extolling their virtues, but the actually scandalous/mildly interesting parts are glossed over fairly quickly. The rest of the book is dedicated to mind-numbingly boring retreads of plot points already established, with the first chapter being all about how creepy Daddy Dollenganger is.
I guess it's only right that everyone in this fictional family is creepy, even the dead ones, but boy, let me tell you: Dude is CREE.PEE. I mean, one would expect some mild creepiness from a guy who married his half-sister/half-niece (spoiler!), but I think Garland Christopher Foxworth, Jr (aka Chris Dollanganger, Sr) really goes above and beyond the standard acceptable levels of mouth-breathing and staring at you while you sleep.
In what ways is he creepy, you ask? (I heard you asking in your head.) Well. First of all, I mistrust someone who works in PR for a computer company in the 50s. What is he doing for them? To whom is he publicly relating? The only people who used computers in the 50s were MIT nerds and spies, and neither group gets out much in public. He travels Monday through Friday, sometimes even overseas, which makes him not only mysteriously employed but also an object of my envy. And every Friday he comes home seeking to buy his family's affections with material goods he can ill-afford and demanding to be kissed and cuddled like a hero coming back from war. Check it:
"Do you love me?-For I most certainly love you; did you miss me?-Are you glad I'm home?-Did you think about me when I was gone? Every night? Did you toss and turn and wish I were beside you, holding you close? For if you didn't, Corrine, I might want to die."
Um, I am sorry, but that? Is creepy. Creepy, passive-aggressive, needy, daddytouchedme behavior that grosses me right the heck out. Coupled with his demand for displays of affection from his daughter when she hurts his feelings and his overwhelmingly Aryan features (the entire family is like a poster for Hitler's Youth Army, which is unsurprising, given that they all share the exact same DNA.), this is a man to run away from! Not marry and cling to!
Luckily for all of us, except perhaps the kids in the book, he dies in a car accident on his 36th birthday. This event provides the springboard from which the rest of the story takes off (or doesn't, as the case may be). Despairing over the loss of her half-uncle/half-brother/husband (spoiler!) and destitute from paying off the creditors, Conniving Corrine tells her four children (Closeted Chris, Constantly Complaining Cathy, Caterwauling Carrie and Consumptive Cory) to pack only what they can fit in two suitcases, for they'll be soon going on a fabulous trip! To the attic of her parents' grand estate!
See, Corrine's parents rightly kicked her ass to the curb for going off to elope with her half-brother/half-uncle (spoiler!), so she's not exactly going to be welcomed back with open arms. Oh, and did I mention that her parents are pretty strict, and are none too thrilled with the idea of her having kids by her dearly departed husband? Oh, I haven't? Well, don't worry, that part will be repeated to you, ad nauseum, throughout the rest of the book. Can't wait!
And that's where we'll pick up next time, with the children's arrival to their new digs, plus an introduction to my favorite character, the poor, oft-maligned, always-misunderstood Grandmother. Until then, I'd like us all to try to be a little more like Christopher Dollanganger, Sr, and make a goal to smother at least one person with needy affection. Good luck and let me know how you get on!
18 June 2008
15 June 2008
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Do you ever run into an old flame, or catch a rerun of a television show you used to love, or try on an old pair of white, Bedazzled jeans from 1994 and think to yourself, "What the hell was I thinking?"
Hi. I'm Erin, and that just happened to me, not with an ex-boyfriend or a pair of Jordaches, but with a book. When I was eight, I went rooting through a grocery sack of used paperbacks that someone had given my mom. Most of it was stuff that I'd end up reading eventually, but one book stood out from the rest. It looked mysterious, with a tortured, trapped figure on the front and a brief description on the back that promised intrigue and horror. This seemed right up my already-slightly-deranged, little-kid alley.
The book?
