Stuff I've Been Reading August

Walter Benjamin At The Dairy Queen, is another of Larry McMurtry’s slight semi memoirs which pop up in this column with the regularity of crab grass. Unlike some of the others though, this was actually a pretty good read. Eschewing the purposeful aloofness that plagues his later memoirs, Walter Benjamin finds McMurtry fully engaged, or at least as fully engaged as the laconic McMurtry allows himself to become.

Using the famous Essay on the death of the storyteller as a jumping off point McMurtry explores the vagaries of his life and art. A lot of this is material and anecdotes that I’ve read before, though this is as much my fault as McMurtry’s as he had the wisdom to put years in between these slight little reflections, and I have perhaps unwisely chosen to read them all in close proximity.

Still he seems more invested in their telling this time around. So if you insist on reading one of McMurtry’s nonfiction work, you could do worse then this one.

…


The Seventh isn’t quite the bold reinvention that Stark seemed to promise at the end of The Jugger. Despite the huge loss that Parker suffered at the end of that novel, he finds himself back on familiar ground at the beginning of The Seventh, relaxing in the aftermath of a heist.

The Seventh ends up being a fulfillment in a more important way though, creating for the second time in a row a Parker who is truly out of his element. In the field Parker is meticulous, leaving nothing to chance and indeed the heist in The Seventh goes off like clockwork. Its in the aftermath, when the loot is stolen in conjunction with a random crime that things go awry. As in The Jugger the real problem is good ole human stupidity. Which is something not even Parker can guard against.

What proceeds is such a slapstick tragedy of happenstance that it reads almost like the most ghastly Dortmunder book ever written, rather then the usual Parker novel.

…



Catching Fire the middle installment in The Hunger Games, aka the young adult sensation that’s actually good, carries over a lot of the same problems that the first installment did.

The first person present tense prose is distracting and declarative. The world Katniss inhabits is a patchwork one with pieces cribbed whole cloth from Battle Royale, 1984, V For Vendetta and The Chrysilads. Added to the problem is the fact that this feels like two books crammed uncomfortably into one. The first about the formenting revolution, which isn’t given nearly enough time, breathing room, or for that matter evidence to feel organic. The second the return to the arena which just feels like a rushed “greatest hits” version of the first installment.

But, and this is a big but, it doesn’t really matter. For all the flaws and nitpicks Catching Fire remains as propulsive a read as the first installment. And even if the world is cribbed it does so with a savagery and intent that honors its influences. It earns them, it doesn’t just parrot them.

The Games may not be perfect, but unlike a lot of the young adult dreck out there it feels like Fuel for the imagination not an anesthetic for it. Ideally it’ll act as a primer, leading the reader to other greater works, and in all fairness that’s exactly what it promises to do.

…


I reread Gone Baby Gone in preparation for my screening of it. I don’t want to talk about it too much right now, I said a lot of what I have to say about the novel in this article and I plan on revisiting the entirety of the Kenzie and Gennaro series in the run up to Moonlight Mile, so I want to save some of my comments for then.

Suffice to say Gone Baby Gone remains a brutally moving novel. The dark beating heart of the Kenzie and Gennaro saga and a master class in crime fiction. Dennis Lehane is a God.

Yes that’s a recommendation.

…
The Corrections is a Literary novel with a capital L. A densely packed encoded work that pulls off the difficult task of being just as clever as it thinks it is. It would be tempting to cosign it to the genre of “Horrible People Doing Terrible Things.” But the remarkable thing about it is that every time you’re sure that its about to overplay its hand and dip into distasteful miserabilism, it somehow manages to pull back and keep its balance with humanity and grace.

If this seems a slight review, that’s because it is. The Corrections is the type of novel one writes about in a fifty page dissertation or a blurb, the middle ground does not satisfy, and I have not the time for a fifty page dissertation. It’s a witty, literate, moving novel that manages to fit in more unhappiness per square inch of page then anyone since Chekov. And its more or less as good as you’ve heard.
…

And remember I also read An Object Of Beauty (Yay), The Fall (yay) and Tales Of Woe (Fuck you).

