Jedediah Berry shows intriguing promise in this detective story tinged with magical realism, but eventually the debut author lets the bizarre elements of his story surpass his ability to corral them into a sustainable narrative.
The novel is set in an unnamed city where the dutiful but pathetic Charles Unwin labors as a clerk for a Detective Agency, handling the cases of the renowned Travis T. Sivart, officiously recording the details and titling each adventure imaginatively (The Three Deaths of Colonel Baker; The Man Who Stole November 12th). As the book starts, Unwin is unexpectedly, and undeservedly, promoted to detective. Knowing this must be a mistake he sets out to correct it, but as he does so he becomes inextricably involved in the mystery of Sivart's disappearance and the death of one of the Agency's "watchers", shadowy figures supervising the detectives.
For awhile, the misadventures of the bumbling new detective, as he tries to figure out how to proceed and who he can trust based on the advice of the reference volume of the title, make for an interesting read. Unwin seems like someone Peter Sellers might have played in a movie. The details of Sivart's old cases are also exceptionally well-written and humorous.
It is here that the novel takes it's first dip into the realm of the unusual. We're introduced to the Agency's arch-nemesis Enoch Hoffmann, a carnival magician famed for his mastery of impersonation. Hoffmann somehow managed to get the entire city except Sivart to believe that it was November 13th instead of the 12th.
It's an intriguing premise, but in explaining it Berry gets caught up in a byzantine explanation of "dream detection." That's right: Hoffmann can insert himself into people's dreams. What's more, the watchers at the Agency can do it too! And they can run into each other in other people's dreams while they're both asleep, and things they do in dreams have real world consequences! And Hoffmann's new plan involves stealing all the alarm clocks in town so he can keep everyone asleep long enough to take total control!
If that sounds cool to you, well than hell, have at it, and try to decipher what the hell is going on as Berry tries to write himself out of an impossible mess. As the rules get more complex, and the characters and settings more tritely bizarre, you'll probably find yourself caring less and less about the solution and just hoping for the end. The fun of the first half is gone, and the book becomes a slog. It gets 4.9 out of 10, even it's early promise can't justify pushing this over 5.
Friday, March 5, 2010
How I Became a Famous Novelist
Steve Hely deserves kudos for doing something I've long considered extremely difficult. He has written a novel which incorporates quite a lot of our present-day technological and cultural touchstones without (too often) slipping into ridiculousness. How I Became a Famous Novelist is the first novel I've read that was recognizable to a person of my generation. That's a long-winded way of saying that the book references reality-television, gmail, Netflix and a whole host of other contemporary ephemera. Some of this goes to far (I question the wisdom of name-checking Mario Batali, of all people) but Hely is to be commended for incorporating real life into his book.
The book itself is an oddity, almost admirably slight. It seems to be making a case for earnestness in fiction, and against the stuffiness that pervades so-called "literary" works. The narrator of the book is one Pete Tarslaw, a pathetic twenty-something still reeling from the dual tragedies of college graduation and breaking up with his college girlfriend, Polly. He's dangerously ignoring the basic rules of diet and hygiene and spending his days writing people's application essays for money. After Polly e-mails to let him know she's getting married (his first reaction is to make fun of her e-mail address, pollypizzazz@gmail.com) Pete decides that he needs to be the more successful of the two by the time the wedding rolls around.
The title tells you how he plans to do it; by writing a best-selling novel. Inspiration strikes when he realizes that the mega-selling authors, especially the ones whose books are read by smart-cure girls on subway cars, are basically full of shit. In several funny scenes Tarslaw reads through a satirical New York Times bestseller's list and watches one of his new role models interviewed glowingly on the news. A large part of the fun is trying to figure out who Hely is taking shots at in these passages. Tom Clancy and Dan Brown are clearly being mocked, as are to differing extents, James Patterson, Janet Evanovich, Jonathan Safron Foer, and a whole host of literary authors.
Tarslaw aims for literary pretension, but of the easily digestible sort. He comes up with many rules for writing while observing the people buying books in a Borders. For example, most readers are solitary types, so obviously clubs and secret societies appeal to them. Throw in some exotic locations, some sage elderly people, whirlwind romance, and fluff it up with unnecessary verbiage and you have a bestseller.
Tarslaw's creation is the hilariously plausible-sounding The Tornado Ashes Club, about a man on the run from the law with his grandmother, who wants to throw her old lover's ashes into a tornado.
