In 1994, I was unemployed, had moved back in with my father, and was pondering the imponderable: going back to school. Trapped in the mountains of California, I spent my days pretending to look for a job, usually hiding out at my dad’s house reading books. That was when I read Nick Cave’s first novel, And the Ass Saw the Angel. I remember being enthralled by his lush, complex sentences and his stark imagery. Looking back, perhaps it was the right time for me to read a tale of a strange boy stuck in a private, angry world. (In some ways, it reminds me now of Iain Banks’s The Wasp Factory.) I enjoyed the novel so much that when I met Nick Cave, I had him sign the paperback rather than any of my CDs.
Fifteen years later, Cave’s second novel, The Death of Bunny Munro, is so bad it makes me scared to ever look at And the Ass Saw the Angel again for fear I might find out I was wrong. Bunny Munro is as short on plot as Angel was full, and the once complicated language has replaced its David Milch-style cadence and vocabulary for a pastiche of detective novels, riddled with clichés and lazy verbiage. Cave’s Bunny is an oily salesman who travels the road selling feminine beauty products and screwing his customers. His every moment is given over to some lurid fantasy, and as Cave quickly runs out of metaphors for his hero’s cock, they grow more and more tedious and loathsome. It’s no surprise that the book was a candidate for this year's Bad Sex in Fiction prize. I would be truly frightened to read the prose that beat it.
At the start of the book, Bunny’s wife, sick of his infidelity and fearing a killer that is plowing through England carrying a plastic pitchfork and wearing devil horns will come to her town, commits suicide, leaving Bunny alone with his 9-year-old son, Bunny Jr. He is a dreamy boy, with an affliction that makes his eyelids sting so that the very act of looking at the world hurts him. Obviously, this is a book that deals in heavy-handed metaphors. Is it any surprise that the killer’s horns turn out to be real? Boy and father go on the road, with Bunny showing Jr. the ropes while descending deeper into his personal, often surreal hell. I suppose it was Cave’s intention to drag us into hell with him; in that, he succeeds. Reading the book becomes an eternity of punishment.
The book was only made bearable thanks to the audio. For one, there is a some fantastic original music by Cave and his regular composing partner, Warren Ellis. Two, Cave is a fantastic reader, and his deep tones are wonderful to listen to. I’d love to hear him reading a better book than this one. If he can’t write it, I’d be fine if he read from the work of someone else.
Current Soundtrack: Grizzly Bear, "Deep Blue Sea" and Verkatimest
Saturday, January 30, 2010
HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY
Anyone know who did this drawing? I took it from here.
It was by some strange coincidence that, earlier this week, just days before the news came out that J.D. Salinger had died, I was contacted on Facebook by an old friend who I hadn't talked to since probably 1992 or thereabouts. She had starred with me in a senior project I had done in high school, playing Franny opposite my Zooey in a video adaptation of the back half of my favorite of Salinger's four books, Franny and Zooey. It was an effort as ambitious as it was amateur. Filming two people talking on the phone is more complicated than you think. Particularly if you consider that my Franny had broken her leg or sprained her ankle or something similar, and we had to shoot her scenes with her sitting in bed, the offending corrective wardrobe buried under her mother's bedspread. We were both in drama and at that time were preparing for a production of Inherit the Wind. I was growing my dyed black hair out to go back to my natural color to play the lawyer Henry Drummond, and I was sporting a tiny ponytail that I tried to tell myself was a samurai-style topknot--something I desperately wanted to hide. In the school play, fittingly enough, Franny played the little girl who, at the end of the first act of Inherit the Wind, sees my character and runs away screaming, "Eeeek! The devil!" Life and its coincidences, life and its ironies.
Finishing the project took a sad turn worthy of Salinger. It took me something like 24 hours to edit the twenty-minute movie, working with my video camera and two VCRs. Even if we'd had a computer at my house, this was well before iMovie, and it was labor intensive, fast forwarding and rewinding to find the right clip, hoping to properly time the jump from pause to record and not get a rough, shaky cut. When I finally emerged from my room, which was tucked away in the garage, I was eager to show someone, and so I grabbed my father. He watched it patiently, and when it was all through, I eagerly looked to him for some kind of approval. He paused, and then spoke in sober, gruff tones. "Do you have to say ‘goddamn' so much?'"
"Well, yes," I whined, "that's the way it is in the book, those aren't my words, those are his words."
