Ghostface Killah: You chose wisely.
Iron Man not only lived up to the hype, it went beyond the hype. It took the hype, exposed it for the bastard-child it was, and replaced it with the legitimate prince of an opinion.
I kind of liked the movie.
Consider it this way: Was there ever a more perfect casting job than Robert Downey, Jr. as Tony Stark? Hmm, who should we get to play a womanizing, jet-setting playboy who eventually redeems himself to make good on the promise he had exhibited so long ago?
Right, other than John Travolta.
He’s at his funny and charmingest (it’s a word!) best, and for a movie that doesn’t actually have a lot of characters, he more than makes up for that. He’s slightly over-the-top portrayal is to the movie’s benefit, and combines well with a rather subdued Jeff Bridges, a pretty but rather replaceable Gwyneth Paltrow, and a take-it or leave-it Terrence Howard.
Too, for a comic book movie, there’s not a great deal of “action.” There’s a lot, but the actual scenes with Iron Man is pretty much limited to three. Everything else is Downey, and as cool as the effects for Iron Man are, I had no problem with this fact.
Okay, I’ll admit: I have a little man-crush on Robert Downey, Jr.
Clearly, by now, you probably don’t need me to tell you to go see this movie. You either already have, and loved it, or never had any desire to see it (to which I say: Pardon my French, but you’re an asshole).
But one thing that needs to get mentioned is the feel-good moment of the movie. No, it’s not when Iron Man saves the village in Afghanistan. Instead, it’s the moment when the oft-maligned robot helper finally redeems himself. Seriously. People clapped when this thing finally helps Tony instead of hindering him.
The best thing about this movie is that it’s not only one of the best comic book movies ever (up there with Batman, Batman Begins, X-Men, Sin City, and Howard the Duck), it’s honestly a very good movie. It holds a wide deal of appeal, is topical(!), and is well-written. Jon Favreau does a very good job directing it, and has a decent cameo role to boot.
Next up: The Dark Knight.
I wrote a while ago about Michael Lewis’ rather seminal baseball book, Moneyball. Well, I just finished his most recent book, The Blind Side, where he tackles (oh, that’s awful) the evolution of the game of football (that’s not soccer, for all my European readers).
While perhaps not as important as Moneyball, it’s probably the more personal story, paralleling the burgeoning career of Michael Oher and how the game of football got to the point where the left tackle position became a skilled position on par with quarterback and running back.
The reason I say it’s not as important is because Moneyball described the revolution before it started (heck, people are still fighting the revolution), whereas The Blind Side is looking at the results of its sport’s revolution.
In this case, the revolution begins with Bill Walsh, the famous coach of the San Francisco 49ers. Like Billy Beane in Moneyball, the cause for the revolution was essentially trying to figure out how to win without being able to simply buy the best talent available. What Walsh discovered was that by utilizing the short pass and eliminating much of the decision making process of the quarterback, he was able to maximize his returns, no matter who was taking the snaps. So, although most people would consider Joe Montana one of, if not the, greatest QB of all time, when you look at the players before and after him, they were all able to perform at pretty much equally high levels. Now I’m not willing to say that Montana really isn’t as good as people say, but it is interesting how successful some of his no-name replacements were, when he got hurt.
This was what we know of as the West Coast Offense (or, rather, it’s how I’m very simplistically describing the West Coast Offense for the time being), and although it wasn’t necessarily exciting (oooh, another seven-yard pass!), it was fairly effective. What it meant, though, was that the offensive line was suddenly even more important than before, as pass protection was necessary to provide enough time for the QB to make his passes.
This, in turn led defenses to look for ways to get to these now pass-happy offenses, and the most dangerous weapon turned out to be the blind-side rusher, as exemplified by Lawrence Taylor (hence the title of the book).
Which brings us back to Michael Oher. Oher was a monosyllabic mountain of a mystery, who somehow found himself from being virtually homeless in poor, black Memphis to attending one of the wealthiest Christian schools and, ultimately, being adopted by an incredibly rich, white family. The reason he’s so fascinating to Lewis is the fact that he’s not only incredibly big and strong, but he’s also extremely fast and agile. He is, in other words, the perfect combination necessary to play the, now, super-important left tackle position – the man who protects the quarterback from being taken out from behind. As we follow Oher’s journey from the streets of Memphis to being wooed by every major college football coach in the nation, it’s a rather remarkable story.
What makes it really good, though, is Lewis’ access. He is somehow able to go deep into the minds of pretty much every person (and at every level), and yet stays remarkably objective in his viewpoint. For example, although he is sympathetic of Oher’s plight, he doesn’t hesitate to kind of paint Michael, as his fame grows, as a bit of jerk. Same thing with the family that adopted and accepted him, the Tuohys. None of that overshadows what is amazing about these stories – the sacrifice, the hard work, and personal growth – but it definitely grounds them.
I’m just surprised, after the way Billy Beane gets portrayed in Moneyball that people still agree to cooperate with this guy!
If you like football, or just sports in general, you’ll probably like this book. If, like me, you also really like the strategy of a sport, then you’ll like this book, too. But, just as important, if you want a pretty feel-good story, or an insight into race, class, and religion in Memphis, this might be the book for you, too. Lewis is a good writer, a “popular” historian who understands how to weave his narrative into the facts to make us enjoy the story. It helps that he writes about sports, which is one of the more universal languages, but I also happen to think he picks fascinating topics – and fascinating characters.
It is…ahem…a touchdown.
Commence hating of me now.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Frogs and Princesses (Princessi?)
I have to admit, when I started reading, I thought I would immediately hate this novel. What wasn't there to hate? The pretentiousness, the despicable protagonist, the improbable plot? Is there a person more deserving of what befalls him than Harry Driscoll? Of course not.
And there in lies the genius.
While certainly not the greatest book ever, as a first-novel, Adam Davies could have done a lot worse than what he gives us with The Frog King.
So yes, while the cleverness is set to “11,” it is perfectly acceptable – mostly because it's very, very clever. Hmm, want to use a lot of big words? Why not have two characters who are intimately involved with dictionaries? Want to talk a lot about literature? Le's have everyone work in publishing! It would be wrong to say that the way they talk, especially Harry and Evie (the love interest) is inauthentic, because I've had equally ridiculous conversations. It's just weird to see them transcribed onto the page, and, as such, comes off as little unnatural.
Even better, though, is how it all plays out. When we meet Harry Driscoll, he's kind of a lovable loser, a man who seems to have it all and yet nothing at the same time. In a way, he kind of reminds me of Ignatius Riley, the main character in the modern classic A Confederacy of Dunces, in that he's so full of himself and his ideas of his own importance that you start to hate him, but you believe it, too. I mean, how else do you explain the fact that he's apparently a ladies man?
And yes, that's plural. Besides Evie, who is apparently the most amazingly perfect person for him (think of Dante's girlfriend in Clerks), there are all of, what she refers to as, Dates. As in “How's Date?” Again, clever, clever, clever. Except, how does this guy have both Evie and Date? He's a pompous ass, he's been an assistant with no hopes for prospects for six years, he lives in a crap apartment with a psycho roommate, he has questionable hygiene (and its accompanying rash – yes, he has a rash throughout the novel), and he's so poor that he carries ziploc baggies with him to parties in order to sustain himself.
He's a dirty, poor, arrogant douche.
He's also really, really judgmental.
And yet, despite all this, Evie loves him. She loves him despite the fact that he treats her like crap a lot. Despite the fact she cheats on her – a lot – and she deludes herself about it. She loves him despite the fact that he can't (literally can not) say that he loves her back. It gets to the point where I was thinking: If Harry ends up with Evie, I'm done with this whole “reading thing.”
That's where Davies surprised me. I won't say exactly how it ends, but Harry's life does not finish with a “happily ever after.” As unrealistic as it might seem, the ending feels pretty real. More importantly (and the truest testament of Davies writing ability), I actually found myself rooting for Harry and kind of pissed at Evie. Then again, as a lovable loser myself, I always kind of root for one of our own to “make good.”
What's more, I laughed out loud. I've mentioned my feelings about this, but I will sum up my thoughts: Comedy is the hardest thing to do, and writing something that actually makes another person laugh is an amazing talent. More so than making me cry (for instance, I was crying tonight as I watched The Ron Clark Story, but I'm also a big girl).
But that still leaves the biggest flaw – the ending. I just don't think it's as poignant as Davies thinks it is to end with Harry and Birdie, his underage homeless friend, together. While I'm sure it's not meant to be in any way sexual, there really aren't that many hints to dissuade us of this reading. And, uh, that's not cool.
That's just an interpretation issue, though, and one that most people probably don't make (which must say o-so-much about me . . .). But it's there, nonetheless, and I think it prevents the story from fully realizing it's potential. Like I said, though, this was his first novel, and he's definitely caught my eye enough to read his next one, Goodbye Lemon (note, too, that Riverhead, his publisher, must really like this guy, because they're sticking with the rather striking cover design). As a member of the same literary tradition with the likes of Nick Hornby and Jonathan Tropper, this is “dude lit” at its best.
But man, unlike some Harrys, this guy is really unlovable.
On a completely different (read: gay) note, I recently watched High School Musical 2. At first I was concerned that I was going to lose some of the context, having not seen the first one. That fear was assuaged, though, when they started singing. It was then, as I watched Zac Efron's impossible tan and crystal blue eyes, that a new fear arose – that I was now a teenage girl.
