Up in the Air, a movie rare like diamonds

Up in the Air is an excellent film. It’s never dull, well-acted and satisfying in that certain way. You know the one. It goes something like this:

“Gawd, I’m just so glad to finally see a film that’s actually intelligent and doesn’t make me cringe. “

It’s kind of sad we have to set the bar for a good film so pathetically low. Intelligence shouldn’t be rare like diamonds in the movie theater. But it is.

If there’s anything wrong with the film, it’s just too pat. Too safe. The plot twists are predictable, the ending one of many potentialities the reasonably smart movie-goer will at least fleetingly consider long before the credits roll. And because of that I can’t call this movie great with a capital G. It’s merely very good.

And given how rare “merely very good” happens to be these days, I’ll take it whenever I can get it.

M. John Harrison’s novel, Light: Science Fiction, Philosophy, Great Answers to Big Questions

What a well-written novel.

Early in M. John Harrison’s science fiction novel “Light,” different characters begin to mention “going deep” — whether deep into areas of space that have never been explored (or explored millennia ago         and forgotten), or deep into             knowledge, deep into information, also perhaps once explored and since forgotten.

If you choose to go along with the ride, I can promise you — you’ll go deep — even the jaded science-fiction geeks out there, who think that there isn’t anything worth reading any more. There is plenty here     on which to geek out.

But it isn’t perfect. Most significantly, there are parts of the Kearney story which don’t sit well with me. I didn’t end the novel feeling as though I truly understood how Kearney came to kill. There is a cause     and effect that the killings symbolize, yet I’m not sure Harrison makes the case completely for me.

The novel’s only false note.

No matter.

“Light” is good. “Light” is worth reading. “Light” is a story of self-, micro- and meta-discovery. The characters are believable. Their motivations pleasantly obscure. I read, I raced to the end and along the way their stories became my own. What I didn’t understand at first slowly became clear. At first, I didn’t understand shadow operators or cultivars or foam (yes foam!) or mathematics (yes mathematics!).

Actually, I’m still not quite sure what cultivars are, although I *think* I’ve got it.

Yet while the ending is good, Harrison certainly left me wanting more. In this story, the grandest of origin stories, I found myself in awe of the way Harrison shaped his answers to life’s greatest questions, and at the same time understood for the first time how answers to the greatest questions could lead only to more questions.

And on and on the cycle goes. In Harrison’s world, always someone came before. No after without before. No dark without light. No life without death. No gifts without sacrifice.

In its way, “Light” is a story of faith.

Yes, this agnostic felt strangely comforted at the novel’s finish. Indeed, I very much enjoyed the novel’s very last words. But I would like to see Harrison answer the next batch of questions he’s created.

I want to know more about the world of “Light.”

Daryl Gregory’s Pandemonium: Could have used a movie trailer

The thing about books: Much of the time, the book you decide to read has no marketing push, no clear indication of its target audience until you’ve invested, at the least, a few dozen pages. Books simply     have no   trailers. Books often have no (or very few) reviews. Even the blurbs that coat the back and front matter are often misleading, coming from no-names and friends of the author, or second and third tier publications.

Movies don’t. With movies, you get all of the above in abundance. And they help. Enormously. And you get movie trailers, which have saved me countless dollars I’m sure. I typically know what I’m getting going       in, and can adjust my expectations accordingly. Even better — it’s over in two hours. With a book, it often takes many more hours of reading to understand how good, bad, or mediocre the book is likely to be.

I know I’m generalizing here. And for those of us who read blogs religiously, the time investment helps steer us in the right direction far more reliably than all of the above examples and their respective                         shortcomings. But, sometimes blogs are wrong.

Or in this case, more wrong than right. I was inspired to read this particular novel after reading an author interview on a blog I check out once in a while.

Pandemonium is a book of interesting ideas, but it never really gets off the ground. Characterization is bland, the plot by the numbers, and some of the plot points feel tacked on and in some cases unbelievable —       particularly the relationship between the priest and the narrator in the last third of the novel.

And what about the palindromes?

But more importantly, the world Gregory creates simply doesn’t feel believable. Instead, it feels stifled by a lack of scope. Gregory’s ideas would have been much more interesting on a more epic scale, and early on, I thought that might be where the novel was heading, as Del’s quest led him to Dr. Ram and a mysterious person named Valis. But the novel quickly turned the narrator on his heels and the book morphed into a run-of-the-mill, on-the-run, less-than-compelling, cross-country adventure.