Stuff I've Been Reading July

Books Read

Jack London In Paradise, Paul Malmont
Sunnyside, Glen David Gold
The Illustrated Man, Ray Bradburry
The Jugger, Richard Stark
Hero Type, Lyga
Ghostopolis, Tommysauraus Rex, Black Cherry, Doug TenNapel
Scott Pilgrim Vol 6, Bryan Lee O'Malley
Heretics, GK Chesterton

(If you are Paul Malmont or his Mother you may want to not read this review.)



Of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby famously quipped “There’s a genius born into every generation. But why did HE have to be born into mine?” Its hard to believe that those words don’t echo around Paul Mamount’s head everytime he reads a glowing notice about Glen David Gold.

Both walk the same beat. "Carter Beats The Devil" and "The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril", their respective debuts both studied the effect of pulp heroes at the dawn and death of the thirties. And their second novels released within months of each other both explore the effect of a major cult of personality studied against the looming advent of World War I, and the dawn of film as an artform. Both even use Griffith’s Intolerance as a point of reference.

The difference of course is that Gold is arguably a genius. "Sunnyside" is a marvelous book. Big, sprawling, and generous of heart. Written with a dexterity and wit of a truly great prose stylist, and the panache of a born storyteller. Meanwhile Paul Malmont strives towards adequacy.

I’ll say this in advance this will be a crueler review then is perhaps expected from me. And I’m sorry for it. While I might not care much for Malmont’s work thus far, I stubbornly like him. Any man who would write a mystery to be solved by The creators of Doc Savage and The Shadow, with help from HP Lovecraft, Louis Lamour, and El Ron Hubbard, is a man who I cannot help but feel simpatico with on a very deep level. Still, the fact that his reach extends his grasp so thoroughly time and again is just frustrating.

For starters he just makes some baffling narrative decisions. He overloaded "Chinatown" to the point of collapse in its final hundred pages. Here the problem is a bit harder to quantify. "Jack London in Paradise" starts off by following a producer director as he tracks London to Hawaii in the hopes of securing an original screenplay from him that will save his studio.

While harldy engrossing this is at least an understandable device. By the time we finally meet London a hundred pages in, Malmont has built up a real feeling of anticipation, and even dread into the unseen figure. What’s baffling is that after London appears, and we follow him for the meat (and admittedly pretty damn good) section of his story, we then switch back to Boswarth for a hundred pages of denounemet that we as readers could care less about. It is one thing to be kept out of the main event in order to build a sense of drama, its another to be senselessly tossed out again at the climax of the story.

All of this could be forgiven as merely clumsy, but what really cripples the book is the thorough Whitewash performed on London’s character. While Sunnyside is relentlessly warts and all and then more warts. Gold ends up making Chaplin all the more engrossing and lovable for it, "Jack London In Paradise" goes out of its way to avoid anything about London that was controversial. Which takes some doing.

Oh sure it mentions his love of socialism, his feelings on free love, and nietzche and all the other things that makes him oh so compatible with modern sensibilities. But it ignores his racism and imperialism, WHILE BRINGING UP THE VERY INCIDENTS THAT MADE THESE TRAITS SO VERY WELL KNOWN.

For example, they mention in passing him going to watch Jack Johnson box. And yet neglect to mention that while he was doing so he was busy writing some of the most virulently racist prose we have on record. That he invented the phrase “The Great White Hope” and spent the enterity of his writings begging Jim Jefferies to come out of retirement and “Beat the uppity something something.” We’re supposed to be very moved with the relationship that London has with his Japanese houseboy (really), which I suppose we would be, had Jack London not, you know, invented the fucking “Yellow Peril” (http://www.readbookonline.net/read/298/8662/).

Which begs the question does Malmont think his readers stupid to wrap their head around such contradictions? Or merely too ignorant to know about them? Is he not aware of the invention of wikipedia?

