To start my review of Invisible Planets I’ll be delving into Chen Qiufan’s “The Year of the Rat” and exploring the story in detail. To be frank, the story unfolded in a way that both surprised and stunned me, and I hope that, should you read this entire review, you’ll understand why. I get the feeling that this wasn’t just because of my admitted ignorance of Chinese culture, or the limits of trying to interpret this story from the perspective of a Westerner. The narrative is suggestive of a greater ignorance, in fact, not just on the part of the reader, but of the characters’ own confusion at the developments in the plot.
For this review, we’ll be looking at the human element of the story, since that seems to be what’s front and center; more specifically, the relationship between humanity and the themes of the story (economics, maturing, and technology, for instance).
This will be a long review, closing on about 5,500 words, examining several different elements of the story that I think are worth noting. It will also serve as a quick analysis of some aspects of the story from my perspective. Many of these thoughts are preliminary, and if you have any ideas you’d like to share, please do so in the comments.
To avoid potential spoilers for people who would rather read the story first (and there will be spoilers aplenty as the entire story is discussed in detail), the rest of the review can be read by clicking the “Read More” link below.
“I’ve seen so many versions of you. With me. Without me. Artist. Teacher. Graphic Designer. But it’s all, in the end, just life. We see it macro, like one big story, but when you’re in it, it’s just day-to-day, right? And isn’t that what you have to make your peace with?”
Dark Matter by Blake Crouch is a novel that is particularly concerned with two important questions: 1) Who are we? and 2) What if? Like any good science fiction novel, it uses science (in this case some really abstract concepts from quantum physics) to explore not possible consequences of the science, but the ways in which it impacts humanity. Basically, science fiction explores how these concepts relate to us.
The novel opens with Jason Dessen, his wife Daniela, and their son Charlie in their home on family night. Jason contemplates the choices he’s made in life leading him to this point–having a wife, a son, and a mediocre job as a small college physics professor–when he could have stuck with his career and made world-changing discoveries. There’s regret, yes, but I also suspect resignation on the part of himself and Daniela, who also gave up her dreams for her family.
Jason goes out to congratulate an old friend, Ryan, at a local bar for winning the Pavia Prize, awarded to people who make breakthroughs in science. On the way back home, he’s held at gunpoint, kidnapped, and taken to an abandoned power plant where a mysterious man drugs him. He awakens in a hangar he doesn’t recognize, surrounded by people who are familiar with him but who he doesn’t know, and later learns that he invented a kind of machine that allows a person to travel between different universes (along the lines of the Many Worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics).
“I don’t know. I could see it getting to the where it didn’t feel real anymore. Because it isn’t. The only thing that’s real in this moment is this city. This room. This bed. You and me.”
What I appreciate most about this novel is how it takes complicated ideas and weaves them seamlessly into an extremely compelling narrative, following Jason (or the Jason that is the most familiar to us), as he deals with the situation he is unwillingly thrust into. The complicated ideas don’t weigh the novel down or make it hard to understand; it flows naturally from the characters’ dialogue. In this, Crouch creates a novel that is, at its core, a thought experiment. Given the idea that for every decision we make universes split off to encompass every possible outcome, and given a kind of technology that allows people to travel to these other universes, how might humans use this technology and how might they interact with it?
In a word: badly. But Crouch’s exploration is deeply illuminating because it shines a light on us. When Jason explores “his” house in another universe, he takes stock of the many differences between that house and the house he actually lived in. “In my house…” sets up a contrast between what he knows and what he’s currently experiencing. He wonders if he’s going mad, or if someone’s playing a prank on him, but he cannot square his knowledge with his current experience.
As the novel progresses, Jason visits different universes where he sees several different versions of himself, of Daniela, and of Chicago. He acknowledges that, the more he travels, the less he thinks he understands about himself. “As I shave my beard, the questions of identity keep haunting me.” In one universe, another Jason drops money into this Jason’s collection box, and narrates, “There’s no danger. I’m unrecognizable.” If there are an infinite number of other universes, with infinite other Jasons, what do you really know about yourself? Throughout the novel there’s this theme that your decisions make you who you are; the Jason we’re familiar with made certain decisions that made him a family man, and the Jason that invented the device that allows travel to other universes made other decisions. So which Jason is the “real” Jason?
