Out from Under Probation and Back on the Shelf

Before I get into what the title is about, I thought I'd get this off my chest first:

You ever have a movie or song or book that you keep having to tell others that "you want to watch, but you just haven't gotten around to it". Oddly, one of the movies like that for me was The Transporter—which I've finally seen.

Probably not what you were expecting, was it?

But that's okay.  Because I didn't realize it was that kind of movie for me until I finally saw it.  Not that it's so phenomenal.  Rather, it's that I can understand why people kept asking me if I'd seen it.

To start with, you have my boy, Jason Statham.  Now obviously he's not really "my boy”—either biologically or socially.  But what our relationship lacks in personal interaction is more than made up with a deep and abiding desire to hang out with this guy and let his coolness wash over me.

Now I'm not under any illusions about his acting ability.  I used to bemoan the fact that he'd be a bigger star if he got better roles and didn't spend his time making movies like Crank and War.

But then I realized something--it's exactly those kind of roles that he is best suited for.

And how I realized that was by finally getting around to The Transporter. It's not a a good movie, by any stretch. But it's a fun movie, and that's all it tries to be. Statham is his normal awesome self (see above—my man-crush on him hasn't abated; he's number 2 on the “Would I...” List only after Ryan Reynolds). But everything else, from the plot to the co-actors to the dialogue is pretty much spectacularly bad.

Except for the action—which is great, and the whole reason you'd watch such a movie in the first place.

Now I don't know if I'll ever watch the sequels, but I will say I'm no longer quite as disappointed that every movie Mr. Statham is in isn't a gem like Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.

I'm also glad I finally got around to seeing The Transporter.

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Just finished Stephen King's latest novel, Under the Dome, and I was pleasantly surprised. Not because I'm a King-hater (although if I saw George III walking down the street, I'd punch him in the face—because he'd be a zombie), but because I'd kind of given up on him, just as it seemed he had given up on us.

Growing up in the Eighties, King was the at the height of his powers, and I loved every minute of it. I must have read It five or six times, The Stand a few times, and Misery more than once, not to mention some of his lesser known novels. And I loved The Bachman Books (still considering “The Long Walk” to be one of my favorite novellas/short stories ever), and will still go back to it maybe once a year.

But then I read Insomnia...and the fascination stopped. A thousand pages of what basically was the movie Dark City--but with senior citizen protagonists—and I was done.

And yet I've returned, and I'm glad I did. Under the Dome does what I think King knows best: the dark side of human nature. The premise is pretty “Twilight Zone”-basic: What would happen if, for no explainable reason, an impenetrable dome covered a small town in Maine?

What ensues are power grabs, riots, panic, murders, and the exposure of secrets—it's “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street” writ large. And I'm completely okay with that.

Because, if I've said anything about where science fiction is going this past year, my prediction has been towards dystopia.

King—no stranger to this realm—comes back to it in a big way, and although he still has his usual “King problems” (Umm, I just wrote a really long book, and I don't feel like I can be bothered with anything called satisfying resolution), I love the characters and how they interact with each other—particularly the main Barbie/Big Jim Rennie dynamic, but also the Andy/Chef relationship at the end—I love the way King gets around the “easy” solutions, and I love the plausibility of the situation (despite the fact that it's based on a completely implausible idea).

I think if you're a fan of Shirley Jackson's “The Lottery,” MJ Engh's Arslan, or even King's own The Stand, I'd check out Under the Dome. While not his greatest book, it's definitely the best thing he's done in a long, long time.

What Bwings Us Herw Togeta, Today

I recently read probably one of the best books about a marriage that I think exists, and oddly enough, I'm not sure if most people focused on that when it originally came out.

The reason I have my doubts is because even though "Wife" is in the title, I think the majority of readers felt that the main thrust of the story was that it was a fictionalized account of the life of Laura Bush. And while I'm told it certainly mirrors much of the ex-First Lady's story, I couldn't help but think that this is not a book about politics, or power, or even an insider's female perspective of the former president.

No, to me, American Wife is about marriage: the ups and downs, the rewards and pitfalls, the struggles and triumphs. And, if I can say so from my vast experience from being married for so long (all of zero days, my friends), I feel like the book is an honest and accurate portrayal of how a typical marriage--no matter how atypical the circumstances it finds itself in--works.

And that's where Curtis Sittenfeld, the author, does such an outstanding job. Now, I had read her previous novel, Prep, and for the most part enjoyed it. I thought the writing was good, and the story interesting enough to keep me moving along. However, the protagonist of that story, Lee, is ultimately disappointing, as she succumbs to the pressures to fit into a world she doesn't belong to, without ever truly redeeming herself. Granted, I think that's the point: that a teenage girl who finds herself thrust into a much higher social strata will almost certainly try whatever she can to adapt, but I never sympathized with her.