I wasn't, though, and so I figured I was man enough to stick it out. You know what? Both the songs and the story really aren't that bad. While the choreography (and sponteneous singing) were quite cheesy (at one point, in the context of a baseball game, two characters sing-argue over the fact that one of them doesn't dance – despite the fact that the whole time, he is, of course, dancing), the kids can actually sing, and whoever wrote the music knows a thing or two about writing pop-rock. Probably the only song that completely sucked was Ashley Tisdale's solo number about being “fabulous,” but, I mean, it's frickin' Disney movie (hence the “frick”).
So I can say this without any reservations: If I was a teenage drama-geek, I would love this movie. Regrettably, I'm not, but I can at least be objective enough to understand why such a person would like it.
That reason: because it's Dirty Dancing. Or, even better, Caddyshack. With singing. And less boobs. Overall though, not a bad use of film.
Could have used some James Dalton, though. Then again, what movie couldn't?
And there in lies the genius.
While certainly not the greatest book ever, as a first-novel, Adam Davies could have done a lot worse than what he gives us with The Frog King.
So yes, while the cleverness is set to “11,” it is perfectly acceptable – mostly because it's very, very clever. Hmm, want to use a lot of big words? Why not have two characters who are intimately involved with dictionaries? Want to talk a lot about literature? Le's have everyone work in publishing! It would be wrong to say that the way they talk, especially Harry and Evie (the love interest) is inauthentic, because I've had equally ridiculous conversations. It's just weird to see them transcribed onto the page, and, as such, comes off as little unnatural.
Even better, though, is how it all plays out. When we meet Harry Driscoll, he's kind of a lovable loser, a man who seems to have it all and yet nothing at the same time. In a way, he kind of reminds me of Ignatius Riley, the main character in the modern classic A Confederacy of Dunces, in that he's so full of himself and his ideas of his own importance that you start to hate him, but you believe it, too. I mean, how else do you explain the fact that he's apparently a ladies man?
And yes, that's plural. Besides Evie, who is apparently the most amazingly perfect person for him (think of Dante's girlfriend in Clerks), there are all of, what she refers to as, Dates. As in “How's Date?” Again, clever, clever, clever. Except, how does this guy have both Evie and Date? He's a pompous ass, he's been an assistant with no hopes for prospects for six years, he lives in a crap apartment with a psycho roommate, he has questionable hygiene (and its accompanying rash – yes, he has a rash throughout the novel), and he's so poor that he carries ziploc baggies with him to parties in order to sustain himself.
He's a dirty, poor, arrogant douche.
He's also really, really judgmental.
And yet, despite all this, Evie loves him. She loves him despite the fact that he treats her like crap a lot. Despite the fact she cheats on her – a lot – and she deludes herself about it. She loves him despite the fact that he can't (literally can not) say that he loves her back. It gets to the point where I was thinking: If Harry ends up with Evie, I'm done with this whole “reading thing.”
That's where Davies surprised me. I won't say exactly how it ends, but Harry's life does not finish with a “happily ever after.” As unrealistic as it might seem, the ending feels pretty real. More importantly (and the truest testament of Davies writing ability), I actually found myself rooting for Harry and kind of pissed at Evie. Then again, as a lovable loser myself, I always kind of root for one of our own to “make good.”
What's more, I laughed out loud. I've mentioned my feelings about this, but I will sum up my thoughts: Comedy is the hardest thing to do, and writing something that actually makes another person laugh is an amazing talent. More so than making me cry (for instance, I was crying tonight as I watched The Ron Clark Story, but I'm also a big girl).
But that still leaves the biggest flaw – the ending. I just don't think it's as poignant as Davies thinks it is to end with Harry and Birdie, his underage homeless friend, together. While I'm sure it's not meant to be in any way sexual, there really aren't that many hints to dissuade us of this reading. And, uh, that's not cool.
That's just an interpretation issue, though, and one that most people probably don't make (which must say o-so-much about me . . .). But it's there, nonetheless, and I think it prevents the story from fully realizing it's potential. Like I said, though, this was his first novel, and he's definitely caught my eye enough to read his next one, Goodbye Lemon (note, too, that Riverhead, his publisher, must really like this guy, because they're sticking with the rather striking cover design). As a member of the same literary tradition with the likes of Nick Hornby and Jonathan Tropper, this is “dude lit” at its best.
But man, unlike some Harrys, this guy is really unlovable.
On a completely different (read: gay) note, I recently watched High School Musical 2. At first I was concerned that I was going to lose some of the context, having not seen the first one. That fear was assuaged, though, when they started singing. It was then, as I watched Zac Efron's impossible tan and crystal blue eyes, that a new fear arose – that I was now a teenage girl.
I wasn't, though, and so I figured I was man enough to stick it out. You know what? Both the songs and the story really aren't that bad. While the choreography (and sponteneous singing) were quite cheesy (at one point, in the context of a baseball game, two characters sing-argue over the fact that one of them doesn't dance – despite the fact that the whole time, he is, of course, dancing), the kids can actually sing, and whoever wrote the music knows a thing or two about writing pop-rock. Probably the only song that completely sucked was Ashley Tisdale's solo number about being “fabulous,” but, I mean, it's frickin' Disney movie (hence the “frick”).
So I can say this without any reservations: If I was a teenage drama-geek, I would love this movie. Regrettably, I'm not, but I can at least be objective enough to understand why such a person would like it.
That reason: because it's Dirty Dancing. Or, even better, Caddyshack. With singing. And less boobs. Overall though, not a bad use of film.
Could have used some James Dalton, though. Then again, what movie couldn't?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Apologies, Again
Man, I'm not a very good blogger. Luckily no one relies on me for any kind of information, let alone reads me on any consistent basis. Still, I feel like I should do better than I do.
Instead, I haven't posted in over a month-and-a-half. I'd say I was trying to drum up demand by keeping the supply low, but that would be lying . . . and delusional . . .
Maybe that's just how I roll.
To be fair, I've been super-busy. To be unfair, I'm incredibly lazy. Or wait -- is that being fair, too? Either way, I proudly present a new post (and hopefully a new commitment to my faithful readers -- thanks Mom!)
I give you: Jamie Lidell.
I'm a moderately big fan of 60s and 70s soul/funk, particularly Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, and Al Green. I mean, who doesn't like those guys? Apparently, Jamie Lidell thinks it's a shame that these people aren't making that kind of music anymore (or, unfortunately, at all), and so he's done something about it. His newest album, Jim, is a fun, sometimes sexy, homage to that time, and his voice . . .
Well, listen to him, and then look at a picture of him. I'm telling you, it seems like there's no way he's actually singing.
Mostly, I would compare him to Stevie -- probably not musically, because Stevie is a genius, but the way the songs sound and the way he sings them could easily have made some of Wonders' better albums. I particularly like "Another Day" and "Little Bit of Feel Good," but really, I enjoy the whole album (except the fact that it's rather short, at only 10 songs). There's a spiritualism -- a little bit of gospel -- that is refreshing in "Another Day," as well as almost kitschy use of birds-chirping. It's ready for a sing-along, and if I still drove, I'd probably clap during the breakdown at red-lights (yes, I was a car-singer -- I'm not ashamed). The way it starts off the album, too, really captures your attention -- you're ready for more like this, and you really get it.
"Little Bit of Feel Good," is the most Wonder-ish of the songs, with a driving funk-guitar and an quasi-snarling, throaty singing that makes it both predatory and sexy at the same time. It's a plea, but also a demand, a lot like Gaye's "Sexual Healing," and it works rather well.
It's "Green Light," though, that really shines (no pun -- oh hell, pun intended!), as this is Al Green's "Let's Get Together -- Part 2." He doesn't quite have the falsetto of those great singers, but he brings the right vibe. It's hard not to notice, too, the "Green" connection (not to be confused with the "Rainbow Conection," which was sung by the same "person" who sang "It's Not Easy Bein' Green").
His videos, though . . .
And another, equally . . . different:
Well, I'll let you be the judge. Personally, I don't think I would ever want to meet this guy, because I fear he might be a sociopath.
But, then again, so is Michael Jackson, and I don't care what any of you say, I'd shake hands with the man who gave us Thriller.
I just wouldn't introduce my children to him.
Instead, I haven't posted in over a month-and-a-half. I'd say I was trying to drum up demand by keeping the supply low, but that would be lying . . . and delusional . . .
Maybe that's just how I roll.
To be fair, I've been super-busy. To be unfair, I'm incredibly lazy. Or wait -- is that being fair, too? Either way, I proudly present a new post (and hopefully a new commitment to my faithful readers -- thanks Mom!)
I give you: Jamie Lidell.
I'm a moderately big fan of 60s and 70s soul/funk, particularly Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, and Al Green. I mean, who doesn't like those guys? Apparently, Jamie Lidell thinks it's a shame that these people aren't making that kind of music anymore (or, unfortunately, at all), and so he's done something about it. His newest album, Jim, is a fun, sometimes sexy, homage to that time, and his voice . . .
Well, listen to him, and then look at a picture of him. I'm telling you, it seems like there's no way he's actually singing.
Mostly, I would compare him to Stevie -- probably not musically, because Stevie is a genius, but the way the songs sound and the way he sings them could easily have made some of Wonders' better albums. I particularly like "Another Day" and "Little Bit of Feel Good," but really, I enjoy the whole album (except the fact that it's rather short, at only 10 songs). There's a spiritualism -- a little bit of gospel -- that is refreshing in "Another Day," as well as almost kitschy use of birds-chirping. It's ready for a sing-along, and if I still drove, I'd probably clap during the breakdown at red-lights (yes, I was a car-singer -- I'm not ashamed). The way it starts off the album, too, really captures your attention -- you're ready for more like this, and you really get it.
"Little Bit of Feel Good," is the most Wonder-ish of the songs, with a driving funk-guitar and an quasi-snarling, throaty singing that makes it both predatory and sexy at the same time. It's a plea, but also a demand, a lot like Gaye's "Sexual Healing," and it works rather well.