There’s probably no way to answer that question, because the question itself is absurd. They’re all the real Jason, but they come from different contexts and they have different histories. They’re not only the result of decisions that they make, but of the history and developments in their universes that are different than our universes. None of them have any kind of priority over any other, and this fact assaults our sense of self and the idea that we all hold that we’re special and unique. Jason has to come face-to-face with the fact that there are versions of himself that are capable of great evils in desperate circumstances.
Further, it turns out the being able to travel the universes depends on your own conscious and subconscious mind. Essentially, your thoughts and emotions direct your travel in the space between dimensions. In effect, by exploring the multiverse, you’re actually exploring yourself.
I suppose we’re just trying to come to terms with how horrifying infinity really is.
Dark Matter has an interesting structure. Most of the narrative is first-person perspective in the present tense, from the point-of-view of Jason. However, the story shifts to third-person when we move to the original Daniela and her time with “Jason2,” which is an interesting shift that makes Jason2 feel really alien–like an altogether different person. Jason’s narration has a very stream-of-conscious feel to it, which reinforces the present-tense, and really makes you as a reader feel the emotions, fear, or sense of panic that the character feels.
Crouch’s writing style is descriptive without being too detail-oriented. It’s original and engaging, and unlike Inferno, it uses ellipses and dashes sparingly and only when they’re called for. The way he describes characters is fresh and real. For instance, “Her breath is wine-sweet, and she has one of those smiles that seem architecturally impossible.” His writing style also has hints of a wry sense of humor, such as the following sentence: “Whole Foods smells like the hippie I dated before Daniela–a tincture of fresh produce, ground coffee, and essential oils.”
The pace of the novel almost never falters, and I found myself losing track of time as I turned the pages. You really lose yourself in the story, and in the images that Crouch draws through witty writing and a profound imagination. During Jason’s travels through the universes, Crouch uses what I call the “ampoule countdown,” tracking the number of trips Jason has left to make. That combined with the truly infinite nature of the multiverse creates a sense of utter hopelessness, especially as we see Jason struggle to figure out how to tune his mind and emotions so that he can find his way home (and fail desperately).
Overall, Dark Matter has a solid story, excellent writing, characters that are fleshed-out and real, and an original idea with a fantastic twist ending. It keeps you on the edge of your seat, and by the end of the story you find yourself questioning your own sense of identity.
I give Dark Matter a 5 out of 5, and highly recommend it to anyone who lives mind-benders, techno-thrillers, or science fiction.
Every now and again I decide to venture out of my bubble and read something that’s not exactly typical of my usual literary fare. In the past, Dan Brown had been able to tell a relatively entertaining tale (if not reliably researched or well-written), so I took up Inferno with the hope that Brown would live up to his mediocre writer / good storyteller reputation.
I can tell you that he did not. Inferno, despite being a decent page-turner, didn’t really leave me wanting to read more about Robert Langdon. Actually, about three-quarters of the way through I just wished it would end. Unlike his previous books (with maybe the exception of The Lost Symbol), Inferno feels like it drags on forever, with serious disruptions in the pacing of the plot throughout with endless description of setting that, in some areas, seem completely extraneous. Indeed, it is obvious that this was a book conceived from the ground up as a movie.
Let’s start from the beginning: Robert Langdon, Harvard symbologist, wakes up in a Florence hospital with a bullet wound and amnesia. Soon, he is being chased by an assassin, and helped by the beautiful Sienna Brooks to figure out how he got there and where he was going. Pretty standard Dan Brown fare, honestly. The assassin works for a mysterious group called the Consortium, headed by a man only known as the Provost, who are trying to keep Langdon from accomplishing his goals aboard the good ship Mendacium, which essentially means falsehood or illusion (sigh…obvious symbolism is obvious). Yes, he did simply call the antagonists “the Consortium” and “the Provost,” in a fit of what I can only describe as a habitual lack of originality. Just to knock it up a notch to pathological, the Provost, in several instances, steeples his hands when he talks as bad guys are wont to do.
Before I tear into this book, I want to talk about something from TV Tropes. An official entry exists for the term “Dan Browned,” and TV Tropes describes it thus: “Have you ever picked up a work by a creator who claims (or strongly implies) that his writing is based on thorough and careful research, only to discover what you are actually holding is a steaming pile of lazy assumptions or outright lies?” You can find a page on the website here dedicated to Dan Brown’s loose history with fact. So anything that Brown asserts as true in the book should be taken with a grain of salt as a general rule.