No one is claiming that London wasn’t a fantastic writer, or that his work should be discounted or ignored because of his ignorance. You can take him off my shelves after you’ve pryed Lovecraft and Kipling from my cold dead hands. In fact its that exact Frission between the nobleness of some of London’s ideas and most all of his writing and the sheer stupidity of some of his views, that makes London such a fascinating read even today.

By ignoring that frisson Malmont has turned in a book that can only be described as cowardly. And for all his many flaws, that was something London never was.



Man I love Barry Lyga. Like SE Hinton for geeks. Lyga has a laser citing on a particular wavelength of emotional hysteria that can be adolescence.

With a great voice, eye for character and detail, and stealth skill as an expert plotter, Lyga keeps churning out these painfully honest, emotionially generous, drop dead funny stories.

Following a young boy who inadvertandly becomes a free speech advocate when a meaningless gesture earns him the ire of the town he lives in. "Hero Type" somehow manages to not get caught up in its didactism (Hullo Cory Doctrow) or its melodrama. Instead using the grander arc as a counterpoint to a very moving story of a young man facing his dark side.

Barry Lyga writes clearly and honestly about the time in life that it is absolutely easiest to be muddled and false about. He does what he does very well, and is an author worth celebrating.

…



"The Jugger", the sixth Parker novel, shakes things up by placing Parker in a situation that he not only didn’t create, but doesn’t fully comprehend. In short order Parker is forced to be a sleuth.

Only problem is Parker doesn’t have a lot of sleuthing in his nature. And when he gets tired of trying to figure out what the hell is going on, he just starts killing his way out. Things get very messy very quickly.

Like all of the Parker books, Starks bone hard prose and plotting turn it into a propulsive read, and the pitch black humor evident in "The Mourner" rears its head here again (Note the perfect revelation, that Parker showed up in town not to help someone as we foolishly presumed, but to kill him.)

Still as much as I enjoyed the Parker novels, they seemed be getting a little formula bound. Apparently Westlake agreed. And after shaking things up a little in "The Score", and a lot here, he promises in the climax an even more radical change of the status quo. It’ll be interesting to see how he does. I have a feeling the next few books will be very good reads.

…

Bradburry is an author I’ve only been able to appriciate over time. His overly lyrical writing annoyed me when I was younger, obscuring his wonderful stories. But a "The Illustrated Man" makes a great reentry point into Bradburry’s world.

As with most short story collections its difficult to evaluate as a whole. Some of his stories showcase him at his didactic worse. Others, like The Veldt, more relevant then ever today, show him at his sharpest. I still may not always know what I’m getting into with Bradbury, but more often then not I find it rewarding.

…

"It is foolish, generally speaking, for a philosopher to set fire to another philosopher in Smithfield Market because they do not agree in their theory of the universe. That was done very frequently in the last decadence of the Middle Ages, and it failed altogether in its object. But there is one thing that is infinitely more absurd and unpractical than burning a man for his philosophy. This is the habit of saying that his philosophy does not matter, and this is done universally in the twentieth century, in the decadence of the great revolutionary period."

(Pimp Daddy)

"Heretics". Its Chesteron. You know the drill by now. He says some things that are among the wisest, funniest, most humane sentiments I’ve seen layed down in prose. And others that are consequences of the time he was in. Which is a euphimism for, shit that is kind of ignorant.

Still I don’t know an author other then Chesterton whose lapses I more eagerly forgive. Heretics, as it’s a direct response to some of his other work, and as it depends upon a working knowledge of 19th century English politics and literature (w00t) is hardly an ideal entry point for Chesterton. But for the admirer it’s a rewarding piece of work.

...

Oh then there was this.

...



As some of you might recall, earlier in the month I reviewed "Ghostopolis". I liked it. A lot.

Afterward craving more TeNapel I picked up two books of his I haven’t read, "Black Cherry" and "Tommy Sauraus Rex."