It's "Green Light," though, that really shines (no pun -- oh hell, pun intended!), as this is Al Green's "Let's Get Together -- Part 2." He doesn't quite have the falsetto of those great singers, but he brings the right vibe. It's hard not to notice, too, the "Green" connection (not to be confused with the "Rainbow Conection," which was sung by the same "person" who sang "It's Not Easy Bein' Green").
His videos, though . . .
And another, equally . . . different:
Well, I'll let you be the judge. Personally, I don't think I would ever want to meet this guy, because I fear he might be a sociopath.
But, then again, so is Michael Jackson, and I don't care what any of you say, I'd shake hands with the man who gave us Thriller.
I just wouldn't introduce my children to him.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Two Albums, a Book, and a Pizza Place (The Pizza Place Will Be Dropped Next Season)
Let's see how much of these I can tackle.
First, as I mentioned in my last post, I was reading The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland.
Well, I finished said book, and I really rather enjoyed it. I like Coupland's detached style – he's part of that middle-generation between the baby-boomers and what I guess is my generation, people whose formative years were in the late 70s and 80s, and he's clearly a voice for people who thought they were inheriting the future, but instead found themselves inheriting the past's problems.
He might come across as a little cynical.
But his cynicism has a sweetness to it – a glass-is-half-full kind of cynicism. As such we get the story of Roger and Bethany, an unlikely friendship as you'll probably ever come across. Roger is a forty-something alcoholic who is divorced, depressed, and working in Staples (which seems more like a cause rather than a symptom, for any of you who may have worked retail – by the way, if you have, and you want to check out a perfect representation of that life, check this out; Clerks works, too, although less box-storey). His life is shit, and when his journal finds itself in the hands of the 19-year-old Bethany, it is also the subject of ridicule.
Except Bethany is a bit of a pain-queen, a Goth-chick with enough suicide in her life, Sylvia Plath would be jealous. So while she has initial scorn, she quickly realizes she's found a kindred-spirit. What begins is a series of journal entries back-and-forth, as Roger and Bethany form a tenuous alliance to stave-off the direction their lives are moving in.
It is the format of the book that is the strongest feature. The use of journal entries, and then later letters, e-mails, and novel excerpts, combines to create a cohesive story. Roger's novel in particular, Glove Pond, is an exercise in metafiction that, in turn, is an exercise in metafiction. The layers Coupland stacks in this novel are very intricate, at one point writing a novel about a novel about a novel (which, in turn, is almost a re-telling of the primary novel). What's amazing is that there's nothing exceptionally intricate about the plot – it moves inexorably forward, the characters grow in an organic manner – nothing that happens is really extraordinary.
But it's funny and natural and sad. Roger is an anti-hero, but he's not a villain. Rather, he's a loser who is not only bad at the game, but doesn't seem to even know the rules. The same goes for Bethany – what you realize is not that losers find their own, but that trying to find yourself is an activity that knows no age. In the end, Roger isn't filled with redemption, but he isn't beyond finding it, either.
I think if you like Eggers or Foster Wallace or Lethem or Safran Foer, than you might find this a little lighter. But that essence is there, that bit of snark, bit of swagger, that makes those other readers enjoyable. This is what I think writing should be. It tells a story in an amusing and accessible way, staying intelligent without losing the reader in style or vocabulary.
You know – it's great to be able to actually understand the books you read, is all.
I just bought two recently released, wildly different albums, and I haven't been able to stop listening to either one. That is, um, except when I'm listening to the other one. Screw you, logic!
The first one – and boy, I don't know how else to say this without being covered in shame – is the self-titled album, Day26.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Who the hell is Day26 (and why isn't there a space between “Day” and “26”)? The second question I don't know the answer to, but the first can be answered by the powerful words: “Making the Band 4.”
Yeah, they're a put-together band, manufactured for look, sound, style. Their songs are written for them and their voices are honed to be commercially viable. They epitomize the very worst of what pop music stands for.
And I loved every minute of it.
I've mentioned my unnatural love for reality TV (“The Hills” is back! Lauren was in Paris, and she almost ruined 2 dresses!). Well, “Making the Band 4” sucked me in – especially once I heard the first song they had to learn. Sung a capella, the song “Exclusive” has a melody that is perfectly soulful. When the five guys put their heart into it, I get that tingly feeling.
Not that tingly feeling!
It's just that, for me, good music makes an emotional connection. I don't care if it's technically good, I care that I feel compelled to listen to it. Whether it's making me want to dance, or making me want to sing along, or just making me react positively, music means a lot to me, and I don't care if others think the music I listen to is crap.
So when I say Day26 is a great album, I mean that. I always say (always – I've said a few times) that if an album starts off strong, that can cover a lot of ills. This album is on exception. The first song, “I'm the Reason,” is a fun opening number, and it leads right into the first single, “Got Me Going.” After that you get solid hip-hop/R&B straight through, the possible exception being “Ain't Going” featuring the other “Making the Band 4” members, Danity Kane and Donnie, but even that has a great beat.
It's fun, danceable album. I could listen to it many-times over, and it didn't get old. I say check out the first three songs I mentioned, and, if you like them, you'll like the rest of album. Otherwise, you might be suffering from bitchassness, which is a terrible, terrible disease.
The second album, as I said, is really, really different. Not only is different from hip-hop and R&B, it's different from what the band is known for: overly verbose emo.
I've waxed rhetorical about emo before, so I won't bore you. But I will say that as much as I enjoyed Panic! At the Disco's first album, I also found it a bit wearing. Musically, it was fun, but lyrically, it was just too much. Arrhythmic (and that's a weird word to see capitalized, right?) sentence structures are a little hard to listen to.
So on their new album Pretty.Odd., Panic at the Disco (yeah, they dropped the exclamation point, although they took their punctuation to their album title) goes to a very new place. At least, new to them. And, like those old NBC promos: “If you haven't seen it, it's new to you.” Well, if you're like the members of Panic and you haven't gone to college yet, then listening to The Beatles will seem crazy. “Dude, have you ever heard of this rock & roll shit? It's crazy!”
I love The Beatles, though, so I have no problem with a band emulating them. And that's what they do. Pretty. Odd. is an accurate summation of the eclectic nature of this album. While never really delving into the harder rock of Sgt. Pepper's or The White Album, there is definitely a great mix of lyrical and musical content. These guys have grown up and discovered their parents listened to music, and said music was pretty good.
I highly recommend “Nine in the Afternoon,”
and “Northern Downpour,” but once again, this is another strong album. Like My Chemical Romance's Welcome to the Black Parade, this is a sophomore effort that can easily make a claim for being one of the best rock albums of their respective years.
Make a bolder claim than that, suckers!
First, as I mentioned in my last post, I was reading The Gum Thief by Douglas Coupland.
Well, I finished said book, and I really rather enjoyed it. I like Coupland's detached style – he's part of that middle-generation between the baby-boomers and what I guess is my generation, people whose formative years were in the late 70s and 80s, and he's clearly a voice for people who thought they were inheriting the future, but instead found themselves inheriting the past's problems.
He might come across as a little cynical.
But his cynicism has a sweetness to it – a glass-is-half-full kind of cynicism. As such we get the story of Roger and Bethany, an unlikely friendship as you'll probably ever come across. Roger is a forty-something alcoholic who is divorced, depressed, and working in Staples (which seems more like a cause rather than a symptom, for any of you who may have worked retail – by the way, if you have, and you want to check out a perfect representation of that life, check this out; Clerks works, too, although less box-storey). His life is shit, and when his journal finds itself in the hands of the 19-year-old Bethany, it is also the subject of ridicule.
Except Bethany is a bit of a pain-queen, a Goth-chick with enough suicide in her life, Sylvia Plath would be jealous. So while she has initial scorn, she quickly realizes she's found a kindred-spirit. What begins is a series of journal entries back-and-forth, as Roger and Bethany form a tenuous alliance to stave-off the direction their lives are moving in.
It is the format of the book that is the strongest feature. The use of journal entries, and then later letters, e-mails, and novel excerpts, combines to create a cohesive story. Roger's novel in particular, Glove Pond, is an exercise in metafiction that, in turn, is an exercise in metafiction. The layers Coupland stacks in this novel are very intricate, at one point writing a novel about a novel about a novel (which, in turn, is almost a re-telling of the primary novel). What's amazing is that there's nothing exceptionally intricate about the plot – it moves inexorably forward, the characters grow in an organic manner – nothing that happens is really extraordinary.
But it's funny and natural and sad. Roger is an anti-hero, but he's not a villain. Rather, he's a loser who is not only bad at the game, but doesn't seem to even know the rules. The same goes for Bethany – what you realize is not that losers find their own, but that trying to find yourself is an activity that knows no age. In the end, Roger isn't filled with redemption, but he isn't beyond finding it, either.
I think if you like Eggers or Foster Wallace or Lethem or Safran Foer, than you might find this a little lighter. But that essence is there, that bit of snark, bit of swagger, that makes those other readers enjoyable. This is what I think writing should be. It tells a story in an amusing and accessible way, staying intelligent without losing the reader in style or vocabulary.
You know – it's great to be able to actually understand the books you read, is all.
I just bought two recently released, wildly different albums, and I haven't been able to stop listening to either one. That is, um, except when I'm listening to the other one. Screw you, logic!
The first one – and boy, I don't know how else to say this without being covered in shame – is the self-titled album, Day26.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Who the hell is Day26 (and why isn't there a space between “Day” and “26”)? The second question I don't know the answer to, but the first can be answered by the powerful words: “Making the Band 4.”