Hely provides several passages from the Tornado Ashes Club at the start of many chapters, and it seems clear that he is possibly talented enough to have taken his own character's path to notoriety. If so, his rejection of such chicanery is a testament to him. How I Became a Famous Novelist is a breezy read, a fact which belies its forceful statement on the way novels should be written. It gets 7.6 out of 10.
The book itself is an oddity, almost admirably slight. It seems to be making a case for earnestness in fiction, and against the stuffiness that pervades so-called "literary" works. The narrator of the book is one Pete Tarslaw, a pathetic twenty-something still reeling from the dual tragedies of college graduation and breaking up with his college girlfriend, Polly. He's dangerously ignoring the basic rules of diet and hygiene and spending his days writing people's application essays for money. After Polly e-mails to let him know she's getting married (his first reaction is to make fun of her e-mail address, pollypizzazz@gmail.com) Pete decides that he needs to be the more successful of the two by the time the wedding rolls around.
The title tells you how he plans to do it; by writing a best-selling novel. Inspiration strikes when he realizes that the mega-selling authors, especially the ones whose books are read by smart-cure girls on subway cars, are basically full of shit. In several funny scenes Tarslaw reads through a satirical New York Times bestseller's list and watches one of his new role models interviewed glowingly on the news. A large part of the fun is trying to figure out who Hely is taking shots at in these passages. Tom Clancy and Dan Brown are clearly being mocked, as are to differing extents, James Patterson, Janet Evanovich, Jonathan Safron Foer, and a whole host of literary authors.
Tarslaw aims for literary pretension, but of the easily digestible sort. He comes up with many rules for writing while observing the people buying books in a Borders. For example, most readers are solitary types, so obviously clubs and secret societies appeal to them. Throw in some exotic locations, some sage elderly people, whirlwind romance, and fluff it up with unnecessary verbiage and you have a bestseller.
Tarslaw's creation is the hilariously plausible-sounding The Tornado Ashes Club, about a man on the run from the law with his grandmother, who wants to throw her old lover's ashes into a tornado.
Hely provides several passages from the Tornado Ashes Club at the start of many chapters, and it seems clear that he is possibly talented enough to have taken his own character's path to notoriety. If so, his rejection of such chicanery is a testament to him. How I Became a Famous Novelist is a breezy read, a fact which belies its forceful statement on the way novels should be written. It gets 7.6 out of 10.
Then We Came to the End
Joshua Ferris's 2007 debut novel made a big splash mainly due to its unconventional narrative style. The book is set in the office of a struggling Chicago advertising agency and is seemingly narrated by a collective consciousness, aware of the thoughts and feelings of each separate person. It can take a little to get used to this "we" (or you might never really get used to it at all) but Ferris sustains it admirably, and even manages to justify the choice.
The "we" adds a level of meaning to what otherwise might have become just a series of comedic, indeed even occasionally hilarious, anecdotes. With the we Then We Came to the End points out the uncomfortable truth that for so many millions of people this office environment, that which we will rail against at every opportunity, actually defines us to a large extent. Ferris uses the narrator to emphasize the near universality of disaffection, disillusionment, and also complacency. The men and women in this office are largely capable of radically changing their existence, but are too comfortable or cowardly to do it.
Instead they engage in childishness and idiocy. Ferris seems to believe that the office culture exacerbates these all-too common faults. His characters mercilessly torment each other, engage in gossip and rumor-mongering, and avoid work as much as possible without being fired.
They are starting to fail at avoiding the ax, though. Bad business is catching up with them, and the introduction of real world problems puts the ridiculousness of stealing ergonomic desk chairs in perspective. More dire tragedy also intervenes in some character's lives, but as it does these characters become more separated from the collective consciousness of the office; they are more talked about than talking. The woman who loses it after the death of her daughter, the man who keeps showing up to work after being fired, and Tom Mota, the irresistibly deranged copywriter whose possible madness and violent temper threaten to throw the universe of Then We Came to the End wholly out of whack, until Ferris reveals the deftness of his touch and the subtlety of his wit with a turn of events that will have readers exhaling as they laugh their asses off.
Then We Came to the End is a clever look at the way most people spend at least one-third of their lives, and the implications that can have on their personalities. It gets 8.3 out of 10.
The "we" adds a level of meaning to what otherwise might have become just a series of comedic, indeed even occasionally hilarious, anecdotes. With the we Then We Came to the End points out the uncomfortable truth that for so many millions of people this office environment, that which we will rail against at every opportunity, actually defines us to a large extent. Ferris uses the narrator to emphasize the near universality of disaffection, disillusionment, and also complacency. The men and women in this office are largely capable of radically changing their existence, but are too comfortable or cowardly to do it.