With Alice Lindgren in American Wife, while we watch her make mistakes, ultimately I feel we can identify with her, or, at least, understand her decisions. Clearly she's too good for her husband, but we see, through her eyes, that there is something worth loving in him, and although at times he comes across as boorish or spoiled, he's not a monster. He's just a man with too much pressure on him from too many angles, and she's the one thing that seems to keep him grounded.

One thing I've asked my other friends who have read this book is, based on their own personal politics, had their opinions of George Bush changed at all. While most have said no (claiming there's just too much "history" to cast off their distaste for him based on a work of fiction), almost all of them have said that their opinion of Laura Bush has certainly changed--and for the better. While not exactly a Bush fan myself, I was perhaps a little disappointed that people didn't approach their feelings about Bush with him painted in this new light, but I can respect it. Still, I actually feel Sittenfeld did more to help Bush's legacy than any partisan biography could ever do.

And the reason for that is not so much because she's a vocal liberal who is penning an objective fiction, but because the novel holds the feeling of so much truth that it's hard to dismiss that maybe her characters are true depictions of the real-life people they represent.

No matter what, though, this is a phenomenal novel, a story that transcends the politics and history and instead thoroughly explores an intimate relationship in a way few books I've read have ever done. I highly recommend.

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.

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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?

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.

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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.

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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!

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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 21^st 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.

The Trunk-ated Version

I know they don't give the Johnny-Come-Lately Award until well after the fact, but, I think I'm in the running. In other words, I've finally gotten around to reading Water for Elephants.

Sara Gruen's Depression-era circus novel was on virtually every publications' top ten list . . . last year's top ten list. Last year very soon to be two years ago, aka, 2006.

I can see why everyone loved it so much. For starters, it was the little book that could. Published by Algonquin Press, it took a strong marketing and word-of-mouth campaign to turn it into a national best-seller. Where it still resides today.

And the story deserves attention. It is the story of Jacob, a veterinarian student who quits school during his final exams after the tragic death of his parents. With no aims, he ends up on a circus train and, as most things go with such tales, wackiness ensues.

The story becomes a sordid tale, the seedy underbelly of the circus world emerges, as the masters sucker both the rubes and the workers alike. The social strata of their world is symbolically represented by the train, where the different carriages separate the workers from the performers, the animals from the humans. Yet, as metaphors often do, in the end, everyone has to traverse the top of the trains to get from on car to the other – thus breaking down the barriers and exposing everyone to equal danger.

Jacob tells us this story from two perspectives: the time it's happening and from his slightly addled moments seventy years later. A rather pedestrian literary device, but done rather well. Both characters are very different and at the same time still always Jacob. Their love for Marlena and Rosie go undiminished no matter what time, and those stories are the threads the plot relies on for structural integrity. Marlena, the lovely woman who leads the horse act, is Jacob's instant object of infatuation. Of course, she's married to a psycho-path who is also Jacob's new boss. (Guess how it ends).

Rosie is an elephant. Who understands Polish. In order to challenge the much-hated Ringling Bros. Circus, the owner, Uncle Al, risks everything to acquire her, only to realize that he can't do anything with her. Marlena's husband, August, doesn't restrain his cruelty to just his wife – he goes to town on Rosie, earning Jacob's double-disgust. And that's the worst kind of disgust there is.

What Gruen does is give us Jacob's dual stories in a way that makes readers not normally inclined to literary pretensions feel like they are reading something beyond a commercial story. This is not a judgment – it would be a bit hypocritical for me to pooh-pooh something for being too commercial – but it is an important not to make. Why? Because this story isn't complex in the slightest. There really aren't too many surprises, there really aren't too many twists or turns – it's a straightforward tale with only the slightest pauses from Old Jacob. The setting might be a bit exotic, but it's not as if this is the grand Depression Novel -- I think a guy named Steinbeck did something to keep us covered there. Hell, The Wizard of Oz actually evokes the period with a bit more creativity. What Water lacks, though, is made up for in the very fact that the story isn't difficult.

It's a plot- and character-heavy novel, and as such, it appeals to a large audience, literary-inclined or not. It is a love story, an adventure story, a save-the-princess-from-the-monster story. Who couldn't get behind a tale like that?