Yeah, they're a put-together band, manufactured for look, sound, style. Their songs are written for them and their voices are honed to be commercially viable. They epitomize the very worst of what pop music stands for.
And I loved every minute of it.
I've mentioned my unnatural love for reality TV (“The Hills” is back! Lauren was in Paris, and she almost ruined 2 dresses!). Well, “Making the Band 4” sucked me in – especially once I heard the first song they had to learn. Sung a capella, the song “Exclusive” has a melody that is perfectly soulful. When the five guys put their heart into it, I get that tingly feeling.
Not that tingly feeling!
It's just that, for me, good music makes an emotional connection. I don't care if it's technically good, I care that I feel compelled to listen to it. Whether it's making me want to dance, or making me want to sing along, or just making me react positively, music means a lot to me, and I don't care if others think the music I listen to is crap.
So when I say Day26 is a great album, I mean that. I always say (always – I've said a few times) that if an album starts off strong, that can cover a lot of ills. This album is on exception. The first song, “I'm the Reason,” is a fun opening number, and it leads right into the first single, “Got Me Going.” After that you get solid hip-hop/R&B straight through, the possible exception being “Ain't Going” featuring the other “Making the Band 4” members, Danity Kane and Donnie, but even that has a great beat.
It's fun, danceable album. I could listen to it many-times over, and it didn't get old. I say check out the first three songs I mentioned, and, if you like them, you'll like the rest of album. Otherwise, you might be suffering from bitchassness, which is a terrible, terrible disease.
The second album, as I said, is really, really different. Not only is different from hip-hop and R&B, it's different from what the band is known for: overly verbose emo.
I've waxed rhetorical about emo before, so I won't bore you. But I will say that as much as I enjoyed Panic! At the Disco's first album, I also found it a bit wearing. Musically, it was fun, but lyrically, it was just too much. Arrhythmic (and that's a weird word to see capitalized, right?) sentence structures are a little hard to listen to.
So on their new album Pretty.Odd., Panic at the Disco (yeah, they dropped the exclamation point, although they took their punctuation to their album title) goes to a very new place. At least, new to them. And, like those old NBC promos: “If you haven't seen it, it's new to you.” Well, if you're like the members of Panic and you haven't gone to college yet, then listening to The Beatles will seem crazy. “Dude, have you ever heard of this rock & roll shit? It's crazy!”
I love The Beatles, though, so I have no problem with a band emulating them. And that's what they do. Pretty. Odd. is an accurate summation of the eclectic nature of this album. While never really delving into the harder rock of Sgt. Pepper's or The White Album, there is definitely a great mix of lyrical and musical content. These guys have grown up and discovered their parents listened to music, and said music was pretty good.
I highly recommend “Nine in the Afternoon,”
and “Northern Downpour,” but once again, this is another strong album. Like My Chemical Romance's Welcome to the Black Parade, this is a sophomore effort that can easily make a claim for being one of the best rock albums of their respective years.
Make a bolder claim than that, suckers!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I Don't Play "Favorites"
I had an interview the other day, and was twice asked (by separate people) “Who are your favorite authors.”
Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that?
The trouble with such a question is, like most dedicated readers (you know, the ones that skew the numbers of the NEA’s report on literacy in America), I read a lot. More than just “a lot,” though, I am fairly diverse in my reading choices, especially at this time in my life. If you had asked me, say, ten years ago, the answer would have had no trouble finding its way from my mouth: David Eddings, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (Dragonlance, baby!), and probably Dean Koontz (for Lightning and Oddkins alone, I’d put him up there). A few years later, I probably would have added J.K. Rowling.
Today, though, despite the fact that I still enjoy those authors, I find it hard to think of any of them as one of “my favorites.” For starters, I feel like many of these writers (except for Rowling, so far) have fallen off their game at one point or another. Eddings, whose Belgariad series was the first adult novels I ever read, is a great story-teller. His books, for me, are like macaroni and cheese – warm, comforting, and, well, cheesy. I love them and I love the characters, but his style never shifts from series to series: there are always strong, sassy women characters whose job it is to keep their men from getting too big for their britches. Here’s a line that seems to make it into every book he writes:
(After a group of women, in sync with their feminine desire to take men down a peg without needing to discuss it, verbally eviscerate our hero):
“Want to play again?” she asked archly.
I have nothing against strong women characters – they definitely add an element to the genre that hadn’t really been seen until then. The fact that it’s a male author writing it is impressive, too. But when the same dialogue creeps up from series to series, and the characters start to exert eerie similarities (tell me Polgara, in the Belgariad and Mallorean series, and Sephrenia, in the Sparhawk series (Elenium and Tamuli series, for all you/us nerds), aren’t almost exactly the same person. Go ahead, tell me it), you start to realize that maybe the writing isn’t as strong as you once thought.
And yet I still read these books, usually once a year. The stories are simply that good and my connection with the characters is, at this point, very personal.
Based on that, what I realized was that with all the authors I would have mentioned ten years ago, what made them my favorites were individual interactions with their works, and not necessarily their corpus (corpuses? corpi?) as a whole. I might like multiple novels of theirs, but I might also actively dislike some of their other works. For every Misery King writes, there’s an Insomnia. For every Ender’s Game there’s an Empire.
Basically, then, I’m left with a list of books I like, but have trouble bestowing “favorite” upon the authors. Even thinking about it now, I’m still not completely sure if it’s correct to make a list of authors I love. For while I might throw names like Jonathan Lethem, Zaidi Smith, or Douglas Coupland out, I’ve only read one of Lethem’s books (and an article I really enjoyed), only loved Smith’s first book (while not actively disliking her other two novels, I wouldn’t say I was enthralled), and have only read 1.66 Coupland novels (not really sure what the actual number should be, but I’ve read all of one, which I loved, part of another, which I couldn’t get into, and I’m currently reading one now, The Gum Thief, which I will review entirely when I’m finished). So are these really favorites?
Consider this: I do have favorite actors. Generally, no matter what the movie is, I enjoy the way the actor performs, even if I don’t like the film. For some reason, Ryan Reynolds is in that category for me – that man can do no wrong. More obviously (or seriously, depending on your interpretation), Denzel Washington, Will Smith, and Gene Hackman are all actors I find always work for me on the screen (oddly, I couldn’t think of a woman actor that fits this bill; while there are many truly fantastic female actors, I just can’t think of one that makes me go: I need to see her movie).
But that’s one of the more blatant differences between acting and writing – acting is in your face, and there’s a face attached to it. Writing, though, is simply a name – if you’re lucky! – and usually it’s a before- or afterthought of the audience. Once you’re immersed in a book, you aren’t constantly thinking Stephen King wrote this! Stephen King wrote this! Whereas, when you’re watching a movie, you are always aware, in some way, That’s Denzel! That’s Denzel! (God knows I am; that man is beautiful . . .). With books, we connect with the writing itself, while with movies, you connect with the story and/or the people.
This isn’t, then, simply a matter of loving everything someone produces. I’m sure the most ardent James Patterson or Janet Evanovich fan has at one point said “I don’t like Book X.” You can’t please all the people, etc, etc. But I think it goes beyond the matter of like/dislike, and ventures into a social reality on the state of reading.
First, there are way too many books. I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating (quick note: I totally brain farted over “bears repeating,” having no idea which “bare/bear” to use. I’m still not sure it’s correct . . .): Whenever someone asked if I’d read something, and I had to answer no (or worse, answer that I’d never even heard of said book/author), I always felt like it’s a shortcoming of mine for having not encountered this cultural artifact. That is, until I realized that for every book of yours I haven’t read, I can raise you one of mine. The fact is, there are thousands of books published each year, so reading all of the “good ones,” in addition to all the classics I’ve yet to read, is not really a doable task. And yet it’s one I attempt anyway, meaning I don’t have a great deal of time to spend on any single author – I’m playing catch-up here, folks!
Second, books are not objects that create “brand loyalty.” Never mind the publishing house; the author as a brand is virtually non-existent. Part of the problem is timeliness – even the most prolific authors, such as Danielle Steel or Stephen King, only produce at most, 3 books a year (and hey, you bust out 3 books a year and I’m going to question if you have a soul or not). We measure our time in YouTube clips, so imagine waiting a year for someone’s next book. While that’s not to say people don’t eagerly anticipate a new release, I think that generally happens with series (Harry Potter, anyone?) and genre-fiction (Harry Potter, anyone?). Readers either don’t have time for loyalty for an author or aren’t so enmeshed in author’s fabric that they aren’t distracted by other things.
Who are my favorite authors? I don’t think I can answer that. Unfortunately, as my rambling is testament of, I don’t know if I can explain why I can’t answer that. I guess, put simply, there are stories I’ll read that make me go: “I wish I had written that.” These books make me glad I spent time to read, and I usually want more of that book. While I may not like other offerings from the same author, I think it is the hope for that anxious contentment that makes me love reading so much. So if a writer can make me feel that, then I’d say you’re one of my favorites.
But I still think the question is flawed.
By the way, I once again apologize for the gap between posts. Between school, work, and pretending to be a social person, sitting down to write in a blog seems low on the priority-list.
It has made me respect bloggers, though. While the vast majority of blogs are probably crap (we’re talking millions, people), some are very, very good. And these are updated on a daily or weekly basis. While perhaps not typing up 1000-word opi (plural of opus) like moi, they are still, at least, gathering information and providing commentary. Try sitting down once a week and doing that, and I’m sure you’ll see what I mean by respect.
I’ll try to write more soon – plenty to review, just got to sit down and do it.
Peace.
Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that?