Pandemonium was more kiddie pool. I was hoping for a more adult-swim experience.

Overall, a superficial stab at some interesting ideas that deserve a much deeper exploration. A mildly amusing popcorn genre romp. Don’t expect much and you’ll come away feeling satisfied. This novel could have used a movie trailer or two.

Mostly Brilliant: Ted Chiang Speculative and Science Fiction

I for one had never heard of Ted Chiang. I’ve always enjoyed science-fiction and all of its sub-genres, from the space opera to alternate history, but I wasn’t one to seek it out. In fact, as I’d gotten older, science-fiction began to  seem less essential to me. Unless I stumbled across a novel that had received rave reviews, I wouldn’t consider it — because as I grew older, I began to see the genre as so many snobs do — as a secondary or even tertiary  consideration when presented with the option to read a good book — because science-fiction is for kids.

Of course, deep down I knew this wasn’t always the case. A Canticle for Leibowitz is a perfect example of great science-fiction, and I mention Leibowitz only because it’s a personal favorite. But it seemed harder and harder to  discover good science-fiction by anything more than trial & error. And frankly, as the 80s wore into the 90s, I simply became tired of trying. It became a waste of time. There’s so much more that is bad than good, and blurbs on a book can be so misleading. Oh, and mediocrity often sells best. The stuff I consider good simply doesn’t populate shelves like mediocre efforts by mediocre writers.

Now who’s sounding like a snob? Point taken.

But the internet has changed everything for someone like me. I can sift through blogs and forums and those more learned than I as to what constitutes the good stuff — the stuff that received limited print runs — or saw the light of day only in an obscure anthology — or found its way on a library bookshelf, only to sit there in obscurity, unless the borrower already knew it was there in the first place — can point me in the right directions.

Not that I always agree, but I think of blogs and review forums and the like as aggregates of good taste — kind of like Metatcritic or Rotten Tomatoes — so I find there to be less error in the trial and error process.

So to my point, which should be painfully obvious by now: Ted Chiang’s obscure short story collection, Story of Your Life: And Others, which unfortunately seems out of print, is very much worth the effort to track down and read.

I so tire of those who consider “literary science-fiction” an oxymoron. They merely demonstrate ignorance.

That’s not to say every story is a genius collection of words. Some I felt decidedly superior to others. But the collection of ideas here, some certainly not knew, but all presented in unique, original, timely ways, is simply one of the best collections of “ideas” that I’ve ever read.

Highly recommended. All here are above average, and several are decidedly brilliant. Ironically, let’s hope a literary version of Chiang’s invention — calliagnosia, the idea at the center of the final story in this collection — never appears.

Jonathan Franzen and “The Corrections”

There is a telling point in the novel where one of the sons, Chip, has an epiphany of sorts about the screenplay he’d been working on. He decided that he’d gone about it all wrong, that it wasn’t a thriller he’d been writing, but an entirely different genre instead. And of course, he has his lightbulb moment in a setting that would have been snug comfortable in any James Bond film. Oh, the irony.

It makes me wonder if Franzen had a similar realization at some point in his writing process.

Hysterical Realism: A genre typified by a strong contrast between elaborately absurd prose, plotting … and detailed investigations of real specific social phenomena.

Thanks, Wikipedia. I couldn’t have described this novel any better.

The Corrections is a very good novel, if you can stand the postmodern cynicism and bathos in which Franzen paints just about every page. There is the sense of how hard Franzen must have worked, how desperate he must have been, to make this novel a “great american novel.” So many films have been characterized as “oscar bait.” This novel is literature’s equivalent — and indeed, it had the desired effect, having won, among other awards, the 2001 National Book Award for Fiction.

(I always go back to Munro. Now there’s someone who writes with effortless brilliance, whose every creation is at the very least very very good, and often genius. Her transparent words let me sink into her stories, and they rarely fail to resound deeply within me. Every word should win its own award, but Munro never gets in the way of her story.)