He didn't see why I couldn't have censored the language, I couldn't see why he couldn't see how hard I worked. The damage was done. Fittingly, at some point in the future, I had a vivid dream where my father tore up a copy of Catcher in the Rye, ripping it in half like a strongman attacking a phone book. I cried and argued and tried to make him understand that the book was me, he was tearing me in half. As one-sided as the dream was, it led to a teenage epiphany: he and I were so worried about the other guy not understanding us, we never bothered to try to understand one another. We were too caught up in our own junk to realize we were on common ground.
I first read Catcher in the Rye when I was sixteen. I was waiting for a then unrequited girlfriend to get out of some after-school activity she was involved in. I was going to drive her home. A beat-up copy of Salinger's novel, with its all-too-familiar burgundy cover, had been dropped in the school parking lot. I retrieved it from the asphalt and sat on the trunk of my car and read at least half the book before the girl arrived. There was no looking back after that. Like countless other adolescents, I was immediately a best friend of Holden Caulfield. Hell, the book even had a fart joke, that bit about Marsalla ripping one in chapel and really blowing the roof of. Nothing my English teachers ever assigned me had fart jokes.
For all the talk of Fitzgerald and Hemingway that dominated my college experience, the way they were the polar opposites, the two styles of writing, the lyrical and the manly, with Faulkner in the arty middle (the lit version of the Beatles, the Stones, and the Who; or more currently, Blur, Oasis, and Pulp), I would actually argue that no 20th Century American Author had a more profound and ubiquitous influence than J.D. Salinger. I learned a great deal from him, developed my love for italics and for hyperactive speech from reading his books. Every author whose debut novel is a first-person narrative about a transition out of innocence is really just covering Catcher in the Rye the way other kids sat in their garage and tried to learn how to play "Satisfaction." Without Holden Caulfield, let's be honest, there would be no Cut My Hair.
When you know Salinger's work you will begin to see it everywhere. It's like a secret language. Fans lay coded messages for other fans to find. Nick Hornby owes a pretty obvious debt, for instance. Wes Anderson is the most notorious admirer, his Tenenbaums being his own version of the Glass family, the child prodigies that run through all of his post-Catcher stories. I've also always suspected that William H. Macy's Donnie the Whiz Kid in Magnolia was Paul Thomas Anderson's nod to Zooey's talk about how the Glass children were quiz show regulars. Of course, I've never made a secret of my own reverence of those tales. It's what gave birth to the shared universe of my novels.
That's actually one aspect of Salinger's writing that I don't think gets enough consideration: his creation of a complete world. Much is always made of his conversational prose and his acute understanding of existential angst, but people don't talk as much about the way his books come as a complete, immersive, insular environment. The Glasses and Holden exist in a real, recognizable world, but it's one they've terraformed to fit their peculiarities. It's as if they occupy a definite spot on a map, and within their personal perimeter, everything is molded to their philosophy and their aesthetics, and beyond those lines lies the rest of society, with their screwed-up ideas and bad taste. This is probably the main thing Wes Anderson has taken from Salinger. It's the way that the Tenenbaums live in New York, but how New York seems to regress in time all around them. Or consider Max Fischer's journey in Rushmore, from a private domain he can control to the inner city where the rest of life grows unruly and wild, with no concern to how he sees things.
It's been said that Salinger has been more famous in recent years for not writing than he has for what he'd already wrote. He abandoned the publishing world and polite society in general in 1965, preferring to live a secluded life away from the glare of the public eye. He never published again, though there have been rumors that he has been working the whole time. We don't really know. There has been much said about the legendary old crank and none of it is really verifiable--though I am sure now that the vaults are left unguarded, we will find out. There is even a comprehensive book/documentary project about to be unveiled that, had J.D. not already died, well, the scope of this would kill him. (And if it didn't, the prospect of a Catcher in the Rye movie would. How stupid is Hollywood? Plenty stupid.)
Naturally, I am pretty sympathetic to the man in exile. My own work is full of men who try to run away, to escape, and find some peace alone. It's a theme partially inspired by Salinger, but more of a common ground that I found between him and I (and, to a degree, my own father) than something that I developed because of his work. It would still be there without Salinger's example, but it wouldn't be the same. (Particularly not Have You Seen the Horizon Lately?.) Most people don't believe me, but the truth is, I'd be perfectly content to recede into my armchair and fade completely away, never to be seen again. It makes me more than a little sad to see the final photo of Salinger (I won't link to it), a snooping photographer capturing the author in mid-angry protest. He looks like something out of a horror movie, like an extra from Carnival of Souls or the crazy old man in Equinox. If Salinger knew anything about current technology and the very un-private state of the modern world, I am sure he counted his lucky stars that he got out when he did. If he had any inkling that his time was short, it's probably not too far-fetched to think he burned any unpublished manuscripts himself, well in advance of the literary grave robbers coming to sift through the ashes. I can't pretend I won't read any books that may be published posthumously; when it comes down to it, I'm a phony and my high horse is a pony. I wish I could prove to my hero that he should have had more faith in humanity, but I can't. He was right about us.
