"Review: The Princess Bride" by Lt. Dan

William Goldman’s The Princess Bride is a romantic love story with action, drama, comedy, and interesting, loveable characters.  The transformation of the book to the film loses detailed character development and location description, but, on the other hand, brings each character to life and does not have all of the lengthy, but funny, aside commentary.  The book includes many more details about backgrounds of each character, their lifestyles and the motivations for their actions.  The film does not have the time to go as deep into each character’s background or their lifestyle. 

Well-written characters come to life on the screen through the actors that were chosen to portray them.  Buttercup and Westley’s love for each other is real on screen.  He is passionate and steadfast in his pursuit of Buttercup.  Without Westley, Buttercup is depressed and lonely, but at the castle she is hopeful that her love will return for her.  Vizzini, the mastermind of the kidnappers, is portrayed as he is described in the book as a short, angelic-faced, crafty villain.  The film captures Fezzik as a giant, strong man who loves to rhyme.  He brings a lot of humor to the film.  Then Inigo’s most famous line is brought to life when he says, “Hello… my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father… prepare to die.”  The audience is brought into the chase and fight between Inigo and the Count.  Not including the ongoing aside commentary Goldman included in the book is a major gain to the film.  Although it is funny, there is so much of it that the reader may become a little lost in all of the asides.  Goldman’s vivid cast of characters comes to life through the film and the commentary is concisely stated through the grandfather’s film version character. 

The character’s foundations are not as strong on film as they are in the book.  Stories of Fezzik’s childhood are told and, in reading them, one gets to know this interesting and likeable character well.  From a young age, he was tall and strong, but he would not hurt a fly.  He would avoid fighting one man at a time because it was too easy for him and he did not think it was fair.  In the book, the way that Buttercup’s beauty affects everyone around her is described well, yet in the film it is not well described that she is one of the most beautiful women in the world.  Her personality is flighty and emotional.  Westley even said of her, “You have never been the brightest…” She doesn’t seem too focused on anything but riding Horse.  The film version makes her look smarter and more composed.   The reader sees that Westley is driven by true love in everything he does.  He educates himself so that when Buttercup eventually realizes that she loves him as much as he already loves her, he already has plans to prepare their future.  Prince Humperdinck is written to be a robust, physically unappealing man who only thinks about hunting and conquering Guilder.  He has a weak and selfish character that wants everything to go his way.  Yet in the film he is portrayed more as a handsome man who is less masculine and less driven to hunt.  These characters’ full personalities are not shown as well in the film. 

Character development isn’t the only loss in the transition from book to film.  Locations described in the book are lost as well.  The Zoo of Death, in the book, is an intimidating place filled with creatures found all over the world.  Its purpose is to cage animals so that Humperdinck can challenge himself and fight them each day.  He and the Count designed a Trap Zoo that they filled with deadly animals to kill anyone who tries finding the real Zoo.  Fezzik and Inigo accidently pass through the Trap Zoo as they are trying to find Westley. In the movie, there is a Pit of Despair and no animals are described as being in it. Westley is tortured in the film, but not as harshly as in the book. These two places are definitely missed in the film because they provide fear to the story, which adds heroism to the characters that have to endure them.  If the filmmakers had added more about the Zoo of Death, the movie could have been much more intense and suspenseful.

Overall, the translation of The Princess Bride to the film lost more than it gained.  It did capture the true essence of the book and make the characters come to life.  The characters’ foundations are not as strong, but the characters themselves feel more realistic and less fairytale-like.  Locations are not described as well as they were in the book either.  It seems as though the filmmakers did not focus on making places like the Zoo of Death a focal point of the storyline.  Both the film and the book are humorous and enjoyable.  If one has the opportunity, reading the book is recommended in addition to watching the film. 

"The Piano" by James Archer

White and soft the piano keys soothed the old man’s broken skin, cracked and dry. Tempting winds sift through windows and walks up and down the frail spine and fragile bones. Closed eyes are shut and prepare for the storm, opening up the drapes of yesterday covered in dust. Lost thoughts and dreams sit around in the graveyard of never, mingling with unfinished compositions.