One thing that does bother me, though – and this is a big something – is Jacob's character. A naïve greenhorn and unworldly lad, he is either the quickest learner (which doesn't tend to bear out, as his conversations with his bunkmate, Walter, tend to show), or he gains aspects to his character that simply has no basis in the writing. Sure, he is outraged at August's treatment of Marlena and Rosie, but his, well, his ballsy-ness, comes out of nowhere.

To be fair, though, this was a second impression -- I initially finished it thinking: I understand why this book is so well-received. I still do. It's a good story. It's just not “perfect.” It is a novel with flaws, but these “flaws” are overcome with Gruen's ability to tell a story. In the end, isn't that what we want in a book? Sure, it's great when one can make you think, when you feel Hey, I'm learning something here. But, mostly, we want to know our time isn't being wasted, and I think Gruen makes sure that our reading experience is an incredibly positive one. Water for Elephants, then, is good book that caught fire, not necessarily on its merits, but because of one of those things that, if you ever found out the reason, you'd be incredibly rich. I'd say, don't worry about whether it's "worthy" or not of all the accolades and sales -- enjoy the story and feel good that a little guy (or rather, gal) made it.

Moreover, you do learn something, too. Namely: don't fuck with elephants. After "Pink Elephants on Parade" in Dumbo, I was already on board with that (seriously, if you ever want to give a kid nightmares, show them that movie before bedtime), but it's been a while since that film came out, so we were about due for a refresher. So thank you, Ms. Gruen.

(By the way: worst post-title ever, right?)

We Are Highly Amused

It’s amazing how much more reading you can get done when your classes are finally over. The funny thing is, it’s not like I really did a whole lot of the reading for my classes, but I guess it was always in the back of my mind: if I do read, it should probably be something for class. Well, that’s done with for a month or so.

So what have I been reading, you ask? (Or not . . . I have only vague illusions about the numbers that make up my readership). Well, as it is the end of the year, most publications with some sort of literary connection/aspiration has gone out of its way to make sure everyone knows their opinions concerning which books were the best this year. In the spirit of the decimal system, many resorted to aping Letterman, and giving us top ten lists. Now, with so many books being produced each year, there’s rarely a consensus as to which books belong on the list, let alone where (although, to be fair, if there were only eleven books to choose from, I’m sure very few lists would actually match up). Still, it seems pretty clear that some books were more universally considered excellent compared to others. Interestingly enough, two such books, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao and The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, are two books that I read and reviewed when they first came out, and I was a little less-than-impressed than some of the other critics. But, hey, they got paid, and I didn’t, so maybe they’re onto something. I suggest you might try them for yourselves, but I personally can’t recommend them.

One other book that made a lot of lists I can whole-heartedly recommend: Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris. Clearly the most unique feature of this book is the gimmick: it is written in the first-person plural. For those of you not so grammatically inclined (okay, I had to look up “first-person plural,” too; English is hard!), the first-person plural is told from the point of view of a narrative “we.” So, for example: “We blog about things that nobody reads or cares about.” This is not to be confused with the royal “we,” as in “We are afraid someone at work will notice that we’re writing in our blog,” but the choral “we” (and don’t for a minute think I didn’t notice that royal and choral kind of rhyme!). So what you get is a story told from a group consciousness – a hive-mind, if you will, where individuality separates you from the pack and allows you a name. It’s both disconcerting and oddly liberating.

More to the point: it is perfectly suited for the story being told. Ferris is writing about advertising specifically, but the general office/corporate culture is certainly being commented on with the use of the first-person plural. The disconnection from personality, the mindless following, the addictive need for habit: this book is for the group what Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho was for the individual corporate drone. Except, of course, that it’s a lot funnier, and lot less gory (which isn’t to say I didn’t like American Psycho; just that these books are two slightly different beasts).

The story is of an advertising firm going through a hard turn during the economic stumble when the Internet bubble burst. As more and more people get laid off (“Walk Spanish”), the “we” jumps back and forth recounting those days, always through observations and heard conversations. Like the Greek choruses of old, what you get from the narrator is a communal news organization, reporting and commenting on the stories of the day. Ferris, then, makes sure to give us the news first, and then to go back and fill in the actual story. If you’ve ever worked in an office (or, really, ever been in any social situation where gossip and hearsay are the information disseminators), than you know this is how news gets spread: you get the pay-off first – or at least a reasonable facsimile – and then you get the parts that led up to startling revelation. So while various characters are going through very real and personal moments, we do not enter the story until much later, having to wait until the facts are in to make sense of the information we have received.