Instead they engage in childishness and idiocy. Ferris seems to believe that the office culture exacerbates these all-too common faults. His characters mercilessly torment each other, engage in gossip and rumor-mongering, and avoid work as much as possible without being fired.
They are starting to fail at avoiding the ax, though. Bad business is catching up with them, and the introduction of real world problems puts the ridiculousness of stealing ergonomic desk chairs in perspective. More dire tragedy also intervenes in some character's lives, but as it does these characters become more separated from the collective consciousness of the office; they are more talked about than talking. The woman who loses it after the death of her daughter, the man who keeps showing up to work after being fired, and Tom Mota, the irresistibly deranged copywriter whose possible madness and violent temper threaten to throw the universe of Then We Came to the End wholly out of whack, until Ferris reveals the deftness of his touch and the subtlety of his wit with a turn of events that will have readers exhaling as they laugh their asses off.
Then We Came to the End is a clever look at the way most people spend at least one-third of their lives, and the implications that can have on their personalities. It gets 8.3 out of 10.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Invention of Lying
Ricky Gervais' The Invention of Lying is a high concept film that explores some dark ideas about humanity, specifically the usefulness of deceit in maintaining an orderly and polite society, but ultimately falls back into a comfortably familiar but well-executed romance.
The high concept here is a doozy, and try not to think too hard about it, lest you follow a plot hole through to its conclusion and unravel the whole film. Humanity has never evolved the ability to lie, until Ricky Gervais uses it to get money to pay the rent. The best gags in the film, which admittedly are more of the "gee that's pretty clever" sort than the laugh out loud kind, stem from Gervais and his co-writers exploring what this world would be like. Movies are just taped historical lectures, and advertising is just an earnest plea for you to spend your money on their products. ("Please do not stop buying Coke" "Pepsi: When they don't have Coke.") Casinos inform you when you ask for chips that some of the games are rigged, a fact which does not seem to hurt business.
The most daring conceit of the film is that this world is without religion, until of course, Gervais invents it to console his dying mother. Since no one can understand the idea of someone making something up, everyone believes him and he is hounded for details about The Man in the Sky.
Gervais's character was a middling to poor screenwriter before his revelation, and I like that his inventions showcase that lack of talent. His idea of heaven is a place where everyone has mansions and the best kind of ice cream they can think of, and you get sent to the bad place if you do three bad things. ("So it's like baseball?" one man helpfully asks.) The film wrings some humor out of people hearing of religion for the first time, which may be offensive to some deeply religious people, but was pretty damn funny to me.
The film is less successful when looking at a love in an entirely truthful world. The idea of people telling each other exactly what they think ("You're way out of my league") works for a while, but the idea that romantic love is impossible doesn't seem to fit. Jennifer Garner's character clearly has some feelings for Gervais, but is marrying Rob Lowe's bufoonish jerk because his genes would make for better children. The implication that you have to lie to yourself in order to love someone who isn't attractive is a little uncomfortable and is underdeveloped within the film itself. It makes it a little harder to be glad that the two leads get together at the end.
The acting here is more than fair for a comedy. Gervais does a passable job with the dramatic scenes, and Garner does a good job of putting a blank look on her face. Rob Lowe is disconcertingly believable as a heartless jerk (Not you Sam Seaborn! Tell me it isn't so!) and there are a plethora of cameos by the famous (Philip Seymour Hoffman as a dimwitted bartender) and the funny (Tina Fey, Louis C.K., Jonah Hill, John Hodgman and many more.)
Tellingly, the credits use a font(imdb says it is called Windsor)that Woody Allen has been using in his movies for years. The Invention of Lying has the feel of one of Allen's high concept pictures, like The Purple Rose of Cairo. The story reaches simultaneously for the heart and the mind, though it possibly fails to fully engage either. It's the kind of movie where you can see how it might have difficulty finding an audience (it's neither bleak enough for cynics nor sappy enough for romantics) but it really struck a chord for me, and though it won't be one of my favorite movies it is one I will remember fondly. That gets it a 7.3 out of 10
The high concept here is a doozy, and try not to think too hard about it, lest you follow a plot hole through to its conclusion and unravel the whole film. Humanity has never evolved the ability to lie, until Ricky Gervais uses it to get money to pay the rent. The best gags in the film, which admittedly are more of the "gee that's pretty clever" sort than the laugh out loud kind, stem from Gervais and his co-writers exploring what this world would be like. Movies are just taped historical lectures, and advertising is just an earnest plea for you to spend your money on their products. ("Please do not stop buying Coke" "Pepsi: When they don't have Coke.") Casinos inform you when you ask for chips that some of the games are rigged, a fact which does not seem to hurt business.
