Saturday, 24 January 2015
Monday, 5 January 2015
|It's damn funny.|
I had planned to read my backlog of Pynchon (before this point including Slow Learner, Against the Day, Inherent Vice and the yet-to-be procured Bleeding Edge) in chronological order – not that they must be so read, but rather that I wanted to mirror the writer’s own artistic trajectory with mine as a reader. As with other writers of great scope and ability, I need to pace Pynchons across my life as they take a lot out of me as a reader, but to be honest I’ve been looking for an excuse to skip the short stories and the hard-backed behemoth reminiscent of Mason & Dixon that is Against The Day and crack on with the reportedly more accessible Inherent Vice. Thankfully, the impending (and now actual) release of the Paul Anderson film did just that. Never one to be swept along in the wake of something I decided I had to read it now or forever be beholden to someone else’s artistic interpretation.
And, as reports suggest, it is by far the most accessible novel by Pynchon since Vineland, something which came as a relief given I still have cold sweats about Gravity’s Rainbow, which was my first introduction to Pynchon care of a blinkered, unforgiving and intense Post-Modern American Fiction lecturer at University. Essentially a stoner detective novel, garnering the film (not always favourable) comparisons to the Coen Brothers’ classic doper noir The Big Lebowksi, Inherent Vice takes its title from, as Larry ‘Doc’ Sportello’s lawyer-friend Sauncho Smilax* tells him, a marine insurance term meaning unavoidable harm (where insurers will refuse to insure cargoes of eggs for example due to the high likelihood of unavoidable damage during a sea crossing). Of course, being Pynchon, you can unravel that one as far as you wish to take it, particularly when our setting is California in the late 60s and early 70s, where surfers, dopers, hippies and activists jostle for elbow room with corrupt developers, cops on the take (or just taking out their innate brutality on the aforementioned categories), gangsters, dealers, and, so it would seems, dentists out to avoid paying tax. The plot begins with a surprise visit of Doc’s ex-girlfriend and wannabe actress Shasta Fey Hepworth, who then goes missing along with land developer Micky Wolfmann, her new beau, at least one Aryan Brotherhood Brother, his boyfriend, a motorbike gang member and a dentist, the last two we know at least get snuffed. Doc sets out to unravel the mystery fuelled or perhaps medicated by an astounding amount of marijuana, accompanying a motley assortment of beach bums, surf musicians, psychics, skip-tracers and slightly unhinged ladies of a variety of unwholesome endeavours and / or habits, and ends up face to face with a shadowy cabal of gun-running, heroin-smuggling, tax-dodging dentists, known only as The Golden Fang. Oh, and there’s a loan shark whose side-line business feeds the back story of Doc’s nemesis-cum-ally Lieutenant Christian F. “Bigfoot” Bjornsen.
I really – REALLY – hope the film is as funny as the novel. It has gags, puns, jokes, innuendo, the whole gamut of humorous prose, whilst also hanging together as a coherent if fragmented kidnap and conspiracy narrative. The cast is huge, as was to be expected, but I can’t recall a point where I thought “Now just who the jumping f**k is this bell-end?” as each inhabits a particular mote of dust in this singular crepuscular ray of blinding entertainment**. If I wanted to and didn’t have the horror of so doing, I could strip layer after layer from the writing which is a veritable palimpsest of meaningful stuff and intertextual reference. Thankfully some other thoughtful readers have already done it (in part) and you can add your two-penneth-worth at the PynchonWiki site. Frankly, I’m just glad I’ve had my first few proper belly laughs at a Thomas Pynchon novel in a long time. Time will tell if the film can live up to the novel, but on a first reading, it looks to be the novel most suited to a film adaptation, and in Paul Anderson I can only hope we’ve found the person to do it. And perhaps you’ll spot a sly cameo by the man himself somewhere, at a beach-front café or slinking by in the milky backgrounds. But probably not.
*Played by Benicio Del Toro in the Anderson version, and, so PynchonWiki tells us can be interpreted as a truth-telling spiny-thorned climbing plant. Again, unravel as far as you need.