Which is probably one of the reasons that, despite the acknowledgment that Ferris is using a gimmick, the book still works. It simply feels true to the situation, and so you very quickly get absorbed into story, and forget that what you are reading is pretty much alien to the novel-consuming public. You get sucked into the “we,” and you follow along, hoping to find out if Lynn does have cancer, or how the pro-bono campaign is going, or who is going to be laid off, or if Tom is going to come back and shoot up the office, or what exactly Joe’s deal is. You are allowed into the offices, to gather in the little groups as you hear the first- or second-hand knowledge that propels the story forward. And that becomes highly enjoyable, because you’ve been accepted – you are on the inside, now.

Perhaps the only fault I really found in the book was the pseudo-meta-narrative that Ferris felt compelled to add. I guess part of the game is to figure out who the “I” might possibly be, but I rather liked the fact that, up until the end, there is no way to pinpoint one. At the end, though, the lines become a little less blurred, and I think it actually takes away from the impact of using the first-person plural. Yet, it is a minor moment, and one that only partially (and very partially) detracts from the overall brilliance of the book.

Please note: I was going to attempt to write this in the first-person plural, but I figured pretensions aside, I’m not sure I could actually do it. It’s pretty difficult, making me respect not only Ferris, but the editor who thought: Not only is this a good idea, but I think I will be able to edit it when the time comes. So, props to you, editor man or lady.

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Designing a Lovely Story

Nancy Horan's Loving Frank is the historical fiction of Frank Lloyd Wright's life with his mistress, Mamah Cheney, told from her point of view. As one of the most recognized personalities of the Twentieth Century, Wright is probably the one name people could come up with if asked to give an example of an architect.

Horan's book goes beyond the architecture, it goes beyond the man himself. As the title implies, the novel is about loving Frank Lloyd Wright, and thus it is actually Mamah's story, a woman pretty impressive in her own right. Granted, this isn't a biography, being fiction extrapolated from what little writings we have left of Mamah's, but what we do get is a fairly convincing portrayal of a woman who gives up everything in order to be with the man she loves.

And I do mean everything. By having an affair with a married man, while being married herself, she entered into a scandal that was latched on by the newspapers in a way that would make our current paparazzi proud of the tradition they follow in. And, I won't say without reason.

What amazes me about the writing is how Horan somehow makes Mamah a sympathetic character. Sure, she's unhappy in her marriage, but it's not like her husband, Edwin Cheney, was abusive or an alcoholic or anything really negative. If anything, it's mostly because he's basically boring, while Frank is exciting. For that reason, she leaves her children behind with a friend (who subsequently dies, which must have been delightfully traumatic for the kids), and goes off to Europe to meet up with Frank.

Still, despite her selfishness, you never see her as cold-hearted. She agonizes about leaving her children – and her guilt is a constant throughout. She also has to deal with her sister being left in a rather untenable situation, living in the house with her husband and children, who are now being harassed by the press and berated from the pulpit. And, perhaps most troubling, is that she has to deal with the fact that Frank Lloyd Wright is, well, kind of a self-absorbed asshole.

I think what's so surprising is the time period. Because Frank Lloyd Wright was so ahead of his time, and because of the misnomer that is “Modernism,” I've always felt he was working much later in the century, certainly beyond World War II. But, apparently I'm a moron, because this is turn-of-the-century America, and as such, the depiction of the social situation – concerning divorce and women's rights in particular – is crafted in such a way that it is revelatory without shocking. Again, I think it's Horan's work, creating the lovely voice of Mamah,

This is not a happy story. The affair, while comprised of touching moments, never gets to culminate in a happily-ever-after manner. In fact, if it could have ended in a less satisfactory way (at least from Mamah or Frank's perspective), I'd be glad to hear it. Unfortunately for the story, Horan was dealing with history, and history, although mold-able, is comprised of facts (with the obvious caveats applied about the factual nature of history). But even in the sadness, there is beauty. Shifting in the end from Mamah to Frank, Horan writes:

“Frank opens his eyes. All around his bed, he sees crippled salvage from the fire—a rolled-up carpet reeking of smoke, the two chairs they used for sitting in front of the fireplace, both now missing legs. When he closes his eyes again, the memory is gone. What he does not know is that he will not be able to retrieve her again like that. He will try. He will say to himself, She loved to joke. She had a wonderful laugh. But he won't be able to hear it, not for a very long time.”

Behind every famous man is a remarkable woman, and Mamah, with Horan's help, gets her due.

I highly recommend.

I also want to note that the cover, a Frank Lloyd Wright stained-glass design in yellows, was a fantastic choice. In case you're interested, it was done by Archie Ferguson.