Raising fingers above the forehead, the old man hammers them down on the keys. A dissonant and raw euphony echoes and rests across the wooden floor. It is all coming back to the ancient player. Forming his hand into a specific pattern with precise distance, the pianist presses down. And, as the keys are pressed down, so is the air around the piano, it resonates and raises the noise high into the pinnacles of life and the far reaching caverns of Hell. Moving the fingers and spreading the palm, various notes and chords swirl around and mix with the stars. Right when the sound meets the nebulous ball of fire, at that exact moment of physical contact, it explodes and illuminates the darkness with a blossoming crackle of symphonies. A wise old head tries to keep pace with the youthful and spirited fingers that dip themselves into the minds of demons and angels.

Every noise creates a conversation between the heart and mind, a fluid dialogue. Neither can actually stand each other, but somehow, no one knows how, they just work. Sweat drops and drips from the wrinkles on the old man’s forehead. The mental composition comes to an end as the man, spirited and youthful, puts his finishing touch. A final tap of a black key is uttered, and the piano is sealed back again.

And as the artist walks down the attic steps, accompanied by the creaky noises, one could almost hear him say “I still got it.” Almost. 

"Writers Block" by August Rain

If I could describe what Writer’s Block was, I probably wouldn’t be stuck.

I wouldn’t feel like someone had just stepped on the back of my shoe.

I would be able to paint you pictures of seas and castles and fires and faraway beauties,

Not a blank wall.

Writer’s block makes me feel as though my backpack was caught in the door way, as I was rushing for my next class.

Writer’s block is the dragon that guards what I most desire.

Writer’s block is that monster in my closet that keeps me up at night.

Writer’s block is my worst enemy.

Writer’s block is trying to stand in the ocean and being knocked back down by the icy waves.

Writer’s block is a backed up pipe.

Writer’s block is running after the impossible.

Writer’s bock is…

This,

Right now,

When I cannot put my thoughts down coherently.

It’s when the headache starts.

It’s me, with my head in hands.

I am a writer,

And I am stuck. 

"Are Muckrakers to Blame or to Thank?" by Raul

The term “muckraker” has been used to describe reform-minded journalists since after 1900. This term became popular in 1906 when the President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt, used it to insult journalists who, in his opinion, had gone too far to expose real or made-up misconduct of prominent individuals or businesses.

Today, people still argue about whether or not being called a “muckraker” should be considered an insult or an honor. Those who don’t agree with the way muckrakers gather their information describe these journalists as intrusive and rude, and that they do anything to get good information, even if that means lying (Wood).  

Although some people believe that muckrakers go too far in exposing misconduct, I, along with many others, believe that muckrakers have had a positive effect on our society. Muckrakers have helped society by causing many new reforms and by encouraging people to act modestly and honestly.

Throughout history, muckrakers have been bringing up issues and finding information that has caused to reforms to be put in place to help society for the better. One example of a muckraker who has helped out society greatly is Upton Sinclair. In the 1900’s, Sinclair wrote a book called The Jungle, in which he aimed to “expose the shocking conditions that immigrant workers endured,” as stated by San Leandro High School. Sinclair exposed the terrible working conditions for immigrants, describing to everyone how dangerous and unsanitary the meat factories that they worked in could be. Even though Sinclair had exposed the meatpacking industry of its danger towards the customers as well as the workers (by explaining how badly the food would be treated), Sinclair had actually done society a favor. Sinclair’s exposition of the industry led to federal investigations and in 1906, the Meat Inspection Act was passed as a result. Without Sinclair’s book, people would have continued to eat the unsanitary meat, which would have caused even more illnesses from meat. Sinclair is described as a muckraker for exposing the meatpacking industry, but no one can argue that the result of his muckraking only helped society in the long run.