The most daring conceit of the film is that this world is without religion, until of course, Gervais invents it to console his dying mother. Since no one can understand the idea of someone making something up, everyone believes him and he is hounded for details about The Man in the Sky.
Gervais's character was a middling to poor screenwriter before his revelation, and I like that his inventions showcase that lack of talent. His idea of heaven is a place where everyone has mansions and the best kind of ice cream they can think of, and you get sent to the bad place if you do three bad things. ("So it's like baseball?" one man helpfully asks.) The film wrings some humor out of people hearing of religion for the first time, which may be offensive to some deeply religious people, but was pretty damn funny to me.
The film is less successful when looking at a love in an entirely truthful world. The idea of people telling each other exactly what they think ("You're way out of my league") works for a while, but the idea that romantic love is impossible doesn't seem to fit. Jennifer Garner's character clearly has some feelings for Gervais, but is marrying Rob Lowe's bufoonish jerk because his genes would make for better children. The implication that you have to lie to yourself in order to love someone who isn't attractive is a little uncomfortable and is underdeveloped within the film itself. It makes it a little harder to be glad that the two leads get together at the end.
The acting here is more than fair for a comedy. Gervais does a passable job with the dramatic scenes, and Garner does a good job of putting a blank look on her face. Rob Lowe is disconcertingly believable as a heartless jerk (Not you Sam Seaborn! Tell me it isn't so!) and there are a plethora of cameos by the famous (Philip Seymour Hoffman as a dimwitted bartender) and the funny (Tina Fey, Louis C.K., Jonah Hill, John Hodgman and many more.)
Tellingly, the credits use a font(imdb says it is called Windsor)that Woody Allen has been using in his movies for years. The Invention of Lying has the feel of one of Allen's high concept pictures, like The Purple Rose of Cairo. The story reaches simultaneously for the heart and the mind, though it possibly fails to fully engage either. It's the kind of movie where you can see how it might have difficulty finding an audience (it's neither bleak enough for cynics nor sappy enough for romantics) but it really struck a chord for me, and though it won't be one of my favorite movies it is one I will remember fondly. That gets it a 7.3 out of 10
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A Serious Man
Larry Gopnik, the Jewish physics professor whose misfortunes form the central narrative of A Serious Man, wants you to know that he didn't do anything. The film, the latest from the Coen brothers, deals with the question of whether or not "I didn't DO anything" is a valid excuse.
Larry didn't do anything to drive his wife into the arms of another man, but by not doing anything to get his unemployed brother off their coach he may have increased the distance between them. He didn't do anything to put his tenure status in danger, but he didn't publish any papers that may have secured it. In a humorous bit, Larry didn't do anything in regards with the Columbia Record Club, but that's precisely why he keeps receiving the Record of the Month. In front of his students Larry uses the famous Schrodinger's Cat story, in which a cat is both dead and alive inside an unopened box. In his own life Larry seems not to want to open the box and find out how things really are.
Is inactivity the reason for Larry's misfortunes? The Coen brothers don't explicitly answer that question, and neither do the series of advisers whom Larry seeks out in his increasing desperation. These include an aging progression of rabbis and a contingent of lawyers. None of their parables or pieces of advice prove helpful. A scene where a rabbi tells a nonsensical story about a dentist and engraved teeth, only to reveal that there is no conclusion to the story, is especially prescient.
A Serious Man is a damn impressive movie, and one that Coen brothers fans will absolutely love. The humor is blacker than black, as its possible to interpret the film as promoting the idea of a meaningless and cruel universe. And yet I found myself laughing throughout the film, even as I sympathized with Larry's plight. Michael Stuhlbarg plays exasperation perfectly, and several supporting players are also really good. The actor playing "the other man" stands out especially.
I was, at the moment, a little upset with the ending, although with a little distance it makes perfect sense. The Coens do risk going to the ambiguous ending well a little too often, but I can forgive them that as long as they crank out such appealing, humorous, and well, serious films. 9.6 out of 10
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Let the Great World Spin
This is not the book I was promised. Colum McCann's National Book Award Winner is promoted as an evocative look at 1970s New York, through the prism of Philippe Petit's sensational tightrope walk between the Twin Towers on August 7, 1974. Instead, Petit's walk is only a minor presence in the narrative and the lives of the many protagonists in this "novel". The fictional characters of the novel can not compete with the readers interest in McCann's fictionalized version of Petit.