Maybe the One Right Was Adopted

I guess I understand the fascination with Amy Winehouse – she's a phenomenal voice paired with an interesting story, and her album has a couple songs that bear out her talent. Back to Black is an odd kind of concept album, one where Winehouse's angst is set to a Motown soundtrack – to varying results. On some songs, she carries it off well, such as her ubiquitous “Rehab,” a song that's been making the rounds for practically a year now (yes, I know – I'm reviewing an old album – I never said anything about the timeliness of my criticisms, so there). Her whiskey-dark voice throbs when necessary, and the rather somber (sober . . . anyone?) message is juxtaposed nicely with the slightly upbeat music. Better yet, though is the song that more clearly works as a throwback to Motown, “Tears Dry on Their Own.” Part of it's success for me is the the chorus: the way she sings it with a slight catch right at the apex brings the message home. And, of course, the sampling/re-appropriation of “Ain't No Mountain High Enough” -- the classic Marvin Gaye/Tammi Terrel song – gives a melody that is both catchy and familiar.

And, yet, that's about all I have to recommend for this album. The gimmick gets old, which is why when Lauryn Hill put “Doo Wop (That Thing)” on The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, the success was in the fact that it was unique – just like every song on that album. Soul-singers, R&B singers, blues singers – take note: Seminal albums rarely, if ever, try to do the same thing over and over again. Winehouse, who's voice must draw comparisons to Hill's (and rightly so), is asked to do the same thing over and over again, and too often, what you get is mediocrity instead of great music. The album isn't terrible, but I don't get what people were in such a hizzy about.

Tizzy?

On the other end of the spectrum, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed (enjoy) Paramore's album Riot!. Surprised not so much because I thought they would make bad music, but more because I would have thought more people would have been talking about just how good the album is.

Certainly one needs to acknowledge that they are coming from a musical tradition (if you can call something that's essentially only a few years old a “tradition”) which isn't really known to get a great deal of respect from music critics: emo. But, then again, this really isn't truly emo anyway, so what's that say about music critics?

Sure, there is something that seems to scream out “emo!,” but as I've discussed numerous times on this site, what comes out for me is not sub-genre, but simply great rock music. From the beginning, we are drawn in with a driving guitar and a voice that, like Winehouse, knows how to sing with emotions. Unlike Winehouse, though, almost every song has a catchy hook, thanks to the voice of singer Hayley Williams and her and guitarists Josh Farro's songwriting ability. Together, they put together “poppy” music that you can dance to, sing along with, and basically feel good about listening to. While I can see the artistic merits in downer music – and Riot! is not all sunshine and rainbows – I generally listen to enjoy myself.

I enjoy Paramore.

As is often the case, the singles chosen are good, but not really the best songs on the album. “Misery Business,” the first U.S. Single, is excellent, and I still haven't sickened of it. Even the second single, “Crushcrushcrush” is pretty decent, but it doesn't bring the emotional resonance (it doesn't touch me in a non-creepy-uncle-way) like some of the other songs. In particular, “Hallelujah,” “Miracle,” and incredibly Fall Out Boy-ishly titled “For a Pessimist I'm Pretty Optimistic” stand out – and this is only a 12 song album.

And really, all the songs are good.

Save yourself the time and money, and leave Ms. Winehouse on the shelf. Download “Rehab” and “Tears Dry on Their Own,” (if you haven't already) and count yourself finished. On the other hand, invest in Riot!. I can't promise you'll love it, but I can assure you will be buying a complete album made up of songs -- you know, the combination of musicality, lyrics, and singing that make you enjoy popular music in the first place.

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In a completely different medium, allow me to not recommend Matthew Pearl's The Poe Shadow.

You may recognize Pearl as being the author of The Dante Club, a book in which some of America's greatest poets solve a series of post-Civil War murders by interpreting Dante's Inferno. For all the highfalutin' literary pretensions, Pearl delivered the goods in that one, because he could bring his historical, in-depth knowledge of Dante to create a unique and creative mystery. The main characters are all people we should probably know (and even if we aren't familiar with their works, per se, we are familiar with their names), and this connection, combined with an equally familiar poem and a particularly gruesome serial killer made an interesting and enjoyable read.

The Poe Shadow doesn't quite make it.

To begin, the main character, instead of being a historical figure, is a completely fictional one, already taking away some of the interest we might have in the book. Yes, the mystery might be real, but that's not exactly the point in fiction: I'd rather have a boring but real character solve a fantastic crime than a relatively boring fictional character solve a relatively boring real crime. But that's what we get in Pearl's last book.