Another muckraker who has had a positive effect on society is Helen Hunt Jackson. After hearing from a Native American about how they were being mistreated by the government, Jackson decided to do something about it. In 1881, Jackson described the effects of government actions on Native American tribes in her book, A Century of Dishonor, which she sent copies of to Congress. In her book, Jackson explains the tribal history of several different tribes. Due to Jackson’s exposition of the government’s mistreatment towards the Native Americans, Congress acted to remedy the situation in Ponca, one of the Native American tribes being mistreated. The book did not make as big of an impact as Jackson had hoped for, she did cause a step in the right direction for better treatment of Native Americans. By displaying how the tribes were being treated, Jackson was able to help society.

A current example of muckrakers affecting society in a good way is Julian Assange creating WikiLeaks. WikiLeaks is a non-profit organization created to provide secret news, information, and leaks to the public. On the WikiLeaks website, it is explained that “better scrutiny leads to reduced corruption and stronger democracies in all society’s institutions, including government, corporations and other organizations.” I agree with this theory that muckraking can lead to a less corrupt government and society. Muckraking can eliminate dishonest officials from the government and also, if people know that their information is likely to be leaked, it would encourage more people to act in a moral way in the first place.

By exposing individuals and businesses, muckrakers play an important part in doing their best to eradicate corruption from society as a whole. Muckrakers should be honored to have that title because it shows that they have played a part in attempting to improve society.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muckraker

http://www.slhs.net/2002106113135543/lib/2002106113135543/326-327_Muckrakers.pdf

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Century_of_Dishonor

http://wikileaks.org/About.html

"While Once on a Sunny Walk in June" by October Sky

While once on a sunny walk in June I saw a gigantic tree.

At its base I could barely see a shiny figurine.

When I picked it up I could tell that it had seen many a day

So I pocketed my new found gem and continued on my.

I passed a jolly looking man, a little ways down the road

But when I went to wave to him it seemed my gem had showed.

For his face became quite bright with a shimmer of wonder

As if the gem brought him thoughts of thunder.

Because as I passed him the sky lit up with lightning

The shocking sight and bright light was rather frightening.

The figurine now safe in my pocket I could feel it burning

So I took it out and held it as the light continued churning.

The clouds grew dense and the wind picked up it was quite a shock

How suddenly leaves flew from trees in what seemed to be a flock.

I unpocketed the figurine and gave it quite a stare

I thought it rather strange how this hadn’t happened before it was there.

I suddenly took off running

Leaving the creepy figurine behind it was rather cunning.

For I turned around to see if I was being followed

But I was back at the tree which seemed to have been hollowed.

I looked down at the roots below my feet only to have learned

That somehow that little figurine had been returned

With this in mind I turned to walk away

Then I looked up at the sky and saw it wasn’t grey.

The clouds were bright and wispy and the wind was a gentle breeze

Confused was I to see that the odd weather seized.

It was like it never happened as I continued on my way

Could I have really dreamt it all? With confusion my mind began to sway.

I passed a jolly looking man, a little ways down the road

I went to wave at him and my empty pocket showed.

As I waved I looked at him with a look of neighborly glee

I was sure he was looking for the gem but he just waved back at me.

"Not Another Essay!" by Tom Bombadil

The teacher hands me the paper.  Oh no, not another essay I whisper under my breath.  The thought of typing and researching and commentary makes my head spin as I struggle to imagine the next two weeks.  Slowly I lower my eyes and read the prompt.  Okay, I can write this.  The topic is not that hard.  Actually, it is quite easy.  Yes, I can do this.  When I finally convince myself the essay is not as hard as I thought I move on and start planning. 

However, my planning is not outlining my essay and thinking through my plan.  The process is much more basic.