The novel starts strongly, with a vignette of New Yorkers discovering Petit's presence so far above their heads. The novel's first true chapter quickly moves the action away from Petit, and though that chapter's depiction of two Irish brothers living in New York is rather well-done, the book quickly flags from there.
Part of the problem is that, despite using varying narrators and narrative styles, the characters, absurdly given their surface differences, seem too much like one another. Plenty of authors have problems creating realistic dialogue, but McCann seems to have trouble even accurately expressing a person's inner thoughts. All of his characters, of high and low backgrounds, of all personality types, seem to think with impossible eloquence and in the same sort of philosophical reverie. This makes some sense for Claire, the Park Avenue judge's wife whose son dies in Vietnam, but it makes little sense for a lot of the other characters and it makes the book repetitive and wearing on the reader's sensibilities. Eventually you stop caring about whether and how the stories of these protagonists are going to intertwine.
The answer to that is that some do and some don't, which may be more realistic than the Dickensian bow which wraps everything up neatly, but is certainly a lot less fun. The connections between the characters are more frustrating because of how easily they are sniffed out by even a moderately attentive reader. There is nothing to surprise you in this book.
As for the claim that the book is richly evocative of New York? I disagree strongly. This book only sporadically attains the vibrancy and excitement that New York seems to attain on a daily basis.
New York City is exciting even when there isn't someone walking on a tightrope hundreds of feet in the air. The same can not be said for Let the Great World Spin. 5.6 out of 10
Monday, February 8, 2010
Movie Roundup
I have decided that only recent movies are relevant enough to merit full reviews in this space. However, I still plan to catch up on classic films through Netflix, and in case anyone is interested, will be providing quick thoughts on them periodically.
Unforgiven: Clint Eastwood's subversive western won the Academy Award for Best Picture in 1992. It's a well-shot and entertaining story which tries to take an honest look at what a dirty, mean, horrible world the Old West probably was. Moral of the story is a bit obvious, but refreshing for a Hollywood that glorified gunfights for decades. Eastwood gives a fine performance, but Richard Harris and Oscar winner Gene Hackman (pictured above) steal the show. 9.0 out of 10
Bonnie and Clyde: Warren Beatty has been in the news lately for an unauthorized bio which claims he slept with nearly 13,000 different woman, a probably false statistic that still made it hard to believe his performance as the sexually incapacitated Clyde Barrow. Faye Dunaway is a tremendously sexy presence as Bonnie Parker, Gene Hackman is very good as Clyde's brother Buck, and Estelle Parsons somehow won an Oscar for playing the most annoying gang member in movie history. Overall, there's neither enough fun or enough weight to really make this movie resonate. 6.0 out of 10
Purple Rose of Cairo: Woody Allen's high-concept fantasy about a movie character who walks offscreen to say hello to Mia Farrow's sad housewife. Delightfully funny and surprisingly touching. Jeff Bridges plays the character and the "real" actor in a dual role, and the movie within the movie provides real laughs as the other actors are unable to continue without a key part of their ensemble. One of Allen's best that I've seen. 7.9 out of 10
Zelig: Another Woody Allen movie but this one misfires horribly. Focuses on a "human chameleon" who comes to resemble any person he encounters. Point here is really the effects, inserting Allen into '30s style footage. Also an early use of mockumentary format. Effects may have been astonishing at the time, but the humor here is nonexistent for a supposed comedy. I didn't even crack a smile and couldn't finish the film's 79 minute running time. Might be disingenuous to review a film I didn't finish, but this gets a 0.0 out of 10
The Americanization of Emily: Paddy Chayefsky wrote one of my favorite scripts ever, for 1976's Network, and I also enjoyed his script for The Hospital starring George C. Scott, so I expected to like this one a little bit more than I did. James Garner plays an U.S. admiral's personal aide who through army mess-ups winds up leaving his cushy job to be the first man on Omaha Beach in the D-day invasion. Julie Andrews is the English widow who falls in love with him for his cynical disbelief in heroism. Interesting ideas presented, but often they are presented in lengthy diatribes which break you out of the narrative. Worthwhile, but no Network. 6.6 out of 10
Without a Clue: Another Sherlock Holmes movie, but this one is a somewhat clever send-up of the great detective. Ben Kingsley's Dr. Watson has created a fictional detective the public believes is real, so he hires Michael Caine, an out-of-work actor, to play the part. Caine's Holmes is a bumbling moron who drives Watson crazy with his ego and his screw-ups. It's a funny premise that the film doesn't do much with. 5.8 out of 10
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