Part of what makes it boring is that it's a bit muddled. Intent on saving Edgar Poe's (the book makes a point of dropping the Allan, as apparently Poe was estranged from Mr. Allan, his guardian) name after an ignoble death, the protagonist, Quentin, goes to France to find the real-life inspiration for Poe's great detective, Dupin. Instead, he finds two: the burnt-out detective Duponte and the shady Baron Dupin. Quentin decides that Duponte must be the real Dupin, and gets him to come back to Baltimore.

What follows isn't entirely clear. Quentin, despite his acknowledgment of Duponte's abilities, continues to ruin his own life while searching for the truth. The Baron, seeing an opportunity to regain stature and money (and therefore return from Paris, no longer an outcast), comes to Baltimore too, in order to “find the truth” -- basically, make a buck with a convincing story. I guess along the way there are some elements of danger, but nothing incredibly ominous. And then . . .

But what's the point? It just keeps going on and on, getting more and more convoluted, until eventually Quentin's aunt sues to declare him incompetent of handling his own inheritence, to which he has to defend Poe and prove his search wasn't in vain.

And yet, it was.

Because, at the end of the book (HUGE FRICKIN' SPOILER ALERT), the mystery isn't solved. Oh, there are theories. There is conjecture and logical thinking – but there's NO PROOF. And so, the main thing I got from the book was big serving of “what a gyp.”

What didn't help, either, is that Pearl, while technically a good writer, must have the driest voice of any popular novelist. It's as if he can't escape the “historical” part of historical fiction, and what we get is a possibly good idea mired in dusty prose. And then the idea didn't turn out to be that good.

Surprisingly, I won't even make a pun with Pearl's name. I could, rather easily, you know. This book simply isn't pun-worthy.

If that's not a telling statement, I don't know what is.

Not So Brief, and Far From Wondrous

There was the hope that literary fiction, post-colonial literature, and science fiction could come together in a brilliant – perhaps wondrous – way. Junot Díaz tempts us with such a possibility – a gorgeous portrayal of a life that is both real and yet, by it's very nature, fantastical. In a way, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao manages this task.

But there is the part of me that feels let down. The picture the catalog-copy paints is one of a single hero, struggling to live up to the ideals that he reads about as the consummate fan-boy. I acknowledge this struggle may be subtle – that he might possibly lose -- but there's nothing disappointing about that. Heck, I concede that Díaz was not specifically writing science fiction – he's using it as an allusion, an analogy. As he writes: “What's more sci-fi than the Dominican Republic?”

Apparently everything.

In its Otherness, I can see what he's trying to point out. An evil, monstrous dictator who is both omniscient and terrible – yes, I can see a Trujillo/Sauron comparison. But, the fact is, Sauron is an idea born from reality, Trujillo is the reality (not that Sauron is based on Trujillo specifically, but on the many dictators throughout history). The power of science fiction isn't to create monsters – it's to tame them. To escape them, defeat them, or at worst, literally close the book on them: allowing their victory in return for the solace of the illusionary safety of our reality.

Díaz, in essence, does the opposite of science fiction. Sci-fi isn't the suspension of disbelief, but rather the creation of belief. When successful – always an important step – sci-fi draws its reader in, regardless of the unbelievable nature, alien races, or paranormal systems. Díaz does draw you in – he's a fine writer – but he doesn't create belief in the Dominican Republic. If anything, the world he points out is unnatural to us, and perhaps too much so. And, ironically, the problem isn't that Trujillo isn't a monster, but rather that he's painted as both a “monster” and a Monster: a human devoid of humanity and a being is so completely without definition that it's impossible to come to grips with him.

I think what also hurts is the lack, not of a hero – many sci-fi works lack heroes – but of a protagonist. Because Oscar is not the center of the story. If there was a protagonist, it would be his whole family, but that doesn't completely compute, either, because they are often at odds with each other. There is a focus on Oscar, but the book is more the story of his past (and his family's past). Much of the action centers outside of Oscar's sphere (and, as is the case with his mother's story) his time). But, unlike the adventuring parties in science fiction , this cast of characters does not does not work in conjunction with each other, and their goals are very different. Overall, the book fails in creating incredibly sympathetic characters.

On a more personal note: I wanted more geek! There's something ego-boosting about being shouted out in by an artist, whether it's a band screaming out the name of the city they happen to be playing in or an author mentioning things that you can connect with. When I first read the description of The Brief Wondrous Life, I thought it was going to be an homage to all things nerdy. I was ready and willing to smile every time I could say: Hey, I know that reference! Instead, what we were thrown were little dork-tidbits surrounding a meaty-core of post-colonial burger. And that saddens me a bit.

