Mayflower Chronicles: The Tale of Two Cultures
By: Kathryn Haueisen / Narrated By: Elizabeth B. Splaine
Length: 11 hrs and 26 mins
…Ho. Ly… CRUD…
Here’s the thing: I saw Mayflower Chronicles, and NATurally I thought it’d be an interesting Listen for Thanksgiving. Yup yup yup, written totally by a non-Indigenous totally white woman who just so happens to be a descendant of the Mayflower’s William and Mary Brewster. But SURELY, given she goes to great lengths to tell us she gave a greeeeat deal of thought, did unrelenting research, got kudos and a few corrections from Native American groups? Wellll, hmm, and I’ll give it a shot anyway as the premise: Chronicling some history of the two vastly disparate cultures and how they came to collide on Plymouth Rock sounded so promising.
And about here I should add that I raaaaarely use the lord’s name in vain, preferring to go with something less offensive, such as Good Golly Gosh. That said, however? With THIS?!
Oh. My. GOD!!!!
I can’t even BEGin to tell you what watered down pap this is. Author Kathryn Haueisen begins with an exHAUStive history of creep William Brewster as he goes from young student to diplomat to rebel on the Queen’s, later the King’s, sh**list. >yaaaaawn< And no matter how very desperately Haueisen tries to fashion him into a noble person of sterling character, the dude just ooooozes creep. He totally reminds me of that gosh-awful movie, “Rob Roy” where Liam Neeson, clad in a dashing kilt, hightails it to the Hills, screeching about his “HONOR” and leaves his wife, poor Jessica Lange, to get raped repeatedly by the Redcoats.
Was that a digression from our story here? I think not as William Brewster rePEATedly screeches religious diatribes and then hotfoots it off to other environs, leaving Mary to bear the brunt of trying to keep body and soul together without funds. And by the way? Dude, stop knocking the poor woman up and lend a hand…!
Okay so THAT chapped m’ hide, but then we get to see how gosh-awfully difficult it was for women of the era, just waiting in the wings and being dragged hither and yon, nary a word to be said cuz their husbands are the ones making the choices. In a deLIGHTful scene, Miles Standish (And the man canNOT keep his finger from the trigger whenst out raiding Pokanoket graves) comes back from a raiding party to discover his young wife may’ve accidentally, or NOT so accidentally, chucked herself over the railing of the Mayflower, drowning in the frigid waters. He’s a tad woeful, but then his male compatriots kinda sorta bring him back to himself with a fond: Jeez man; it’s not like you spent any time around her anyway…
Okay so THAT (All those creep-fest men!) chapped m’ hide as well. But THEN we get to see how gosh-awfully suckwad it was for the Pokanoket at the time. Juuuuust getting over mass death from white-man-brought diseases, they’re a trifle miffed by all the grave-robbing, but Haueisen has them taking it all in stride. Their Massaoit (Great Leader sayeth Wikipedia) is all dithering and confused, but later relents cuz he thinks it’d be peachy-keen to have all these ostensibly brave creep-fest white dudes on their side should things with the Narragansett ever boil over. So he’s all jolly and eventually welcoming; after all, what’s a little grave desecration amongst chums?
And now onto the part where I danged near DIED: The narration which was monotone until m’ brains were danged near blown out with, wait for it: Someone who fancies herself a woman of the stage. Ho. Ly. Crud. I had to Google Elizabeth B. Splaine cuz truly? The result could NOT be done by anyone other than someone emoting to the people all the way in the freaking’ cheap seats. Monotone monotone monotone for the Pokanoket, then EMOTION and OVERDONE ACCENTS and VOCAL GYRATIONS enough to EXPLODE a person’s brain. I looked this American up cuz oh GOD (Again, my apologies, …but…) and discovered that Splaine took to the stage to become an opera singer and now teaches voice. TELL ME THAT’S NOT “VOICE” ACTING, cuz if it is? OY! I’ll have to look up her student list and hunt each down with a mega-crowbar to save the tattered remnants of my brain/equilibrium. Seriously, we’re juuuuuust into the Prologue when Haueisen has us with the Mayflower in the jaws of a storm and Splaine has our eardrums blasted out with her sailors HOWLING for the Puritans to GET BELOW. I mean, is she serious? This ain’t a cheap seat, dear, it’s just me as a Listener who’d liiiiiiike to keep some hearing as I scoot over the hill, thank-you-very-much.
So noooooo, to a narration-job where this menace thinks faaaar too highly of her voice… Jiminy H. Cricket, noooo….! Not forgetting this narrator any time soon…
Now, I read some of the -glowing- reviews, and apparently this is a much-admired version of Thanksgiving; after all, other books are written by “people” with an ax to grind. Uhm, gosh, I dunno. Why do you think THAT might be?!
Do I really need to hear about just how awesome the Puritans were? How brave and valiant to have to scoot several times to avoid arrest and persecution? I mean, can’t I just watch descendants as they bemoan their fates as they believe their essences are “canceled”?
Oy Oy Oy. Listen to This Land is Their Land for a more real account. Yup, I do believe that ax is quite earned, and?
You’ll come out of it with a brain that hasn’t exploded, eardrums intact.
>PHEW<
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