The trouble with such a question is, like most dedicated readers (you know, the ones that skew the numbers of the NEA’s report on literacy in America), I read a lot. More than just “a lot,” though, I am fairly diverse in my reading choices, especially at this time in my life. If you had asked me, say, ten years ago, the answer would have had no trouble finding its way from my mouth: David Eddings, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (Dragonlance, baby!), and probably Dean Koontz (for Lightning and Oddkins alone, I’d put him up there). A few years later, I probably would have added J.K. Rowling.
Today, though, despite the fact that I still enjoy those authors, I find it hard to think of any of them as one of “my favorites.” For starters, I feel like many of these writers (except for Rowling, so far) have fallen off their game at one point or another. Eddings, whose Belgariad series was the first adult novels I ever read, is a great story-teller. His books, for me, are like macaroni and cheese – warm, comforting, and, well, cheesy. I love them and I love the characters, but his style never shifts from series to series: there are always strong, sassy women characters whose job it is to keep their men from getting too big for their britches. Here’s a line that seems to make it into every book he writes:
(After a group of women, in sync with their feminine desire to take men down a peg without needing to discuss it, verbally eviscerate our hero):
“Want to play again?” she asked archly.
I have nothing against strong women characters – they definitely add an element to the genre that hadn’t really been seen until then. The fact that it’s a male author writing it is impressive, too. But when the same dialogue creeps up from series to series, and the characters start to exert eerie similarities (tell me Polgara, in the Belgariad and Mallorean series, and Sephrenia, in the Sparhawk series (Elenium and Tamuli series, for all you/us nerds), aren’t almost exactly the same person. Go ahead, tell me it), you start to realize that maybe the writing isn’t as strong as you once thought.
And yet I still read these books, usually once a year. The stories are simply that good and my connection with the characters is, at this point, very personal.
Based on that, what I realized was that with all the authors I would have mentioned ten years ago, what made them my favorites were individual interactions with their works, and not necessarily their corpus (corpuses? corpi?) as a whole. I might like multiple novels of theirs, but I might also actively dislike some of their other works. For every Misery King writes, there’s an Insomnia. For every Ender’s Game there’s an Empire.
Basically, then, I’m left with a list of books I like, but have trouble bestowing “favorite” upon the authors. Even thinking about it now, I’m still not completely sure if it’s correct to make a list of authors I love. For while I might throw names like Jonathan Lethem, Zaidi Smith, or Douglas Coupland out, I’ve only read one of Lethem’s books (and an article I really enjoyed), only loved Smith’s first book (while not actively disliking her other two novels, I wouldn’t say I was enthralled), and have only read 1.66 Coupland novels (not really sure what the actual number should be, but I’ve read all of one, which I loved, part of another, which I couldn’t get into, and I’m currently reading one now, The Gum Thief, which I will review entirely when I’m finished). So are these really favorites?
Consider this: I do have favorite actors. Generally, no matter what the movie is, I enjoy the way the actor performs, even if I don’t like the film. For some reason, Ryan Reynolds is in that category for me – that man can do no wrong. More obviously (or seriously, depending on your interpretation), Denzel Washington, Will Smith, and Gene Hackman are all actors I find always work for me on the screen (oddly, I couldn’t think of a woman actor that fits this bill; while there are many truly fantastic female actors, I just can’t think of one that makes me go: I need to see her movie).
But that’s one of the more blatant differences between acting and writing – acting is in your face, and there’s a face attached to it. Writing, though, is simply a name – if you’re lucky! – and usually it’s a before- or afterthought of the audience. Once you’re immersed in a book, you aren’t constantly thinking Stephen King wrote this! Stephen King wrote this! Whereas, when you’re watching a movie, you are always aware, in some way, That’s Denzel! That’s Denzel! (God knows I am; that man is beautiful . . .). With books, we connect with the writing itself, while with movies, you connect with the story and/or the people.
This isn’t, then, simply a matter of loving everything someone produces. I’m sure the most ardent James Patterson or Janet Evanovich fan has at one point said “I don’t like Book X.” You can’t please all the people, etc, etc. But I think it goes beyond the matter of like/dislike, and ventures into a social reality on the state of reading.
First, there are way too many books. I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating (quick note: I totally brain farted over “bears repeating,” having no idea which “bare/bear” to use. I’m still not sure it’s correct . . .): Whenever someone asked if I’d read something, and I had to answer no (or worse, answer that I’d never even heard of said book/author), I always felt like it’s a shortcoming of mine for having not encountered this cultural artifact. That is, until I realized that for every book of yours I haven’t read, I can raise you one of mine. The fact is, there are thousands of books published each year, so reading all of the “good ones,” in addition to all the classics I’ve yet to read, is not really a doable task. And yet it’s one I attempt anyway, meaning I don’t have a great deal of time to spend on any single author – I’m playing catch-up here, folks!
Second, books are not objects that create “brand loyalty.” Never mind the publishing house; the author as a brand is virtually non-existent. Part of the problem is timeliness – even the most prolific authors, such as Danielle Steel or Stephen King, only produce at most, 3 books a year (and hey, you bust out 3 books a year and I’m going to question if you have a soul or not). We measure our time in YouTube clips, so imagine waiting a year for someone’s next book. While that’s not to say people don’t eagerly anticipate a new release, I think that generally happens with series (Harry Potter, anyone?) and genre-fiction (Harry Potter, anyone?). Readers either don’t have time for loyalty for an author or aren’t so enmeshed in author’s fabric that they aren’t distracted by other things.
Who are my favorite authors? I don’t think I can answer that. Unfortunately, as my rambling is testament of, I don’t know if I can explain why I can’t answer that. I guess, put simply, there are stories I’ll read that make me go: “I wish I had written that.” These books make me glad I spent time to read, and I usually want more of that book. While I may not like other offerings from the same author, I think it is the hope for that anxious contentment that makes me love reading so much. So if a writer can make me feel that, then I’d say you’re one of my favorites.
But I still think the question is flawed.
By the way, I once again apologize for the gap between posts. Between school, work, and pretending to be a social person, sitting down to write in a blog seems low on the priority-list.
It has made me respect bloggers, though. While the vast majority of blogs are probably crap (we’re talking millions, people), some are very, very good. And these are updated on a daily or weekly basis. While perhaps not typing up 1000-word opi (plural of opus) like moi, they are still, at least, gathering information and providing commentary. Try sitting down once a week and doing that, and I’m sure you’ll see what I mean by respect.
I’ll try to write more soon – plenty to review, just got to sit down and do it.
Peace.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Commercially Viable
I saw an ad today while walking home from work, and it was quite effective. Not that it made me want to buy their product/service, but rather that it has preoccupied my attention since.
The ad was for Weight Watchers, and it is simply a quick block of text: "Go on a diet diet."
That makes no sense.
Let me repeat the line: "Go on a diet diet."
Now, the sentiment comes across clear enough. Partially the context helps: having seen other ads by this company that in the same campaign, I know the concept is to get people to realize that "diets" are really unhealthy, because they are essentially fads and not lifestyle changes (and, generally, not natural). Low-carb diets. Soup diets. Shake diets. This is what they are trying to get you to avoid and, in turn, choose their product, which I'm guessing offers healthy, balanced meals (at a "reasonable" price). Hence, go on a diet from diets.
But that's not what their ad actually says.
It says go on a diet diet. As in, a diet consisting of diets. Don't believe me? Look at the examples I used above: low-carb diet; soup diet; shake diet. Why did I italicize the first words? Because that's what the diet is based on. A low-carb diet isn't a diet that tells you to stay away from low-carbs, it's a diet that insists you eat food that are low in carbohydrates. I can't think of a possible example where their ad would be justified. Even named diets, like Atkins or South Beach are not saying "avoid what these diets tell you."
What bothers me about this is not so much that the grammar is wrong -- hell, I've probably have numerous grammatical errors in this post alone -- but that the company paid someone (or another company) a good deal of money to design an effective ad campaign, and this was one of the "winning" ideas. That means that not only did it make sense to the people who thought of it, but the people who eventually approved it also thought it made sense.
Which makes you wonder if you should really trust a company like Weight Watchers.
Still, this wouldn't bother me enough to write about if it wasn't for another recent ad campaign, this one by Take 5, one of the New York Lotto games. Their current gimmick is that, since the odds of winning are apparently really good, all you need is a "little luck." They convey this by having a man in a suit tell people this, and here's the kicker: he's little. I know, it's clever, isn't it? Instead of being "a lot" of luck (which one of the ads shows as being the same guy, only really tall and fat), you just need a "little" bit.
Now, I love puns. I love bad puns. But I also wouldn't try to make money off a bad pun. I acknowledge that a pun is bad, and don't hinge any hopes on the pun being received as anything but something to groan at. That said, bad puns (yes, I'm aware that many people believe that all puns are bad; these people are soulless ghouls) still require a connection to a plausible misinterpretation. In other words, you can't just emphasize a word and expect people to groan -- there needs to be a context for that word to have a second meaning (for example, if a group of friends were discussing cars, and you were getting bored, you might say "This conversation is really tired." If you don't mind getting punched about the chest and skull, you could even go as far as saying "This conversation is wheely tired.").
These Take 5 commercials lack such a context. Yes, luck is necessary, and the visual pun of him being little could make sense, except for one small (oooh, pun!) problem: how is this bald man with glasses, a ginourmous head, a blue blazer, and khaki pants, in any way, shape, or form, to be identified as "luck?"
Think about it for a second.
Because that's the only way the joke works. It doesn't matter if he's little, because he's not "luck." Consider it this way: if they had a cartoon bear instead of the man, and this tiny cartoon bear said he was a "little luck," wouldn't you be confused? Wouldn't you ask: why a bear? Well, it's the same thing here: why an annoying man in a sports coat?
So now, not only are the commercials and ads disturbing (the guy looks really weird, and a little frightening -- man, there's another one), but they are stupid and without sense.