This isn't a terrible book. Most people I have encountered who have also read it have loved it. But I might be too much a part of the world Díaz is describing. No, I'm not Dominican, but I have read a great deal in the genre. And then, of course, I was raised in the science fiction genre. In writing a hybrid, Díaz has the freedom of picking and choosing the best of the many genres he wishes to sample, but also has to contend with the fans of those disparate works. In the end, Díaz's experiment falls short of coming together as a whole, and that's so disappointing for a book that I approached with such high expectations.

Makes me happy I borrowed it instead of buying. So do yourself a favor, patronize your local library, but keep the book from permanent residence on your shelves.

No Reservations

Ugh. I know – even I feel a bit queasy about my title. Then again, when puns are making you nauseous, you know they’re doing something right.

So what’s the deal with this movie? Critics seem hell-bent on lashing out at Reservation Road as if a) the movie is claiming to be something earth-shattering and ground-breaking and b) it’s personally offended them. Maybe I’m not the world’s finest critic, but I think what people were expecting from that movie was more than they should have. It is a fairly simple tale of two families connected by a tragedy: one is the victim, one is the perpetrator. On a dark Connecticut road, a young boy is killed in a hit-and-run, and while his family tries to cope with his death (and pursue the “killer”), the driver is trying to work out his own demons – both with his estranged ex-wife, his son, and his guilt.

Yes, it is easy to get lulled into a trap. Based on a highly acclaimed novel by John Burnham Schwartz, it also stars three relatively big name actors – people you would probably see in a trailer and say: Wow, those three? It must be good. And I think that was part of the initial disappointment for some: although it does star Joaquin Phoenix, Jennifer Connelly, and Mark Ruffalo (and, if you want to consider Mira Sorvino a “star,” Mira Sorvino), these are not the actors’ finest roles. While I think they all do adequate jobs with what they are given, after a while, crying and angst is not really the pinnacle of acting: somber is easy; comedy is hard.

Still, they are not terrible either. And, as most movies are the sum of their actors, I think this needs to be brought into consideration. For a movie that is high on melodrama, it’s not overwrought with cheese. It does get a bit cloying that much of the “dialogue” consists of crying and “screeching,” but, I mean, their fucking son just died! How are people supposed to react?

And that’s what bothers me so much about the reviews – this total disregard for the situation of the movie. The plot might ring a bit false, but does the way the actors react to the situations they’re given work? I think, for the most part, the do. Mark Ruffalo, as the murderer, does a particularly good job working with what he has, and his guilt and fear seem completely normal for such an abnormal situation.

I went in with low-expectations. The “word-on-the-street” buzz was such that I was seriously contemplating if I wanted to go. There are moments during the movie that I laughed out loud at the ridiculous coincidences that sprung up – everyone is connected to everyone in this movie. Does this come across as preposterous? Yes – it definitely does. After the first few times, you just know what’s going to happen next – and it does. So, for instance, when Phoenix’s character talks about using a lawyer to help keep on the police, whose office does he end up in? That’s right, the lawyer we already met: Ruffalo’s character. I’d like to be kinder here, but that is the level this movie works at.

But, again, that’s the level the story works at. Think about it this way: if there weren’t all these “coincidences,” there wouldn’t be a movie. Or, rather, there wouldn’t be this movie, based off of Schwartz’s book. Would another movie have been better? Possibly. And yet it’s hard for me to shake off the fact that this was a psychological thriller, and that, unlike a novel (where you get internal monologue), we need to see the emotions in raw forms. Think of it this way: would it have seemed more realistic for people going through this ordeal to just sit down with each other and talk about their problems? Just writing that seems absurd to me. Think about it in another way: is there a good movie version of Crime and Punishment? If there is, I can’t think of it. And the reason for that is because how do you translate a novel about one man’s struggles with guilt into a movie? Remember, too: movies are not books. They are not cinematic novels. They are a completely separate medium that requires a different mindset.

After reading what I’ve written, I am actually a little at a loss as to where I say why I thought the movie was good. I guess it comes down to this: I walked away with a reaction that made sense for the movie. Say what you will, but for us “regular” movie-goers, there are some powerful emotions being thrown around, and I felt them strongly. I wasn’t amazed by this movie. I don’t think I’d ever see it again. I don’t even necessarily expect others to see it.

I just don’t want people to think it’s a bad movie. I think it set out to adapt a novel in a way that works on the big-screen, and for the most part, they succeeded. In a movie about a little kid getting killed, I think it does everything you would expect it to do. Don’t forget, too, that there are plenty of people out there who not only like melodrama, they thrive off of it (hence our culture’s obsession with celebrity gossip). Is the movie Oscar-worthy? Of course not. But it’s not the crap-fest that critics so eagerly dump upon it, either.