Black Cherry is the first TenNapel book I’ve read that doesn’t quite work. Don’t get me wrong, its got wit, verve, and personality to spare. And if I didn’t know what TenNapel was capable of I’d probably like it a whole lot more. But…

Its basically Doug TenNapel’s Sin City, with the naughty Catholic School sixth grader energy moved from the libido to the intellect with all its irreverence intact. With all the good and bad that it implies. But Doug TenNapel is not Frank Miller. And at times Black Cherry uncomfortably resembles watching your Dad try to talk “street” Lets just say I didn’t know anyone not named Hank Venture used the word “Honky” unironically anymore.

There are other weird problems, like the over abundance of gay slurs. TenNapel writes a note about the language of the book in the beginning, and he makes some valid points. But it comes to a point that’s nearly tourettes. It just gets distracting.

The place TenNapel stumbles that I didn’t expect is in the theological material. Its not that he didn’t come up with interesting stuff. He always does. But that he chooses to center his story around the conversion of his characters.

Now once again, this is something that TenNapel is really good at. Creature Tech for example is one of the most moving conversion stories I’ve ever read thanks to the way it methodically shows the characters progression. But in Black Cherry the characters are being chased by Demons. Demons Who are always talking about their deeds and goals in theological terms. Demons who are couching their discussions about God in the terms of personal acquaintance. Demons who are being defeated by Holy Water. There’s also the occasional intercession from Angels. Now look, I’m a doubting Thomas by nature. But even I have to think that my inherent skepitism would wither under a full frontal assault from the legions of hell. When late in a the book a character remarks that the “only God she believes in is the one that goes in her arm.” It was all I could do to keep from shouting “COME ON!”

Still for all it’s flaws I still really enjoyed Black Cherry. It’s got some great moments, including a killer bit where a doomed mobster tries to ward off a demon by saying “I believe in the power of the Catholic Church.” To which the demon quips “Well so do I.” One has to give credit to TenNapel for writing a book, that as he points out in his introduction, no one in any quadrent of his fanbase would conceivably want him to write. That ability to push himself, is thankfully a tenant of TenNapel. And it does him credit, even when the final product doesn’t quite come together.

Tommy Sauraus Rex on the other hand finds TenNapel right in his sweet spot. Telling a wistfully weird story of an eight year old boy who gets to live the dream of every eight year old boy and receives a sentient T-Rex as a pet.

It might not be as perfectly entertaining as the likes of Monster Zoo and Iron West. But its damn good, and has more imagination and honesty in it then 98% of “children’s” literature out there.

Its TenNapel’s most secular work, so if you’ve been worried about that being a stumbling block to TenNapel this is a perfect place to begin. And it’s not as willfully strange as some of his other work. Though it’s still idiosyncratic enough to include a cameo from the great Ray Harryhausen.

Both may not be TenNapel’s greatest work, but both illustrate that even second tier TenNapel is simply wonderful.

Somebody's Asked Me To Be An Expert In Something: Part 4

You may remember a while back that thanks to my print critic work I was asked to head up a local Film Noir festival. Well we're doing a sequel of sorts this July with a batch of Neo Noir films. Today I'll be talking about Point Blank and thought I'd share what I had to say. Sorry if the syntax is funny its written for speech.


Point Blank is a tough film for me to talk about, as I think it’s a pretty great movie and a pretty terrible adaptation.

Point Blank is based on the first Parker novel, The Hunter by Donald Westlake. Though Westlake wrote many books and screenplays, including those for The Grifters and The Stepfather, he’s still best known and well beloved for the two long running series he wrote. The first The Dortmunder books are a series of comic capers, involving the titular luckless thief and his bedraggled crew. The second which he wrote under the name Richard Stark, involves the ruthless thief Parker.

Despite their tight plots, and well drawn characters the studios have had nothing but trouble bringing these characters to the screen. With the Dortmunder books it’s the usual case of bad studio decisions, including the casting of a young Robert Redford as the perpetually hangdog Dortmunder. With the Parker novels the reasoning is a little less straight forward. Its been tried many times, with many different actors playing Parker, including Lee Marvin, Robert Duval, Jim Brown, Mel Gibson, Peter Coyote, and even Anna Karina. Though in one of those touches that makes you shake your head, not one of them has ever been named Parker.