What's worse is that our tax money at work -- we paid for a moron to come up with these ads (never mind that we are advertising gambling, a very small portion of which actually goes to the schools).
No, what's worse is that, aside from me, no one really cares. And I don't even care that much.
The ad was for Weight Watchers, and it is simply a quick block of text: "Go on a diet diet."
That makes no sense.
Let me repeat the line: "Go on a diet diet."
Now, the sentiment comes across clear enough. Partially the context helps: having seen other ads by this company that in the same campaign, I know the concept is to get people to realize that "diets" are really unhealthy, because they are essentially fads and not lifestyle changes (and, generally, not natural). Low-carb diets. Soup diets. Shake diets. This is what they are trying to get you to avoid and, in turn, choose their product, which I'm guessing offers healthy, balanced meals (at a "reasonable" price). Hence, go on a diet from diets.
But that's not what their ad actually says.
It says go on a diet diet. As in, a diet consisting of diets. Don't believe me? Look at the examples I used above: low-carb diet; soup diet; shake diet. Why did I italicize the first words? Because that's what the diet is based on. A low-carb diet isn't a diet that tells you to stay away from low-carbs, it's a diet that insists you eat food that are low in carbohydrates. I can't think of a possible example where their ad would be justified. Even named diets, like Atkins or South Beach are not saying "avoid what these diets tell you."
What bothers me about this is not so much that the grammar is wrong -- hell, I've probably have numerous grammatical errors in this post alone -- but that the company paid someone (or another company) a good deal of money to design an effective ad campaign, and this was one of the "winning" ideas. That means that not only did it make sense to the people who thought of it, but the people who eventually approved it also thought it made sense.
Which makes you wonder if you should really trust a company like Weight Watchers.
Still, this wouldn't bother me enough to write about if it wasn't for another recent ad campaign, this one by Take 5, one of the New York Lotto games. Their current gimmick is that, since the odds of winning are apparently really good, all you need is a "little luck." They convey this by having a man in a suit tell people this, and here's the kicker: he's little. I know, it's clever, isn't it? Instead of being "a lot" of luck (which one of the ads shows as being the same guy, only really tall and fat), you just need a "little" bit.
Now, I love puns. I love bad puns. But I also wouldn't try to make money off a bad pun. I acknowledge that a pun is bad, and don't hinge any hopes on the pun being received as anything but something to groan at. That said, bad puns (yes, I'm aware that many people believe that all puns are bad; these people are soulless ghouls) still require a connection to a plausible misinterpretation. In other words, you can't just emphasize a word and expect people to groan -- there needs to be a context for that word to have a second meaning (for example, if a group of friends were discussing cars, and you were getting bored, you might say "This conversation is really tired." If you don't mind getting punched about the chest and skull, you could even go as far as saying "This conversation is wheely tired.").
These Take 5 commercials lack such a context. Yes, luck is necessary, and the visual pun of him being little could make sense, except for one small (oooh, pun!) problem: how is this bald man with glasses, a ginourmous head, a blue blazer, and khaki pants, in any way, shape, or form, to be identified as "luck?"
Think about it for a second.
Because that's the only way the joke works. It doesn't matter if he's little, because he's not "luck." Consider it this way: if they had a cartoon bear instead of the man, and this tiny cartoon bear said he was a "little luck," wouldn't you be confused? Wouldn't you ask: why a bear? Well, it's the same thing here: why an annoying man in a sports coat?
So now, not only are the commercials and ads disturbing (the guy looks really weird, and a little frightening -- man, there's another one), but they are stupid and without sense.
What's worse is that our tax money at work -- we paid for a moron to come up with these ads (never mind that we are advertising gambling, a very small portion of which actually goes to the schools).
No, what's worse is that, aside from me, no one really cares. And I don't even care that much.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Is it Real Son? Is it Really Real Son?
I wonder if, in time, we will come to view memoirs with the same disdain we hold reality television? The concepts are basically the same: to tell compelling, “real” stories in a way that certainly sensationalizes the situations and lives they are meant to describe. Granted, reality television has fallen off the deep end, going from a fairly innovative day-in-the-life-of-seven-strangers (“The Real World”) to the schlock-and-gristle of such ubiquities like “Fear Factor” or “Flava of Love.” The patina of authenticity which we were able to delude ourselves into believing about the people in these shows (“but that’s how people really talk!”) very rapidly melted away, leaving exposed the greedy eyes of network execs.
And yet we still watch. Consider that during the recent writers’ strike, most networks didn’t even bat an eyelash, knowing that they could, if necessary, throw up (both literally and figuratively) any piece of crap that could be made with a couple of cameras and a group of people convinced that not only does everyone get 15 minutes of fame, but they should get it. When Time magazine declared “You” person of the year, there was little criticism in the necessary narcissism that allows such a state to occur. We are, more than ever, willing to open ourselves up in ways unheard of just ten years ago (consider the pseudo-meta going on with the fact that you are reading this in a blog). The Internet (note: why does MS Word still insist on capitalizing “internet”?) has created access to people who never had forums before, and we have embraced them whole-heartedly. Why wouldn’t we? What is more gratifying than knowing that others can share in the joy and wonder that is “you?”
Are books that fundamentally different? I am a big believer in the idea that “the medium is the message,” and I try to always acknowledge that what works on television may not work on the internet may not work in books may not work in the movies, etc. What this doesn’t mean, though, is that they can not work. While I don’t think that the lines are blurring to such a degree that mediums are melding into an indistinguishable entity, I do think there is certainly cross-over. It can be no coincidence that the recent push in publishing for memoir is happening at the very boom of the internet social networking and reality television. While our approach to different media may be subconsciously varied, most people (including myself), rarely take time out to acknowledge that what I do here is different from what I see there.
Probably the greatest proof of this is the fact that so many “blockbuster” memoirs, including James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces and Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone have been “proven” to be a lot less “real” than originally portrayed. Frey’s is the obvious example, becoming a huge best-seller with Oprah’s endorsement, only to have her slam the door in his face (on national television) when it was discovered that he had embellished the truth a bit. And yet it’s still selling, as both people who got caught up in the scandal and those that found inspiration in the story continue to read the book. Beah’s story – that of a boy-soldier in Sierra Leone – is now under attack by The Australian, which has pointed out numerous inconsistencies between his account and that of documents and others.
What these “fictionalized narratives” show is that the “reality” is just another feature of the story, such as tone and language. In other words, we are ready and willing to accept lies if they are presented to us as being true or at least with an aura of, to borrow Mr. Colbert’s phraseology, truthiness. Whether it’s a drug addict struggles or LC’s problems with Heidi, we embrace the melodrama (or, at least I do). I’m sure there are psychological reasons for this, probably something along the lines that we identify and/or compare with the train-wrecks of their lives as a way to feel better about our own, but that’s really not my field. In the end, no matter what connections we make, it is still the story we have to consciously interact with, and that is what keeps us coming back.
With that in mind, I just read Edwidge Danticat’s memoir, Brother, I’m Dying. Winner of the National Book Award, and generally praised by every publication that reviews books, it is very good. Less an autobiography and more the story of her family in Haiti and America, Danticat never holds back her love for her father Mira or her Uncle Joseph (the man who raised her and her brother while her father looked for work in the U.S.). It is this sense of the genuine that draws the reader in and makes them want to care about a family that isn’t their own. And, while taking on political issues both in Haiti and the U.S., her criticisms come off as natural: I dislike these policies because they affected me and my loved-ones in a real and personal way.
One reason I think so many people have loved this book is because it somehow glosses over the pain of her father’s death and her uncle’s flight from Haiti while never actually holding back the details of these events. It is an amazing balancing act, but she clearly is trying to ensure that her two fathers (for her Uncle Joseph is a second father for her) are not remembered for being men who suffered, but men who loved and had suffering also.
Perhaps another reason people loved it so much is because it seems so unreal. I think we, as readers (or viewers or listeners, etc.), have both the desire for the reality, but just as much desire for that reality to seem impossible. We still want our stories to have heroes and villains, and we want to both identify and disconnect with the people we read about. In Brother, I’m Dying, Danticat provides us with a family that, through all its tribulations, has an unwavering love for each other. There are few fights or harsh words between family members, and even when there are, such as between Edwidge’s aunt Denise and Marie Micheline, Denise and Joseph’s “adopted” daughter, the resolution is not only beautiful, but almost ethereal. This is a world that doesn’t discount magic, and it’s also a world that doesn’t discount the disbelief in some everyday occurrences. In the end, we want to believe that the Danticat family is this strong, cohesive unit, because it helps make the sadness deeper and the happiness grander. Whether it’s Mira reassuring his children even though he’s dying or Uncle Joseph believing he can talk the “dread” (head of the neighborhood gang in Haiti) into being reasonable, we are able to look past what these interactions should really be like.
Is that “real?” In a sense, yes. We are constantly reinterpreting events to make them suit our needs. Danticat is trying to tell us her story, keep her fathers’ memories alive, and make a political commentary about the two worlds she lives in. The truth, and how it applies to each of those things, is clearly subjective then. In turn, we provide our own subjectivity to the texts, in order to make them relevant to ourselves. We do this with fiction, too. Which brings me back to my original question: will we eventually view memoirs with the same disdain as reality television? Perhaps that’s a disingenuous question, though, because let’s face it: we tend to only disdain reality television in public. And even that is not universal. In essence, we want all of our stories to be “real,” whether they are fiction or nonfiction. It helps ground and transport us.