More like a crap-tea social.

All's Well That Ends Well

I think the hardest part of any writing endeavor will always be the ending. Say what you will about the importance of introductions, the presentation of information – the opening moments – are relatively easy. It doesn’t take much to get a reader interested. For the most part, the fact that they’ve opened the book is generally enough for at least a couple of pages. Obviously you then need to develop something, but again, as readers, we’re generally pretty easy to please.

Remember, I did say “relatively.”

If you think about it in double-entendre terms, it’s not that hard to get to some sort of climax (Note: guy writing this). It is the afterwards (the Afterward, if you will) that is so often disappointing. While the author is patting himself on the back for bringing off the plot to spectacular fruition, the reader is left thinking: are we done? It takes a great writer, like a great lover (I wasn’t sure if you were with me on my double-entendre train), to make sure all parties involved are satisfied.

What I’m presenting you was not a great lover.

In the world of literary accomplishment, it’s usually quite an honor for a British (Commonwealth) writer to be on the short-list for the Man Booker Prize. Essentially an English Pulitzer, it’s also a bit high on its own pretensions. Case in point: Mister Pip.

This is not a bad book. I want to make that clear right now. Lloyd Jones does something imaginative with the post-colonial genre, namely, re-appropriate a classic, canonical text to serve as both a plot-device and centering point for the novel. For those of you not quite on the allusion wave-length, Mister Pip is referring to Philip Pirrip, or Pip, from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

The story is about an island somewhere in the South Pacific where the people live in what begins as peaceful semi-isolation. Although not completely disconnected (Mathilda, the young girl who is the narrator, mentions her father, like many other men, have gone to Australia to work), they are basically unconcerned about what’s going on around them. Much of that could be because of our narrator being so young, but the picture we get is a peaceful, happy community.

But then war comes. War brings an end to power, an end to packaged food, and an end to medicine. In their place, it brings the beginning of a school led by Mr. Watts, a.k.a. “Popeye,” the lone white man left on the island. Admitting that he’s not the greatest teacher, Mr. Watts does his best impression of Danny DeVito in Renaissance Man and decides to read to them. Instead of Hamlet, however, Mr. Watts reads Great Expectations.

This is the clever part. This is where the allusions and juxtapositions take place, just as the misinterpretations and word-play (as he tries to explain difficult words to the children who have no context for the world of Pip) come alive. This is the post-colonial moment at its best, where West meets Other, and a new world comes alive.

Yet, it’s also a forced moment, especially as it gets carried out as you move along in the story. When the redskins come and demand to meet Mr. Pip, it seems preposterous that they couldn’t explain the situation even without the aid of the book as proof. It seems equally odd that, with the information, the redskins – with their clearly superior technology – could easily find out about Charles Dickens if they were really so concerned. Perhaps we’re supposed to assume the cruelty of the redskins (and, I have to admit, I’m lost as to who Jones is referring to here), but I think that’s assuming a great deal on his part. The motivations that lead up to the problems are not very believable.

But even with all that, it’s still not a bad novel. Like so many teaching stories, the best moments are the interactions between the students and the teacher. It is only after the violence, the supposed climax, that the reader is left questioning what the deal is with this book. For if the climax was abrupt, then what follows is practically lethargic. After the violence (which isn’t graphic, and therefore not exactly shocking), I just have no more “me” to give except that I know there’s only a few more pages, so I might as well finish. That’s not what I would consider a great recommendation.

Too many things happen that don’t help resolve the climax. The flood – it’s either too symbolic or too cheesy; I can’t decide. Mathilda going to visit Mr. Watts’ home in Wellington – accomplishes little by means of explanation. The reunion with her father is probably designed to be anti-climactic, but it feels even less important when on top of everything else. The one thing that maybe works is that Mathilda feels the compulsion to make her life’s work Dickens. After the connection she makes with the book and the impact it had on her life up to her escape, this makes sense.

I just had stopped caring at that point.

Because, the story wasn’t about Mathilda. It was the story of the island, and, to a lesser degree, Mr. Watts. Mathilda was the narrator and the focalizer, but she wasn’t the protagonist. Not until the very end, after all the other protagonists were left to the wayside, does she become the most important person in the book. Maybe that’s something neat or interesting to do with a novel, but I have to say it leaves me unsatisfied because Jones ends up concluding a story that isn’t the same one that we read.

If you have to choose a book to read, stick with the inspiration, and leave Mister Pip to win its award.

That’s an ending we can all be happy with.