Consequently, this being such an obvious grab by Franzen for something worthy of the “canon,” imitating the greats, frequently borrowing from them, as he as as much admitted — for me, this isn’t the sort of book one can disappear into. I was never not conscious of Franzen’s literary gymnastics, the digressions, turns of phrase, the words chosen, the shifts in viewpoint and setting. I couldn’t help but think of Roth and Delillo and Pynchon, among others, as I read.

In particular, the scene on the ship that many reviewers have noted as a particular favorite is in my mind merely a too-obvious homage to Pynchon (or South Park), and not nearly as well done. And at times, given the never-ending, angst-filled conversation (no matter who the character), I wasn’t sure if I was reading “The Corrections” or watching an episode of “Brothers & Sisters.”

I have a very tough time imagining this novel will be considered as anything more than a pop-cultural touchstone 100 years from now — an insight into the turn of a century. I simply don’t have the feeling that I just read art-with-a-capital-A.

Here’s my problem in a nutshell — there’s a lot of “shock” value here — the frankness of dealing with dementia, Parkinson’s, depression, homosexuality, scatology, drug use, etc. — the REAL shocks to me, however, are the quiet shifts — the genius illuminations great writers find deep within the characters they create. While every character in “The Corrections” had his or her “correction,” I never felt surprised. No character did anything I’d thought outside the realm of possibility. There was no insight that showed me the world in a way I’d never seen it before. Literary gymnastics and a powerful voice only get you so far. I need to learn something along the way.

But it’s a good book. There’s a heart beating in there, somewhere. I’m glad I read it. Franzen does love to have fun with his sentences, and he sent me to the dictionary a few times — I was surprised to learn a completely obscure synonym for reincarnation.

What it doesn’t have, however, is the touch of brilliance that a novel like this needs to be astounding. And I like astounding. Instead I got a lot of whining and a lot of cleverness. That was enough. It is a very good novel. Tiring, but worth reading.

Early Lethem: Recommended With Reservation

The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

Perhaps I’ve had the good fortune of reading no Jonathan Lethem prior to this collection of short stories. Bereft of comparison, I’m also bereft of prejudice. Although I won’t be for long. One of his novels is next on my bookshelf.

I know that since the publication of this collection of short stories in the mid ‘90s, Lethem’s career has managed a steady evolution from more pulpy science and speculative fiction to more “literary credibility” (tongue firmly in cheek) with novels like The Fortress of Solitude and Chronic City. I’m excited to delve into more of his work. Lethem has prominently featured on my “to do” list for quite a while.

Overall, I enjoyed this collection, although it certainly is a mixed bag. As I type, I’m not sure what rating I’ll give it; I’m vacillating between three and four stars. Stories range from excellent, to not bad, to far too impenetrable to be satisfying, one or two I simply found boring, and one downright terrible: “Forever, Said the Duck,” I’m talking to you.

Of course, I can’t say I was irritated or disappointed, knowing this was early work from a writer who would significantly improve.

The collection starts very strong, if disturbingly, with “The Happy Man,” a somewhat shocking story about a man trying hard to provide for his family that also works as a fable or parable exploring the emasculating effects of modern society on the average working joe. Needless to say, take the title with a grain of salt.

The lame duck, “Forever, Said the Duck,” lies smack dab in the middle of the collection. Perhaps editor/publisher thought no one would notice it there. Strictly dialogue-driven in a terrible way, I can’t recommend anyone bother with the silly premise and absurd imagery. I’m guessing it was meant to be humorous, but either there’s an in-joke behind this story that left this reader out, or the highbrow comedy far too erudite for me to relate. Regardless, that hour of my life would have been better spent elsewhere.

While most others were merely passable or too cryptic for my taste, I very much enjoyed the sixth story in the collection, “Hardened Criminals,” which worked for me as a discussion about the tragic effects of urban violence and decay on family in a most unique and literal fashion.

Overall, Lethem’s stories are full of interesting ways to explore familiar ideas, but they also feel unpolished, a bit too crass, unadorned, coarse. While many short story writers embrace cryptic or unresolved story arcs, they also must find a way to connect with the reader. I can certainly delve into the meaning behind “Vanilla Dunk” and “Sleepy People,” but if it’s not a great story, what does it matter of it’s sending a thought provoking message?

Not a masterful collection, but worth checking out if you enjoy Lethem or speculative fiction. Keep expectations in check.

Dialing In To More Manhood

So, as anyone can see from my previous post, it’s time for me to read something that, well, feels a bit less pathological.