And yet we still watch. Consider that during the recent writers’ strike, most networks didn’t even bat an eyelash, knowing that they could, if necessary, throw up (both literally and figuratively) any piece of crap that could be made with a couple of cameras and a group of people convinced that not only does everyone get 15 minutes of fame, but they should get it. When Time magazine declared “You” person of the year, there was little criticism in the necessary narcissism that allows such a state to occur. We are, more than ever, willing to open ourselves up in ways unheard of just ten years ago (consider the pseudo-meta going on with the fact that you are reading this in a blog). The Internet (note: why does MS Word still insist on capitalizing “internet”?) has created access to people who never had forums before, and we have embraced them whole-heartedly. Why wouldn’t we? What is more gratifying than knowing that others can share in the joy and wonder that is “you?”
Are books that fundamentally different? I am a big believer in the idea that “the medium is the message,” and I try to always acknowledge that what works on television may not work on the internet may not work in books may not work in the movies, etc. What this doesn’t mean, though, is that they can not work. While I don’t think that the lines are blurring to such a degree that mediums are melding into an indistinguishable entity, I do think there is certainly cross-over. It can be no coincidence that the recent push in publishing for memoir is happening at the very boom of the internet social networking and reality television. While our approach to different media may be subconsciously varied, most people (including myself), rarely take time out to acknowledge that what I do here is different from what I see there.
Probably the greatest proof of this is the fact that so many “blockbuster” memoirs, including James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces and Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone have been “proven” to be a lot less “real” than originally portrayed. Frey’s is the obvious example, becoming a huge best-seller with Oprah’s endorsement, only to have her slam the door in his face (on national television) when it was discovered that he had embellished the truth a bit. And yet it’s still selling, as both people who got caught up in the scandal and those that found inspiration in the story continue to read the book. Beah’s story – that of a boy-soldier in Sierra Leone – is now under attack by The Australian, which has pointed out numerous inconsistencies between his account and that of documents and others.
What these “fictionalized narratives” show is that the “reality” is just another feature of the story, such as tone and language. In other words, we are ready and willing to accept lies if they are presented to us as being true or at least with an aura of, to borrow Mr. Colbert’s phraseology, truthiness. Whether it’s a drug addict struggles or LC’s problems with Heidi, we embrace the melodrama (or, at least I do). I’m sure there are psychological reasons for this, probably something along the lines that we identify and/or compare with the train-wrecks of their lives as a way to feel better about our own, but that’s really not my field. In the end, no matter what connections we make, it is still the story we have to consciously interact with, and that is what keeps us coming back.
With that in mind, I just read Edwidge Danticat’s memoir, Brother, I’m Dying. Winner of the National Book Award, and generally praised by every publication that reviews books, it is very good. Less an autobiography and more the story of her family in Haiti and America, Danticat never holds back her love for her father Mira or her Uncle Joseph (the man who raised her and her brother while her father looked for work in the U.S.). It is this sense of the genuine that draws the reader in and makes them want to care about a family that isn’t their own. And, while taking on political issues both in Haiti and the U.S., her criticisms come off as natural: I dislike these policies because they affected me and my loved-ones in a real and personal way.
One reason I think so many people have loved this book is because it somehow glosses over the pain of her father’s death and her uncle’s flight from Haiti while never actually holding back the details of these events. It is an amazing balancing act, but she clearly is trying to ensure that her two fathers (for her Uncle Joseph is a second father for her) are not remembered for being men who suffered, but men who loved and had suffering also.
Perhaps another reason people loved it so much is because it seems so unreal. I think we, as readers (or viewers or listeners, etc.), have both the desire for the reality, but just as much desire for that reality to seem impossible. We still want our stories to have heroes and villains, and we want to both identify and disconnect with the people we read about. In Brother, I’m Dying, Danticat provides us with a family that, through all its tribulations, has an unwavering love for each other. There are few fights or harsh words between family members, and even when there are, such as between Edwidge’s aunt Denise and Marie Micheline, Denise and Joseph’s “adopted” daughter, the resolution is not only beautiful, but almost ethereal. This is a world that doesn’t discount magic, and it’s also a world that doesn’t discount the disbelief in some everyday occurrences. In the end, we want to believe that the Danticat family is this strong, cohesive unit, because it helps make the sadness deeper and the happiness grander. Whether it’s Mira reassuring his children even though he’s dying or Uncle Joseph believing he can talk the “dread” (head of the neighborhood gang in Haiti) into being reasonable, we are able to look past what these interactions should really be like.
Is that “real?” In a sense, yes. We are constantly reinterpreting events to make them suit our needs. Danticat is trying to tell us her story, keep her fathers’ memories alive, and make a political commentary about the two worlds she lives in. The truth, and how it applies to each of those things, is clearly subjective then. In turn, we provide our own subjectivity to the texts, in order to make them relevant to ourselves. We do this with fiction, too. Which brings me back to my original question: will we eventually view memoirs with the same disdain as reality television? Perhaps that’s a disingenuous question, though, because let’s face it: we tend to only disdain reality television in public. And even that is not universal. In essence, we want all of our stories to be “real,” whether they are fiction or nonfiction. It helps ground and transport us.
Monday, February 11, 2008
A Cry for Help
Dear Mr. Statham,
Why do you do this to yourself? Don't you understand how totally money you are? Who can forget the fantasticness that was Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels? Or, in the same tradition (pretty much literally), how great you were in Snatch? Hell, Handsome Rob, while not a big role, was as well-played as any in the fairly decent ensemble cast of The Italian Job.
But now, it seems, you have translated your success into what can only be seen as the onset of acute dementia. War? In the Name of the King? Revolver? Chaos? Who told you these were good ideas? Who told you that these were the scripts that were going to propel you stardom?
Ever heard of Jean-Claude van Damme?
Steven Seigal?
This is the territory you are journeying into.
While it might have been fine for you to make a film like The Transporter – with it's mix of low budget and good action, it was almost destined to be one of those cult-classics that guys are going to flock to (see Swayze and Road House) – that's what you do at the beginning of a burgeoning career. You don't keep making crap when you've already made good movies – at least, you don't consistently make crap. Don't you have a plan?
Perhaps you need to take a step back. Try saying “no” to a few offers. It's okay, try it. You might find it refreshing. Sure, your agent may feel jilted, the studio may be like “But you never say no,” but don't heed that nonsense. You can be your own man. Your own, beautifully bald, Britishy, bad-ass self.
Please, you're better than this. You are a good actor. You can make good movies.
So put that script down. Seriously, whatever it is, I'm positive it's terrible. If you can, take a lighter to it. Make sure you're in a well-ventilated room, so that the fumes from the burning shit doesn't render you incapable of making rational decisions. Such as reaching into the fire to save the script.
That's it. Walk away. Take a deep breath of clean air.
And remember that you are an actor.
Please.
Sincerely,
David
Monday, January 14, 2008
Green Beings from Another Universe
I'm sorry, folks.
I'm sorry I'm delusional about the number of readers I have, and I'm sorry that for that tiny handful (as in, the hand of a tiny person, not a small handful in a regular size hand – think Lego minifig hands) that do read, but I haven't been as productive as I had been in the past.
I think, in fact, going forward, I'm going to try for a more weekly thing, and see how that goes.
What I will say, though, is that in that week, you might get a thick, chunky stew of reviews, instead of just the singular, well thought-out essay. Not really sure if that's a selling point or not. But here we go.
First up, my man Asimov. I will probably say this every time I mention Asimov, Heinlein, Tolkien, and Bradbury, but these guys aren't just masters of the science fiction, they are masters of literature. Asimov, perhaps one of the most prolific writers ever, is most renowned for his Robot and Foundation series, and rightly so. He pretty much set the groundwork for the sweeping historical fiction (in any genre), creatively appropriating Gibbons' Rise and Fall of Rome to extrapolate a future with a similar problem. And the Robot series are the rules to follow if you're going to write accurately about robots – if you don't follow the Three Rules, then your robots simply don't make sense.
Like all great science fiction, the story, while creative and interesting, takes a seat behind the message. Asimov was great at this; his stories were fairly basic—generally hinging on a rather small problem that “If only people would understand!” everything would be resolved. That's not to say there wasn't complexity, but that the complexity was more an exploration of a man's imagination rather than an intricate plot or characters of outstanding depth.
Such is the case with The Gods Themselves, a novel that won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards – the biggies when it comes to science fiction. It is basically the story of individuals who are jilted because their ideas go against the status quo. All of them are concerned with the Electron Pump, a device that exchanges material with another universe to produce unlimited and pollutant-free energy. It seems too good to be true, and they struggle trying to convince others that such is the case.
Told in three parts, the first is of a human scientist who, in researching a history of the Pump discovers that the man revered as the “Father of the Electron Pump,” Frederick Hallam, is almost certainly a fraud. It's not that he didn't discover the phenomenon that led to the pump, but that his discovery was an accident based on the stubbornness of a slighted man. More importantly, the idea is presented that if it wasn't for the beings in the other universe (the “para-Universe”), the pump could never work. This of course gets the researcher, Lamont, blacklisted.
The second part focus on the para-Universe and this is where Asimov shines. Here he develops a group of sentiences called the “Soft-Ones” that are at once individuals and parts of a collective being. Separate, they are Rationals (Lefts), Emotionals (Mids) and Parentals (Rights), and their personalities match these labels: Rationals are thinkers, delighting in learning and curiosity; Emotionals are flighty and silly, enjoying the physical above all else; Parentals are single-minded in their concern and love of their off-spring and the properness of the triad. Dua is an Emotional in a triad with Odeen (Rational) and Tritt (Parental), but she is no ordinary Emotional. She is derisively called a “Left-Em,” because she too has a strong desire to learn as much as possible. This inquisitiveness leads her to figure out that something is wrong with the Pump on their end and she has to figure out a way to stop it.