And yet despite the honest efforts of so many, Marvin is great tonight, Duval is probably my favorite, there’s never been a film that accurately captures the tone of Westlakes Novels. For the reason why, lets look at what Dennis Lehane, who as far as I’m concerned is the greatest living writer of crime fiction, and if you like this stuff you owe it to yourself to check out a few of his books today, wrote in the introduction to the new addition of the Parker books that were just released, after a long spell of being out of print.

“Parker. The greatest antihero in American noir. If Parker ever had a heart, he left it behind in a drawer one morning and never came back for it. He never cracks a joke, inquires about someon’s health or family, feels regret or shame or even rage. And not once does he wink at the reader. You know the Wink. It’s when the supposedly amoral character does to let the reader know he’s not really as bad as he seems. Maybe in fact, he’s been a good guy all along.

Parker IS as bad as he seems. If a baby carriage rolled in front of him during a heist he’d kick it out of his way. If an innocent woman were caught helplessly in gangster crossfire, Parker would slip past her, happy she was drawing bullets away from him. If you hit him, he’d hit you back twice as hard. If you stole from him, he’d burn your house to ground to get his money back. And if, as in Butcher’s Moon, you were stupid enough to kidnap one of his guys and hold him hostage in a safe house, he would kill every single one of you. He’d shoot you through a door, shoot you in the face, shoot you in the back, and step over your body before it stopped twitching.

Nothing personal by the way he gets no pleasure from the shooting or the twitching. He’s a sociopath, not a psychopath. But what he is above all is a professional.”

Understandably, adapting something that harsh can make studio execs a little queasy. Which is why, though many Parker books have been adapted, The Hunter, the one tonight's film is based on, keeps getting remade. It might not be pretty, but at least Parker is doing these dirty deeds based off of a recognizable human emotion like the desire for revenge. And not just a profit motive.

So if I believe this film, is at best a misinterpretation of a series of books I and many others hold in very high regard, why do I like it so much?

Well for one thing it just plain neat!

Director John Boorman has had one of the strangest careers in modern film, switching between excellently made but somewhat standard movies like, Deliverance, Hell In The Pacific, and The Tailor Of Panama. And films that are, completely insane. Its like he feigns normalcy long enough to get the studio executives to look the other way, and the next thing you know he’s making Zardoz and there is Sean Connery in a thong, and a giant stone head screaming that “The Gun is good, The Penis is evil.” Or it’s the Exorcist 2 and he has James Earl Jones dancing around whilst dressed as a giant Bee.

Here he comes the closest to making an American French New Wave film. The most famous thing about Point Blank is its non Linear editing, the way the scenes seem to dance around their central point. You’ll see flashes of the past intrude on the present, and previews from the future. It’s a jarring style, and in the hands of a less competent filmmaker it could be annoying but Boorman pulls it off.

The film is also a great LA noir, with the swinging sixties vibe going around in the background. The first round of Neo Noir, starting from the end of the first cycle, to Chinatown, was often set in LA. Then as now still a city in flux. In many ways that city which is so many cities is the ideal place for a noir. Raymond Chandler certainly thought so. And if you’re interested to see more films that play with this genre, location and era, I highly recommend picking up Paul Newman’s Harper, The Long Goodbye, and The Late Show.

The film also hinges on Marvin’s performance. And seldom if ever, has his “huge slab of walking granite” persona been used to better effect. Marvin was never just tough, he’s beyond tough, picking a fight with him, would be like picking a fight with Mount Rushmore.

And yet there’s a certain sadness to his performance here that I don’t think you ever really saw again from Marvin. Revenge becomes his only reason for existing. And when he gets it, there’s nothing left for him.

There are those who even read the film as a ghost story. If you watch closely you’ll notice that Marvin never actually kills anybody in the film, And once his unfinished business is done he fades back into the night. Many a film noir are narrated by a corpse, this might be the only one that stars one.