I’ll try to avoid spoilers, but it should be noted that for as much grief as I’m about to give this book, I think that Brown still somehow manages to create a book that, for the most part, is a page-turner that manages to keep your interest. Further, he peppers his novels with these little insights and discoveries that let you feel like you’re in on them.
First off, I think Brown’s writing is getting worse. Or, at least, from what little I remember of my readings of the other three Langdon novels, it seems to be getting worse. Maybe lazier is a better word. On the first page, Brown sets up a pattern that will be repeated ad nauseam: he overuses ellipses and uses esoteric words like dolant and chthonic. This takes me out of the action and makes me aware of the act of reading, and I think it makes the book poorer. Later, he’ll start other annoying writing eccentricities: the overuse of italics to express inner monologue, the overuse of dashes to add information (which creates jarring, awkward sentences), and perhaps most annoying of all the overuse of the interrobang (!? or ?!, Brown uses them interchangeably), making the dialogue come off as a college freshman’s creative writing project you just have to read, man.
Here, I’ll ding myself for the overuse of the word “overuse” just to maintain consistency.
Unfortunately, the problems with Brown’s writing don’t end there. Apart from the problems already listed, a lot of it is clumsy and awkward. Take, for instance, this horrid image: “…a powerfully built woman effortlessly unstraddled her BWM motorcycle…” Unstraddled? I searched high and low for other references of the existence of that word and the only things I could find after strenuous google searches were other people discussing Brown’s use of this word. Look, we’re not dealing with Shakespeare-level creativity here, and I don’t think Dan Brown is anywhere near justified in using a “word” like unstraddled when the English language is replete with good words to describe the action he intended. Now excuse me while I get off my high horse, dismount my stool, hop down the stairs, and go for a walk.
Brown’s work also suffers from the “show, don’t tell” problem. Often he uses insipid words like “surreal” and “unique” where detail would not only enhance the flavor of the text, but offer more memorable descriptions of the events, locations, and character attitudes. Another instance of the “show, don’t tell” problem is exemplified by the following sentence: “Sienna quickly outlined a plan. It was simple, clever, and safe.” Okay, Dan Brown, I’ll just take your word for it. There’s no need for me to have the ability to judge that on my own as a reader with a brain. That can judge things. You know, like I’m judging you right now. I have a suggestion. It’s simple, clever, and droll. Write better.
Another issue I have with his writing style is that he breaks everything up into small, easily-digestible chapters, as if he’s spoon-feeding the reader. Sure, this may contribute to his ability to turn mediocre novels with terrible writing into page-turners, but after a while it gets about as irritating as the muscle fatigue I experienced rolling my eyes. Chapter eight is one page, front and back! One page! For the sake of all that is good and just in the world, stop that man from splitting a book that could be trimmed by about one hundred pages into 104 chapters and an epilogue.
As I skim my notes I become aware of another damned pattern: repetition. At one point I wrote, “Yes, we know the Consortium does shady things. Yes, we know they fulfill tasks.” And perhaps that repetition was contagious: “we know, already,” “this is such a goddam repetitive novel. We already know,” “This is getting tiresome,” “and now we get Vayentha telling us what we already know,” and finally “Chapter 64 is pretty much a rehash [spoilers removed]…We know what’s on the video! Come on.” The repetition is actually present throughout the entire novel and, had I wrote notes on all of it, I would never be able to finish this review.
Worse than that, however, is that this idiosyncrasy of Brown’s writing spares not his characters. He constantly refers to one character by what he’s wearing and his damn skin rash (“the man with the rash”), when his name would suffice. Nobody is going to forget that man’s damn rash or his nerd glasses or his ugly paisley tie. A violent twitch developed in my eye from how often Brown called the Provost some variation of a “deeply tanned man.” I am the deeply annoyed man.
Brown seems to abuse his characters more severely than George R.R. Martin. Langdon’s relationship with women in the book should be held up for ridicule by teachers of creative writing. Two of the most powerful and intelligent women in the book, Sienna Brooks, his young, blonde companion, and Elizabeth Sinskey, the director of the World Health Organization, describe Langdon as handsome several times. Perhaps the most egregious example of Langdon’s supernatural powers of attraction over woman is the following: “She knew it was probably just adrenaline, but she found herself strangely attracted to the American professor.” Uh-huh. Strangely, I am not surprised. Brown’s stories always follow the same pattern. Langdon teams up with some attractive, professional woman, and we learn later–big surprise–that she’s got a troubled past, holds Langdon as an object of desire (and is held as an object of desire in the narrative), and holds secret knowledge.