And say what you want about his self-chosen banishment, but I think unlike any other author, even moreso than Hemingway's big game hunting and knuckle-dusting or Jay McInerney and Bret Easton Ellis' excesses, J.D. Salinger really did live out his work. Like any number of his characters, he chose to get out of it rather than let the world outside tell him who to be. If I had to pick one theory, I'd say he was a man who saw that his audience and the people who made money off of him were never going to let him grow up. They were never going to allow him to mature, not if they could keep him as the same rebellious adolescent. I'm sure he was asked "When are you going to write another Catcher in the Rye?" more times than there are numbers to count them. Hell, I'm nobody and I've had serious people tell me I needed to write another Cut My Hair and then have no idea why I am offended. As if they'd like to get in a time machine and return to whatever fast food counter they worked behind in the 1990s.*
J.D. Salinger was a man who would not be owned. Think about that before you get too eager to see what he had hidden under his bed. Think about that idiot boss you had once upon a time who demanded more of you than you wanted to give, and then realize that we were all J.D. Salinger's idiot boss and that he told us to get bent. And then remember that he did amazing work, everything we could have asked from him, and it still sits on our bookshelves, ready to be endlessly revisited, always offering more to be discovered. Because when you get to the heart of it, J.D. Salinger never stopped giving, the books never stopped offering up their treasures, we were just too selfish to be content with that. In literary heaven, Holden and Seymour and Franny, they all look at us and despair at how little we learned from their example.
* The analogy is intended as disrespect to the people making the suggestion, not to my book.
This image was one I hadn't used in a recent review, and it seemed apropos for some reason. Bart Simpson is the more obvious choice for a Holden Caulfield doppelganger, but Bart is not misunderstood, nor does he see through the world's false promises. It's Lisa who no one understands, who has a clear idea of how the world really is, and who sees things in her own way. This image shows not just how she sees things, but her actively trying to impose her sense of order on her environment.
Current Soundtrack:Radiohead; Bat for Lashes, "Pearl's Dream;" A Camp, "Stronger than Jesus;" The Verve, "Never Wanna See You Cry;" Sister Vanilla, "TOTP;" Brett Anderson, "The Big Time (Live in London);" and too many more to keep track of
* Edge of Darkness, Martin Campbell's violent revenge fantasy wastes good performances by Ray Winstone, Danny Huston, and a craggy Mel Gibson with poor pacing and a meandering plot.
Oh, and there’s a very positive gay romance in the story as well.
This was a great romantic story. And I enjoyed it from start to finish."
The same nice folks reviewed Side A just at the end of the last year.
Current Soundtrack: Shakira, "I'll Stand by You (feat. The Roots)" & "Loba;" Gorillaz, "Stylo (Feat. Mos Def & Bobby Womack)"
FOR REAL THIS TIME...YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE WE ARE MAGIC
Jumped the gun when I posted this thinking it was in the previous catalogue, but this time these pages are serious in the new Diamond Previews that came out yesterday. Also out yesterday, Joëlle's Madame Xanadu #19! And Mike Allred's band, The Gear, has their new album, Left Of Center Of The Universe. Cool space-age psychedelia!
Anyway, to the repost:
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Solicited for April 2010 from Oni Press, Spell Checkers vol. 1, written by Jamie S. Rich and illustrated by Nicolas Hitori de & Joëlle Jones.
Now is the time to tell your comic book shop owner that this is the book you want, that they should preorder a copy for you.
[click images for larger views]
Oni is also resoliciting my other books with Joëlle. You can get everything in one fell swoop.
Current plan is for us all three to attend Chicago Comic & Entertainment Expo April 16 through 18. I'll keep you posted as that gets closer.
Joëlle and I are also scheduled for Emerald City Comic Con in Seattle on March 13 and 14 and want to do Stumptown here in Portland on April 24 and 25.
Current Soundtrack: Brett Anderson, Live at Queen Elizabeth Hall
There are many things that Stieg Larsson does well in this book. One is handling a massive plot, with all kinds of tangents and tributaries, and never becoming overly encumbered by any of it. I never once felt like he was doing something because it was required to advance the story or taking me too far away from the central conflict. This is rather surprising when you consider how didactic his writing style can be. There is a scene in the book where Lisbeth Salander, his altogether unique semi-private investigator, prepares to send an e-mail, and he details the make of her computer, the programs she uses, and just about every other technical element that goes into this action. It makes sense for Lisbeth Salander, though, the way it made sense for the scientific specificity Ian McEwan used in Enduring Love, but oh what a difference it makes when you like the character.