I decided my next book would be Chabon’s Manhood for Amateurs, if for no other reason it won’t be the first work of his I’ve read, so I know I probably won’t run screaming from hill to hell and back again, and also because it’s a 14 day loan from the library.

Oh, and I wrote my thesis on themes of masculinity in the poetry of Philip Levine, so I’m pretty dialed in to what traditional notions of masculinity mean to Jewish men. Of course, I’m not Jewish, nor am I particularly masculine — although I suppose that I might be more masculine than the “average” gay man, if there is such a thing.

Chabon is a masterful writer. Should be good!

Empty calories for the savvy reader.

It really has nothing to do with the heads on the poles, the animal burnings, the fratricide or the maggots.

And astonishingly, no, I’m not giving anything away there.

As debut novels go, perhaps it’s not written so badly. Certainly I’ve read worse — far worse — but something about Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory — actually, a lot of things about The Wasp Factory — leave behind a very, very unpleasant aftertaste.

Lord of the Flies, but with wasps. And many other far more gruesome things. Think of it that way.

Narrated by Frank Cauldhame — far too, and mystifyingly close to Caulfield — this black take on the coming of age novel is set on an island in (I believe) northern Scotland, owned by the Cauldhame family. Perhaps it’s a river island, although I’m not entirely sure and to be honest, I don’t feel like returning to the novel to double check.

Notice I didn’t say black humor, or dark comedy. Although parts of it could make you giggle, if perhaps to relieve a bit of the anxiety caused by the novel’s gory details. Sort of like the laughing hysterics one hears on a roller coaster.

I had many problems with the novel, not the least of which were the endless, but not quite coherent descriptions of the geography. There seemed to be quite a few sand dunes, but I never really knew where they were in relation to the Cauldhame house (you’ll notice I shy from calling it a home), the bridge to the “mainland,” or the various landmarks around which much of the narrative is structured — places like the Sacrifice Poles, the Bunker and (of course) the Wasp Factory.

Frank also engages in a lot of running and jogging, ritualized behavior using icky fluids, quite a bit of tedious island reconnaissance, and it would have been helpful to have a better picture of his surroundings. This novel would have been served by a map in the front matter.

Although perhaps in the scheme of things it doesn’t really matter. As is the risk with any novel told using a strict first person narrative, it’s important for the reader to like, or enjoy NOT liking, the narrator. But I certainly never liked Frank, and at times hated him in an unenjoyable way. I found nothing to admire in his actions, and by the end of the novel, when everything there is to learn has been learned, I found my opinion never changing. A map can’t solve problems like that.

YMMV.

I can’t recommend this novel. It’s a manipulative, disingenuous, not-so-deep book that I can’t imagine would reward repeated readings. While there are dark themes here, and the novel went places quite imaginative in description and plotting (I can’t deny there ARE moments I will likely recall years from now, if only for their shock value), it’s just not very deep. I don’t feel as though I learned anything reading this novel. And that’s a deal breaker for me.

While it may not have been the case in 1984, the year of publication, in 2009, the novel is predictable and contrived for the savvy reader, much like TV movies seen a decade or so later often fail to age well for the savvy viewer.

But if you’re in the mood for a twisted, gory read that Freud would have a field day with, then go for it. Just don’t be mad when you realize, by this relatively short novel’s final page, that it was nothing but empty calories.

Where the Wild Things Are

A kids movie for the Whole Foods generation? There certainly is a fundamentally organic feel to Where the Wild Things Are. No matter the scene, every frame feels pieced together from scratch, whether a messily orchestrated, doomed-from-the-start snowball fight or an intimate, get-to-know-you conversation about eating one’s family. Still, perhaps such a fundamentally successful collaboration shouldn’t be surprising, since all but the most basic narrative of the movie required writer and director to partner on an almost uni-cellular, pre-embryonic level to ensure the heart of this enduring story adapted successfully to the screen. A fitting metaphor might be the scene quite a ways into the film where a conception of sorts occurs, followed by an appropriately symbolic rebirth, complete with the requisite bit of goo.