And Langdon himself doesn’t come out from under Brown’s overbearing weirdness unscathed. Even as he struggles to figure out what the hell he’s doing in Florence, he whines about losing his damned Mickey Mouse watch. Langdon even comes off as a pompous hipster when Brown writes, “As Langdon stared into his own weary eyes, he half wondered if he might at any moment wake up in his reading chair at home, clutching an empty martini glass and a copy of Dead Souls, only to remind himself that Bombay Sapphire and Gogol should never be mixed.” Danny boy, buddy, don’t character assassinate the man responsible for that fat bank account. You’re not listening to me, are you? You’re…going to give Langdon a weird relationship with penises in statuary, aren’t you? Langdon’s going to focus on it and even note how he cringes at a “penile grip” in a famous statue. *Sigh*
The predictable twist ending doesn’t really pay off in any significant way, and I even had to backtrack to make sure that my impressions of the events were colored only by my own assumptions. In that, Brown was actually kind of clever because he sort of pulled off a trick to impart Langdon’s amnesia onto you, the reader. But, like I said, it doesn’t pay off because it feels cheap and doesn’t really seem to hang together well. Eh, don’t listen to me about that. I’m still deeply annoyed about that goddamned deep tan.
All in all, I give Inferno 2 out of 5 stars. Despite the many issues the novel has, it does manage to eek out a passable plot that manipulates you into turning the page.
Hello dear readers!
Tonight I want to start a project that I’ve wanted to do for a while now because I think there’s a lot of potential to have some interesting discussions. Penn Jillette and Teller, two of my favorite illusionists, put together a daring kind of show in which they took controversial topics and discussed them from their unique perspective. Sometimes this created shows in which their political ideology trumped science (like the global climate change episode), but other memorable times we got episodes in which they created one of the best visual metaphors for vaccines to date.
If you haven’t seen this series, I encourage you to do so. And one of the first things you should keep in mind (apart from the warnings about nudity and language) is that this is a show about skepticism, and applying skepticism even to the skeptics. The show is called Bullshit! for a reason–the two hosts may be peddling it, and it’s important to call even them out.
Of course, when doing so it’s important to be tactful.
To be fair, I don’t think I was kicking him when he was explaining that he made missteps. It’s hard to convey what you mean on the internet, much less in 140 characters. In case Penn ever sees this post, I want to apologize for the tone–but I was offering an honest critique of the show, not trying to put him down.
With that said, I want to start a “rewatch” and a review of the first episode, entitled “Talking to the Dead.” It’s the first show of the series, and it sets the tone and makes an introduction.
Original Air Date: January 24, 2003
Production Code: 101
The show opens with Penn talking to a prop headstone belonging to Houdini, which is very apropos to the topic and the show itself. Houdini is perhaps the most famous illusionist in history (his name is even an idiom!), and I’m sure both Penn and Teller find inspiration in his life. There’s a lot of humor in the show, which is a necessity because, often, they’re dealing with controversial and difficult topics in the show. Penn, for instance, will say, “See, it’s easy to speak to the dead,” after speaking to the prop headstone as if Houdini was listening to him.
One thing that stands out to me is that Penn admits that they have dealt out bullshit, but that they tell people that they lie. I think that this is particularly why the show works–and it reminds me very much of the work of James Randi, who made his mark by exposing people like Uri Geller as bullshitters. Who better to expose bullshit but bullshit artists themselves?
And in case you’re wondering why the show is called “Bullshit,” Penn explains it is for legal matters; apparently, calling people con artists and quacks will open you up to legal action, whereas saying they’re full of it is a-okay. Admittedly, after watching this episode I’m a bit leery of calling any bullshitter a fraud, but just talking about who they are and what they do is more than enough to get the point across.
So obviously this episode is about people who claim that they can communicate with the dead. It’s important to note that I’m a scientific skeptic and I don’t believe that ghosts or spirits exist, and even if they did, they probably have more important things to do than sit around and talk with us boring idiots all day. But there are certainly powerful emotional reasons for people to buy it–perhaps they miss loved ones, or can’t move past the grief of losing a life partner. These feelings are very understandable and they’re human. We should be empathetic to these people because we’ve all lost someone close to us.