The central mystery is fairly intriguing, with enough twists and turns and red herrings to warrant one's interest, but the character of Salander is the real attraction of the book. She is one of the stranger protagonists you'll find, She's cold, asocial, and morally ambiguous. Her whole persona is "stay the fuck away from me," and yet you somehow adore her at the end and even feel sorry for her. To be honest, I didn't expect her to survive the novel, for some reason the plot description I read once upon a time made me think she was going to be the murder victim, but I'm glad now to know that she's in the other books (not sure if she's the titular girl in all of them).
There is a movie version on the way, Cinema 21 has it booked for the coming months. It'll be interesting to see how they contain the plot...and how they contain the main character. That's going to be a tall order.
I was drawn to read this book after seeing Tom Ford's film adaptation. The movie was so good, the narrative so personal and the images singularly beautiful, it made me want to know what kind of prose had inspired it. In that, Christopher Isherwood's way with words does not disappoint. His descriptions are vivid and poetic, telling us as much about the person who is viewing the surroundings as they do the surroundings themselves. The setting is actually pretty interesting: Southern California in the 1960s, a world in the midst of change, the very land being transformed by modernity. The main character, an aging professor, is of a different age, his obsolescence growing more pronounced by the paragraph. The world is passing him by.
Making it all the more interesting is that he is a man who was never part of the world, anyway. As a gay man, he was always outside whatever was normal or modern. A Single Man essentially chronicles a day in his life. George is lonely, grieving for his dead lover, enraged at the life that trundles on around. The pettiness of the inconsequential existences society chooses to accept as "regular" is not lost at him, and Isherwood lets George's interior invective flow. Interestingly enough, Ford teased a whole other story out of this, one that is more about the grief and also more sexual. Isherwood, who published this book in 1964, does nothing to hide George's gayness, but in the movie, it's like someone has struck the professor's libido with a tuning fork. No one is deaf to his desire. Ford also decides to make the day he depicts the one where George has decided to die, giving the film and otherworldy gravitas the book does not have. Instead, what makes the novel vibrant is George's incisive dissection of social drives and mores, and in the climax, when he declares his own somewhat tragic, some might say pathetic, position within those strictures, his acceptance opens the door hope and healing. It's interesting to note that though they take very different paths, both the original novel and the movie end up in the same place. The one distinct difference is that Tom Ford makes literal what is metaphor in Christopher Isherwood's ending, and Isherwood's images here resonate with much more strength than the movie's final scene.
I've got a new interview with Tim O'Shea, this time at his Talking with Tim blog. You may recall, he interviewed me for Robot 6 once upon a time. In this go-around, we talk about movies and movie criticism, from Harlan Ellison to Wim Wenders and many points in between.
By the way, in reference to the last question Tim asked me, if you want to know how good The Human Target comic is and why the TV show looks so bad, you can download the first issue of the Peter Milligan book here for free.
Author of books like Cut My Hair, The Everlasting, and 12 Reasons Why I Love Her. His latest novel is Have You Seen the Horizon Lately?. He is currently writing the comics series Love the Way You Love drawn by Marc Ellerby, and his second book with Joëlle Jones, You Have Killed Me, is due later this year. All of these are published by Oni Press. In addition to writing here, Jamie reviews movies for DVDTalk.com.
For literary concerns, Jamie is represented by Brendan Deneen at FinePrint Literary.
. I remember being enthralled by his lush, complex sentences and his stark imagery. Looking back, perhaps it was the right time for me to read a tale of a strange boy stuck in a private, angry world. (In some ways, it reminds me now of Iain Banks’s 
.) I enjoyed the novel so much that when I met Nick Cave, I had him sign the paperback rather than any of my CDs.
, is so bad it makes me scared to ever look at And the Ass Saw the Angel again for fear I might find out I was wrong. Bunny Munro is as short on plot as Angel was full, and the once complicated language has replaced its David Milch-style cadence and vocabulary for a pastiche of detective novels, riddled with clichés and lazy verbiage. Cave’s Bunny is an oily salesman who travels the road selling feminine beauty products and screwing his customers. His every moment is given over to some lurid fantasy, and as Cave quickly runs out of metaphors for his hero’s cock, they grow more and more tedious and loathsome. It’s no surprise that the book was a candidate for this year's 
.
. Cool space-age psychedelia!