Needless to say, this isn’t your Mother’s kids film. While the best modern children’s films (like the Pixar oeuvre, most noticeably) often provide a few sly winks to the parents sprinkled amidst kid-friendly slapstick, Wild Things does just the opposite — it’s an adult film with a few winks to the kids just to keep them from becoming too antsy in their seats. Most of the film deals with quite weighty themes like, anger, alienation, and forgiveness. It’s not hard to believe that Freud or Jung would have had a field day with this one. You get the feeling it might have been tempting, even easier, to create an r-rated film tackling the same ideas, rather than to package the product in a pg-rated bow that ensure the kids and their dollars come along for the rather adult ride.

The acting is outstanding. My favorite moment was early in the film, when mother and son write a story together, and then share a glance almost too private, too wondrous, and too bittersweet to have been put to film. I’ll take that scene with me to the Oscars, even if the film is snubbed at nomination time.

And it might be. For although I loved the film, understood its message and marveled at its originality, I left the theater feeling as though there was something missing, and it took me a while to figure out what left me feeling unsatisfied — I was hoping for a misty eye. This is the guy who balled like a baby after watching Cameron’s Titanic — multiple times. Today, I needed some catharsis. I wanted to leave the theater feeling as though Jonze and Sendak managed to get a piece of me up on that screen. I wanted to feel like a bit of the boy in me was in the boy on the screen.

But somehow, I didn’t. Whether or not my experience is anomalous or the norm, I can’t help but recommend this movie with at least some reservation. Sure, the ending is moving, the goodbyes and the hellos poignant as much as they are expected, but I didn’t dwell on this film. My thoughts had moved on to lunch at Five Guys before I was 100 feet from the movie theater.

While Where the Wild Things are may feel organic in the best possible way,for me it’s still missing some vital ingredient that I need to call this movie great, rather than merely very good.

The Sixth Sense, NYPD Blue, and Lowboy

 

Lowboy is the sort of novel that could end any number of ways. I suppose for the author, John Wray, that might be a luxury when writing from the viewpoint of a paranoid schizophrenic. They tend to be unpredictable, after all — in this case, for example, Lowboy rides the subway to save the world. It’s the sort of premise that lends itself to turning pages quickly. Never a bad thing to a novelist.

Of course, it’ll have its downside too.

Not being a paranoid schizophrenic (this writer is assuming), there is the question of whether or not Wray strikes an authentic note. Does he manage the turns of phrase, the insights, that allow his audience (us) to say: I think Wray nailed it. I never doubted for a second Lowboy was schizophrenic.

The success of this sort of novel hinges upon statements like that.

Of course (#2), that begs the question: How could a sane reader be qualified to make that judgment with any certainty, given the constraints of a sane point of view.

Of course (#3), all of this is assuming that Wray and the hypothetical reader are not insane — nor made sane by the proper prescription, with a history to fall back on.

And of course (#4), I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Whether or not Wray’s got it right is irrelevant, as long as we think that he does. As long as we buy into the illusion.

And for the most part, I think that we can. Wray writes Lowboy in a way that makes sense to those of us that aren’t Lowboy. Kind of like watching NYPD Blue felt like the real deal to those of us who weren’t cops.

Yet this novel fails in one key respect, and I’ll not spoil it here, except to say where the movie The Sixth Sense succeeded, this novel fails. Wray got Lowboy right, but another perspective doesn’t quite live up to its billing. And no, there are no ghosts here.

Still, this feels right.

This review feels like the clear bell of a solidly stroked middle C, a grand piano of a review ringing true, if I dare say so myself. I feel like I nailed it, that I filled the concert hall with one compelling, authentic note. I feel like I accomplished what I set out to do.

But let’s say there is a boy, a beautiful boy on his way to becoming a handsome man in the front row, closest to the piano. The sort of boy who has no conception of the off-kilter yet compelling charisma he radiates, no conception of the look in his eye shining slightly askew, or the emotions, the heart, worn on a rather wrinkled, unpredictable sleeve.

And given my placement, the piano’s placement on the stage, his ears happen to be the first to hear that note after mine. Perhaps his ears heard the note slightly newer, slightly truer than every other member of the audience.

Let’s say that he complimented me after the end of my one-note concert: Mr. Snyder, that was genius. That was a wonderful C sharp you played. The best C sharp I ever heard.

After reading Lowboy, the only way to give him the respect he deserves would be to grasp his proffered hand, to shake it, to look him directly in the eye, and offer thanks.

He could have been right.