When I come home after school I put the essay to the side and do all my easier homework.   Finally, I finish my math and the horrible physics problem set.  I turn toward the prompt paper and stare at the white sheet for a moment.  Sheer terror occurs again as I cannot remember the confidence I had built up in class.  Ah, I put the thoughts in the far back of my mind, but as I drag them forward, the butterflies dissipate and I am ready to write.  I do not plan my essays, but as Colette from Casual Chance said, I “Sit down, and put down everything that comes into your heard and then you’re a writer.  But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.”  I start writing anything that comes into my head that seems to follow the prompt.  I stop writing as I remember I have to write a thesis.  Before I write the most important sentence of my paper, I look through my book which the prompt is based on and find my evidence.  One quote is found, and another and another.  I have three quotes and can base my thesis on that evidence.  There, a thesis written.  I move on and continue typing word after word on my computer. 

The keys clicking keeps me awake and the thought of finishing strengthens my resolve.  I put every thought that appears in my head on that paper because I need to fill up the required three to five page limit.  I know I can always delete and change my essay.  Suddenly, I stop in the middle of writing.  I have lost all thought and am completely blank.  I know I must put down everything in my head; I reread my paper and as I read, a new sentence forms in my head.  The rest of the essay flows smoothly.  I write assertion, evidence and commentary. The commentary is the hardest I discover because I must relate my analysis back to my evidence and thesis.  I persevere and as I finish the paper, a small smile finds a way on my mouth.  I am pleased I am finished.  

I know the hardest part has yet to occur.  I press save and then print.  The paper gets stuck in the printer.  After I struggle with my printer—why can they never work!—I look at what I printed.  Grabbing a red pen, I sit down at my desk and start reading.  Though I know I should read out loud, I forget and miss many mistakes. I judge my work, like Colette says, I “without pity, destroy most of it.” I look down and my essay is covered in red pen.  Well, time to fix my paper.  Walking back to my computer, I fish for the prompt which has seemed to have mixed in with the abundance of papers on the floor.  After finding the piece I need, I fix the essay on my computer.  I know my first edit was only grammar editing.  The next destruction of my paper is the hardest because the prompt and the commentary have to match the instructions and my thesis.  Glancing at my thesis I check that the sentence answers the question given by the teacher.  A success in my books is reprinting my paper without any annoying printer errors.  My red pen flies across the page less than before as I reread over the assignment. 

I let the paper sit on my desk.  I do not look at the prompt nor my typed words.  Allowing for that wait period keeps me sane because I am not obsessing over proper English, following the prompt, or perfect grammar.  I can relax and let the assignment hang in the back of my head.  Finally, I read over the essay again.  This time, I feel like an author; however, I know my work is not down.  Colette would be disappointed if I stopped before I finished.  After I print a new copy, I sit down with my pen and I look for spelling, misplaced modifiers, dangling sentence, and anything my English teacher would not approve of in a paper. 

Suddenly, I see a whole section of commentary that make no sense.  I sprint to my computer and delete, delete, delete.  I sit thinking for a while before inspiration strikes like lightening in my mind.  As I type the smile returns.  This is the way the evidence fits the thesis.  I reprint and reread one more time. The essay looks good, but I ask my mother to read through, just in case I missed something, before I turn the paper into my teacher.  She reads and I follow her suggestions. 

This has not taken me one day, but many days, broken up by school and periods of no inspiration.  When the assignment is due; however, I am finished and turn in the paper with a smile.  No matter my grade, I am happy with the result. 

I am not only a writer, but have evolved into an author.  I see my mistakes and fix them.  My work is not perfect even if I receive an A on the essay.  I know I can always improve.  However, I most always remember, the only way to improve is to look at my work without pity and destroy most of the paper. 

The next day, I receive a prompt for a new book.  This time, I am ready.   

"2320" by Donovan Prestonville

            “Saffron, it is 8:30am and time for you to wake up,” a calm, automated voice stated. Confusing, harsh music blasted out of the ceiling speakers following this announcement. Down below a bed hovered a few feet above the ground, buzzing from the slight vibrations it was producing. All that could be seen was a knot of electric blue hair, vibrant against the stark white pillows. A groan escaped the sheets as a bundled mass rolled over. This was immediately followed by a shriek as the bundle continued rolling off the edge of the bed, and fell the few feet to the floor, landing with a muffled thump. The sheets began untangling themselves from the inside out to reveal a slender figure under the blue hair, sporting an equally striking sports bra and shorts.