And that’s why the people that take advantage of people in grief need to questioned. If they’re exploiting people, and lying to them, they should be exposed.
I have to agree with Penn when he says that they’re not interested in the money that psychics who claim that they can communicate with the dead are taking from vulnerable people–what matters is that they desecrate the memories that the people hold of their lost loved ones. How are people influenced by exploitation of those memories, and is it harmful? As Penn says, the only thing we have left of the people who leave us behind are our memories of them–more valuable than the money that they take.
Penn also introduces the Center for Inquiry, a group that is famous for its pro-science advocacy and fostering skepticism toward supernaturalism. What’s perhaps most useful is that they list and explain a number of methods that are used by performance artists and psychics to connect with their audiences. The first method is “cold reading,” which is described as a way of fishing for information “while giving the impression that you’re getting this information from some supernatural source…”
Psychics will make a lot of guesses, and eventually hit upon something that’s accurate. It’s a version of the sharpshooter fallacy. The psychics will make many misses, but what are remembered or stressed are the hits that they make. And if you’re a psychic with a TV show, you’re going to be incentivized to edit the show such that the misses are, well, missing.
There is also “hot reading,” in which the psychic gives very detailed or accurate answers, and this is accomplished when they’ve done some prior research or have spied on the people in the audience. It’s kind of a despicable cheating, but for unsuspecting people it’s probably a bit overwhelming. It’s pretty easy to accomplish by putting microphones in waiting areas, or planting people in the audience to suss out information as if they’re just people there to watch striking up a conversation.
I suppose if you’re going in knowing what the show is about, and appreciate a good illusion, there might not be a problem with it. I love watching magicians fool me with illusions, so why not enjoy a good psychic show? There might not be a reason to be so critical if they’re not exploiting vulnerable people and if they come clean about the tricks they use.
Perhaps the most obvious is the “shotgun approach,” where the psychic takes advantage of a large audience and plays the odds. It’s likely if they just throw stuff out at an audience, they’ll chance upon a member who has some connection to a random name they throw out. For example, “does anyone here know an Ed? Edward? I’m getting a name that starts with an E.”
I think that method is kind of ingenious, actually. The audience participates actively–if they hear something that they can relate to, and get involved, they’re probably more willing to be fooled. “Yes, my uncle’s name was Ed!” It’s like the psychic has made a personal connection–and can channel this uncle to them. And when the audience appreciates this by, say, applauding, it reinforces the belief that it’s real. So, in effect, the audience member will supply the information and fill in the blanks, essentially doing the job for the psychic.
I think one of the highlights of the episode is when people involved in the Bullshit show aren’t allowed to bring their cameras into a John Edward live show, and they’re asked to leave the premises. I think that’s pretty revealing, actually–anyone’s skepticism alarm should be raised as soon as they’re disallowed from observing or recording such performances. If anyone could actually speak to the dead as psychics, why wouldn’t they want as many people to see that as possible? What would they be so afraid of? Why not let skeptics bring in their video recording devices? Prove that you can actually do what you say you can?
I think what I appreciate so much about this episode is that they not only list the methods that psychics use, but that they avoid attacking the people who go to the psychics. That’s very important: we’re all vulnerable, and sometimes we all fall for bullshit, but we don’t move past that and do better when people make fun of us and criticize us for our mistakes. We need to empathize with these people–try to help them deal with their grief without making empty promises and bullshitting them.
Penn closes the episode by saying, “You don’t heal a broken heart by pretending its not broken.” Indeed. The showmanship of a psychic is no true balm for the wound of a lost loved one.
Bullshit gets off to an auspicious start by exposing what is essentially an obvious target for skepticism, and it does it in an empathetic and clever way. If nothing else, it provides a good starting point for further research into psychics and people who claim that they can talk to the dead.
The next installment of this series will focus on Episode 2: “Alternative Medicine.” I’m actually looking forward to that one.
I was recently introduced to Scott Lynch‘s Gentleman Bastard series by Anastasia Klimchynskaya, my t’hy’la. I have a love/hate relationship with fantasy as a genre, in that I love the promise, but hate that few books actually meet their potential (notable exceptions include, but are not limited to, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Lord of the Rings, Alice in Wonderland, and the works of Edgar Allen Poe). For every book like The Hobbit there are ten books like Twilight.