At eight, I didn't really know much about characterization or plot or prose. If I had, I would have put the book down after the first terrible chapter. But what I did know was that it was super-fun to try to get away with doing things my parents didn't want me to do, and since at the time I was grounded from reading (the only punishment that ever worked for me as a child), it seemed only right and just that I hide that book away under my bed and take it out at night and read it under the covers.
A whole new world was opened to me with that book; a world that seemed so totally implausible as to be considered endlessly fascinating. And when it got to the incest! Well, hot damn! Here was something I knew my parents didn't want me reading. So, of course, I wanted to read it all the more. And from there, my obsession grew - I wanted to read every seedy, trashy word that V.C. Andrews had ever written, and I think I continued to read her books for about six more years, until I of course finally realized that there was way more prurient stuff out there with which to offend my parents' sensibilities.
Recently, I decided to reread Flowers in the Attic to see if it was still as awesomely trashy as I remembered it to be. And, well . . . it's not. It's actually just pretty bad. I mean, really, incredibly, "fifteen weeks on the NYT bestseller list, SERIOUSLY?"-type bad.
Disheartened by this, my childhood love affair torn asunder, I decided to do what every twenty-something does when his or her expectations or demands aren't met by the world: mock stuff on the internet. And so, I present to you, this blog, in which I am actually tasking myself to read every V.C. Andrews book ever written (they're still coming out with them!) and write about them here. Why? Because, deep down, I know my eight-year-old-self deserves to be punished for breaking the terms of her grounding and sneaking books into her room. And because I think it might be really fun, in a "I don't get out much" kind of way.
So I hope you'll join me for this little experiment of mine. Everything you never wanted to know about FITA will be coming to this very blog in the next few weeks, while I steel myself for reading its follow-up, which features even more inappropriate sexual activities. Yay!
Hi. I'm Erin, and that just happened to me, not with an ex-boyfriend or a pair of Jordaches, but with a book. When I was eight, I went rooting through a grocery sack of used paperbacks that someone had given my mom. Most of it was stuff that I'd end up reading eventually, but one book stood out from the rest. It looked mysterious, with a tortured, trapped figure on the front and a brief description on the back that promised intrigue and horror. This seemed right up my already-slightly-deranged, little-kid alley.
The book?
At eight, I didn't really know much about characterization or plot or prose. If I had, I would have put the book down after the first terrible chapter. But what I did know was that it was super-fun to try to get away with doing things my parents didn't want me to do, and since at the time I was grounded from reading (the only punishment that ever worked for me as a child), it seemed only right and just that I hide that book away under my bed and take it out at night and read it under the covers.
A whole new world was opened to me with that book; a world that seemed so totally implausible as to be considered endlessly fascinating. And when it got to the incest! Well, hot damn! Here was something I knew my parents didn't want me reading. So, of course, I wanted to read it all the more. And from there, my obsession grew - I wanted to read every seedy, trashy word that V.C. Andrews had ever written, and I think I continued to read her books for about six more years, until I of course finally realized that there was way more prurient stuff out there with which to offend my parents' sensibilities.
Recently, I decided to reread Flowers in the Attic to see if it was still as awesomely trashy as I remembered it to be. And, well . . . it's not. It's actually just pretty bad. I mean, really, incredibly, "fifteen weeks on the NYT bestseller list, SERIOUSLY?"-type bad.
Disheartened by this, my childhood love affair torn asunder, I decided to do what every twenty-something does when his or her expectations or demands aren't met by the world: mock stuff on the internet. And so, I present to you, this blog, in which I am actually tasking myself to read every V.C. Andrews book ever written (they're still coming out with them!) and write about them here. Why? Because, deep down, I know my eight-year-old-self deserves to be punished for breaking the terms of her grounding and sneaking books into her room. And because I think it might be really fun, in a "I don't get out much" kind of way.
So I hope you'll join me for this little experiment of mine. Everything you never wanted to know about FITA will be coming to this very blog in the next few weeks, while I steel myself for reading its follow-up, which features even more inappropriate sexual activities. Yay!
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