            “Bed stop,” Saffron mumbled, throwing the sheets onto the lowering bed, no longer vibrating. She trudged over to one of the two mirrored walls in the room, rubbing her eyes, and attempting to detangle the blue mess. Lightly double tapping the mirror, she swayed sleepily as it turned ninety degrees to reveal a massive bathroom. This tiled room matched the bedroom in it’s pristinely white condition. “Shower on,” Saffron said, pulling off bits of clothing and throwing them into the laundry bin, just past the mini pool that was the bathtub.

            Twenty minutes later the mirrored wall revolved again and Saffron emerged, hair perfectly straight in a chin length bob and makeup on. She crossed to the other mirrored wall, stopping to peer out a window at the placid city below. “What’s the weather like today?” she asked, appearing to address the empty room. On the wall opposite the bed a screen lit up and displayed the day’s hourly forecast.

            “Today’s high is 84 degrees, and the low is 66,” read out the same computerized voice.

            “Hmmm...” Saffron mused to herself as she passed through the automatic double doors on the second mirrored wall. Just beyond the entrance she was confronted with a choice: turn right for “WINTER” or left for “SUMMER”. Going left she meandered down a long hallway, past sleeveless and short-sleeve shirts, skirts, and shorts on one side, and rows upon rows of shoes on the opposite. Reaching the dress rack she perused a bit and then extracted a bright pink, tailored peplum dress. On her way back to the main intersection of the closet, she grabbed a pair of Carl Nelson flatform sandals. Once dressed she returned to the doorway and contemplated all the jewelry hanging from the surrounding walls. Picking an obnoxious, silver necklace, consisting of many intertwined chains with a jewel dotted here and there, she paired it with simple diamond studs of varying size, for her five piercings. Checking her appearance in the mirror with a haughty glance, she snatched her tote on the way out of the closet.

            “What classes do I have today?” Saffron asked the emptiness once again.

            “You have European History, Moon Studies, and 18th Century Literature.”

            “Boring day,” Saffron muttered as she spritzed her favorite scent. “Get Felix, and if my brother asks, I’ll be home at 5,” she informed the disembodied voice, grabbing her iPhone, and exiting the room.

            “Very well. Have a good day.” The voice faded away as another automated door closed.

            Walking through her bleached house, Saffron was nearly blinded as sunlight poured in though the tall windows and reflected off every immaculate wall. Her parents had an obsession with pure white, and every surface in the house was kept polished and spotless. Clomping down the stairs in her flatforms, she payed little attention to the calls of her mother cooking in the kitchen, or those of her dad, packing his briefcase in the study. Immersed in her iPhone, she was checking status updates. The front door opened for her and she walked a few feet along the driveway before reaching Felix, her car. The little vehicle resembled one of those vintage hatchback station wagons, but it had no apparent windows or mirrors, and not surprisingly, was white.

            “Felix, go to school,” Saffron commanded, settling into the leather seats. The car’s engine hummed to life, the GPS coordinating itself. Sliding two panels out from behind the main one, she transformed her iPhone into an iPad, and pulled out a stylus to write. “Stop at Starbucks along the way, and play my ‘Favorites’,” she instructed. The car moved into gear and zipped off, Saffron in the back, scribbling on her pad.

            She was composing a quick essay on the simplicity yet complexity of modern life. Saffron paused for a moment, pensive in her contemplation of her life. She definitely enjoyed the advantages 2320 awarded her. She liked having so much free time as a result of all the computers and automated systems in her house. But really, when she thought about it, what did she achieve with all this extra time? She neither educated herself further by studying more subjects, nor expanded her mind artistically by expressing her imagination. Truthfully, she spent most of her time idly playing reality tv shows. Pretending to be someone else in more interesting situations, taking part in the holographic story. Saffron realized in that moment, how wasteful she was. She was acutely aware of the true emptiness of her technologically full life in that moment as her car maneuvered itself to the window of the drive-through Starbucks.