I wasn’t immediately stricken by The Lies of Locke Lamora, but the story and Lynch’s writing style eventually grew on me. It was much easier to get into the sequel, Red Seas Under Red Skies, partly because the characters, style, and setting were already developed. The third book in the series, The Republic of Thieves, presents a completely novel scenario for protagonist/thief Locke Lamora and stalwart companion Jean Tannen, and as thieves, their role as advisers for the “Deep Roots” party is a perfect fit for their talents.
In the third volume, we’re introduced to Sabetha Belacoros as an actual character, and I feel that she represents a strong female role model. She is, perhaps, cleverer than Locke and just as stubborn and unafraid. Most of the time she bests him in the battle of wits, and it seems to me that she has a firmer grip on her emotions and has more strength in this regard than does Locke. I like that she has the strength to make difficult decisions and be unapologetic for them. As the adviser for the Black Iris party she gives Locke more than a run for his money and it is genuinely touching to see them reconcile their feelings for each other with their assigned roles (which carry severe consequences should they not deliver). What Locke can actually hold over her is a kind of experience that he gained in the first two books that are unique to his particular narrative which I believe that Sabetha will eventually match.
I really liked how well-written the political aspects of Karthain’s Five-Year Game are written. Some of it was a heavy-handed commentary of the American political system (at least, that’s how I interpreted it). The Five-Year Game is what the Magi of Karthain call the election process of the ungifted, those that cannot use magic, to the Konseil of Karthain, the governmental body that serves as a facade for the purposes of the Magi.
Particularly pleasing was how well the flashbacks to the Gentleman Bastards of yesteryear fit into the events that were unfolding in the main narrative. It was also good to see the return of Calo and Galdo and get a fresh dose of their antics as the Asino brothers, even if it was bittersweet because of their ultimate fate.
One of the largest disappointments of The Republic of Thieves, however, was that the book was so focused on Locke and Sabetha that Jean was relegated to a minor role with little development. After Red Seas Under Red Skies, where Jean gets a lot of focus and development, I felt like one of the best characters in the series was robbed. I hope that he plays a larger role in The Thorn of Emerblain because there is a lot to like about his character, his intelligence and loyalty being two of the most important. Indeed, there was a lot of room in this book for Lynch to explore the consequences of the events surrounding Ezri in Red Seas Under Red Skies and their lasting effects on Jean.
With that said, the book has a lot to offer. The dialogue is as sharp and witty as ever, and the complex, winding relationship between Locke and Sabetha is laid as bare as it is going to get. The twist about Locke’s identity leaves a huge mystery for the reader to ponder, and the return of an old enemy from The Lies of Locke Lamora just makes you hunger for more. Plus, one of the most unreasonable and annoying aspects of the first two book, the magi, was explored and explained enough for the idea to finally work without feeling like there’s a huge deus ex machina hanging over the story.
The Republic of Thieves offers a very satisfying reading experience and some of the best worldbuilding since George R.R. Martin. While some mysteries brought up in the first two books are answered (some only partially), many more are raised in this book.
Final rating: 5 Stars (out of 5)
Nidhi is pursuing a PhD in English at The University of Western Ontario. Of her studies, she writes:
I am interested in the representations of rape and sexual violence in India from the Partition to the contemporary times, especially in lieu of the recent polemic cases that have taken place in India. Specifically, I want to address the themes of silence and honour and the ways in which these elements shape a middle class Indian woman’s subjectivity through a close analysis of novels, films, and online media.
Cultural Critic in the Making showcases her thoughts relating to her chosen field of study in a way that isn’t as impenetrable as esoteric fields can be. Of particular interest is a post entitled “Domestic Violence In India : Critical Analysis of A Forgotten Film – Ashok Gaikwad’s Raja Ki Aayegi Baraat (1997)“, which presents a Bollywood movie and analyzes with particular attention on domestic violence in India.
Nidhi first introduced me to Bollywood movies a few years ago with the movie “3 Idiots.” Anyone who appreciates Bollywood movies and the cultural and social commentaries that they can contain will probably appreciate her blog. I encourage anyone interested in current events in India, as well as ago-old issues of sex, race, gender, and otherness, to read Cultural Critic in the Making.