The last part is set on the Moon, and tells parallel stories of a Moon that is ready to be separate from the Earth and of an immigrant trying to redeem his name by proving that the Pump is harmful.
What makes this book so amazing isn't the story, though. It is the message underlying the story. Take this passage for example:
“It is a mistake,” he said, “to suppose that the public wants the environment protected or their lives saved and that they will grateful to any idealist who will fight for such ends. What the public wants is their own individual comfort. We know that well enough from our experience in the environmental crisis of the twentieth century. Once it was well known that cigarettes increased the incidence of lung cancer, the obvious remedy was to stop smoking, but the desired remedy was a cigarette that did not encourage cancer. When it became clear that the internal-combustion engine was polluting the atmosphere dangerously, the obvious remedy was to abandon such engines, and the desired remedy was to develop non-polluting engines.”
Sound familiar? Maybe because the mythical “environmental crisis of the twentieth century” Asimov writes about is exactly what is happening right now? Remember, though, that this book was written in 1972. Moreover, it isn't just the prescience of an environmental crisis that makes this book so great: it is the fact that he is aware of how closely linked the environment and energy are. But, even still, that isn't enough to make me feel such a connection with this novel.
No, it is because Asimov understands that it is not that we don't recognize the problem, we simply don't like the idea of the solution. This isn't a book about greed: Hallam isn't wealthy, and for the most part, wealth is being created for all with the Electron Pump. What it is about is comfort. And, with that comfort, is the conservatism that comes so naturally to those who see no need to rock the boat. For the world, they are content when the scientists say that: Yes, this will destroy the solar system, but not for trillions of years – well beyond the life expectancy of the entire universe. By accepting this as given, the society is saying it is lunacy to look for flaws.
Well, clearly we are far from a solution that, on the surface, is perfect. But what we do know is that what we have works. I know that if I get in a car and fill it up with gas, that I can deliver myself to where I need to go. I also know that, sure, I'm hurting the environment, but I'm hurting it in the future. For most people, ten years might as well be a trillion years. Logically, it makes sense: changes that climatologists are talking about are supposed to take hundreds, thousands, even millions of years. That's what we've always been told.
What The Gods Themselves points out is that it doesn't matter. What's important is not dismissing the warnings of others because it might take a little (or a lot) of sacrifice. It's ironic, then, how the situation is almost opposite in our world as it is in the book: they have unlimited energy and what seems to be a ton of time to work with; we have an energy crisis and almost no time at all.
And yet, what are we doing? We're trying to create non-polluting internal-combustion engines. We're trying to solve the problem with non-carcinogenic cigarettes. Last week it was sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit (289 Kelvin, for those keeping track). In January. In New York City.
That's not science fiction, folks.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
I Sing the Body Eclectic
It's been a while, my friends. I apologize for nothing.
Let's get started, shall we?
As the haul from Christmas gets sorted into piles, I am once again inundated with media. Hooray! It's hard to get away from it, considering my friends and family know how much I enjoy books, music, and movies (and conversely, how much I distrust my friends and family to purchase clothes that I might actually wear. The comedian Jim Gaffigan put it best when he noted if he gets clothes he doesn't like, he won't return it; he'll throw it out: “Oooh, you got me an errand for Christmas.”). It's equally hard to get away from it considering that I ask my family for books and movies.
But I like books, movies, and music. And I will share that “like” with you.
First up: Stephen Colbert's I Am America (And So Can You!). Any fan of the show will enjoy this continuation of Colbert's perfectly executed satire of any conservative talking-head on cable news. The book uses irreverence, stupidity, and parodied bigotry to provide a “hand-book” for the 21st Century American.
An Anti-Communist Manifesto, if you will.
It's incredibly amusing. One feature I particularly enjoy is his use of annotations and foot-notes to provide comedic commentary. Too often under-utilized in any entertaining and/or commercial text, it also gives the book the air of a pseudo-scholarly piece, thus perpetuating the “ludicrousness” of his words even more. It helps, too (at least for me), that these asides are usually puns.
What surprised me was that there was still material to delve, here. You would figure that, even with all the wonderful nonsense Conservatives serve up on a daily basis, eventually we'd reach the point where we have to go: We get it! Mission accomplished, Mr. Colbert! But this book has enough originality to remain fresh and laugh-out-loud funny.
However, there is one thing that bothers me: the preponderance of gay-jokes. I'm not offended by the jokes, because I know it's simply an extension Colbert's alter-ego. What I'm offended by is the lack of creativity. Here's the thing: My friends and I go to the gay-joke well (and the mom-joke well – essentially the same aquifer) all the time, for the most part ironically, but even more so because we tend to be uncreative (somewhat taking away from the irony). The big thing is though, that my friends and I are not professional comedians. Hell, I'd be willing to admit that many of my friends are the opposite of professional comedians (which might make them torturers or onions – you know, making other people cry). Therefore, I would expect a professional like Stephen Colbert to not dip his bucket in such a dried up well (when I pay for a joke, I want it juicy).
Some of the gay-jokes are funny, though. Makes me wonder if they'll be so funny when I'm burning in hell (which, after all the “flamer” jokes would be the ultimate irony, eh?)
I believe I've mentioned a little television program called “Futurama”? Not only was it one of the best cartoons ever, I would go out on a limb and say it was some of the best television, period. What it did in its four short seasons was combine the wackiness and intelligence of “The Simpsons” with the creativity and heart that was unique for a show of its kind. Whereas the “The Simpsons” had some sweet episodes (generally Lisa-driven) and “South Park” showed a social-conscience, “Futurama” decided to give its characters a humanity that was oddly opposed to the fact that many of the characters actually weren't human. One would think, given the futuristic, science-fiction setting of the show, that there would be a consistent zaniness that would override any sort of emotion. And yet, the writers and producers are aware enough to play on the fact that the main character, Fry, although enjoying his time in the year 3000, is still someone a thousand years past his own time (and thus past his family and memories). If you want to watch a show that will make you laugh and cry, watch the “Jurassic Bark” episode. If it doesn't move you, then you are a cold-hearted bastard.
The reason I'm writing about “Futurama” (a show that was canceled 4 years ago), is because the DVDs are all out. If you have the time, watch them on their own, and then go back and watch them with the commentaries. The three voice actors who consistently show up – Billy West, John DiMaggio, and Maurice LaMarche – are genuinely funny people, and even though they may not be commenting on the show you're watching (which is why you should definitely watch the episode first), they pretty much double the comedy on the DVDs. And David X. Cohen, the executive producer, is really funny too – while providing interesting insights about the making of the episodes.
More importantly: “Futurama” is back! Kind of. What I mean is that a new “episode” (which is really movie-length), has been released on DVD, and it was everything I had been waiting for. Titled “Bender's Big Score,” it's not the funniest “Futurama” I've ever seen. In fact, the beginning is almost pathetically sophomoric, going after juvenile jokes, almost as if the writers had a hard time getting into the rhythm after the long hiatus. But as the movie progresses, the show gets its legs back underneath it, and before you know it, we're back where the show left off: smart and funny science-fiction. The commentary, too, is fantastic.
I hope, of course, that this will be the beginning of getting this show back on the air with new episodes. For now, I know there will be three more straight-to-DVD movies, and I will be waiting breathlessly.
Okay, I'll probably breathe.
Richard Ford is one of those authors I had heard of only recently, and was surprised to find out that he's kind of a big deal. Pulitzers tend to do that for authors. So I decided I'd give him a shot and, as I usually do in situations with unfamiliar authors, I went straight for the jugular. I figure, if its an author I'm supposed to read, I might as well read that persons seminal piece, in Ford's case, Independence Day.
I was slightly disappointed that no aliens battled Will Smith for the resources of Earth.
What I wasn't disappointed by was how Ford was able to turn 450 pages of a rather boring story, and keep my interest the entire way through. And, it is boring, perhaps purposefully so. Independence Day is the story of Frank Bascombe, a man who epitomizes “mid-life crisis.” While not going crazy with a ridiculous car or younger woman (although he does flashback to a time when he spent a year in France with a med school student), he has clearly come through the traumatic experiences of his son dying and getting divorced with a radically changed philosophy.
In an odd way, he reminds me of Ron Livingston's character from Office Space – nothing really fazes him anymore. He is content to be content, moving through the part of his life Ford constantly points to as the “Existence Period.” It is almost depressing, seeing this lonely man live out a weekend of phony connections, and yet I have no sympathy for him, nor do I think he's asking for any. Bascombe is not, in any way, a loser (making the Willy Loman comparisons from some of the cover-copy disingenuous). Rather, he's man who is relatively successful economically, has a beautiful lady-friend, enjoys his job (despite people constantly denigrating it), and is excited for the time he will spend with his troubled son and the holiday in general. All in all, things are generally looking pretty good for a guy who, in 1988, is looking at a troubled economy and unsure political future.
What really impressed me was that, despite it's firm setting in an era that we are long past, I had no problem connecting with the story. For one thing, Ford is not shy about going all expository on us, interspersing dialogue with dense essays about Frank's beliefs and exploring the meanings behind the places and events going on around the characters. For another, Bascombe is funny in a way that makes us laugh with him, and not at him. Maybe it's the wrong impression, but I connect with him and enjoy him. His is an American life, but he isn't dragged down by it as so often movies and literature want us to believe is our natural condition. He is a father who isn't set up as being entirely at fault – his ex-wife, Ann, shares a great deal of the burden for the family's problems. Bascombe is, then, atypical of the American Man as such a being is often portrayed.
Frank Bascombe is a guy who moves past his flaws and, ultimately, learns from them. And if that isn't great writing, then maybe you should stop reading this blog.*
*Please don't stop reading this blog.
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