**Actually, Scott, brother / cousin (?) of Doc is a character that might bear a snip or two. I don’t remember what he adds at all except that his band Beer plays on the bill with the Boards and a resurrected Coy Harlingen
Sunday, 28 December 2014
Necessary spoilers follow. In a departure (although not a major deviation as Parker haunts the lives of a few integral characters) from the Charlie Parker supernatural detective novels that have rightfully won him acclaim from peers and reviewers, Bad Men brings us an archetypal bad dude, the biblically named Edward Moloch, and his entourage of ne'er do-wells, as they plot revenge for a betrayal by Moloch's wife and object of scorn and cold, spiteful injury, Marian(ne). She has pinched a wad of cash from the shed, bought herself and her infant son new identities, and legged it after shopping Moloch and his gang to the authorities, leading to a short and abruptly interrupted incarceration for Edward. It all sounds like a tasty, suspenseful thriller, with a girl on the run and a determined posse of crims out for blood, needing only the intervention of a Quixotic knight errant to stand and fight on her behalf. Fittingly, up steps Melancholy Joe Dupree, giant and lawman, and heir to the forbidden secrets of the fictional Dutch Island (or Sanctuary), outlier in the chain of islands in Casco Bay, Maine. These secrets include historical massacres, murders, and the supernatural peace-keeping performed by those disturbed souls who watch over the island, and wait for the return of the one deviant who got away from them. And odds are on Edward Moloch to fulfil the role of prodigal island son, especially given he's having former-life flashbacks, particularly vivid ones, where he kills his island-settler wife over and over again. Naughty boy. And guess which unholy island serves as wifey's bolt-hole...
|*Raises quizzical eyebrow*|
I'm surprised I've still got a job with that hair.
* Thanks in no small measure to his impeccable research, the fruits of which are gently folded into the mix rather than info-dumped as is occasionally the standard method of arriving at a justification for things and stuff.
Sunday, 21 December 2014
In my triptych of black satires informed by the atrocities of the Second World War, I had high hopes that this oft-neglected author would offer something as equally entertaining as that of Vonnegut and Heller, showcasing the rational humanism alongside the absurd and insane with a dash of gallows humour. It certainly starts out that way, with a low level municipal officer in occupied Prague being tasked with the removal of a statue of the 'Jewish'* composer Mendelssohn from the roof of the Prague Academy of Music by the office of Acting Reich-Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. Of course, he knows nothing of the likeness of Mendelssohn, so chooses instead the statue with the largest nose, which unfortunately belongs to Wagner.
I was salivating at the prospect of another comic masterpiece from Central Europe in the veins of Hrabal or Čapek, but sadly this is the high tide of comedy in the novel, and it occurs at the very beginning. What follows is a novel of fear, oppression and deep tragedy, told in as matter-of-fact a fashion as is possible considering the author himself faked his own death to avoid transportation to the death camps. In what reminds me of a Stephen King novel, the cast of characters introduced, including Heydrich himself, are ushered quickly through the farce to their doom, either to re-assignment to the Russian Front and inevitable death, or to the crematoria of the Final Solution, often under the auspices of the Gestapo. Heydrich avoids both fates, but dies in hospital after the infamous assassination attempt of Operation Anthropoid. Any humour, if there is some to be found, is sardonic. Throughout, the motif of the statue haunts the prose, whether it is the mocking statues of former heroes and patriots of various conquering or conquered nations, or Justice herself, astride roads and rivers, guarding bridges, or being smashed in air-raids, or the petrification of a person through fear, their inability to fight the rising darkness rendering them complicit in its abhorrent actions. And in a chilling finalé, the only truly innocent characters in the whole novel die just as the Russian tanks roll into Berlin to crush the remaining German forces and liberate Europe from the grip of Nazism.
I'm left a little raw by the experience of reading Weil, and I suspect I might leave it a little while before I return to the literature of the Holocaust, if at all. However, I'm in complete agreement with the preface by Philip Roth that the brevity with which Weil delivers his testimony is the "fiercest commentary that can be made on the worst that life has to offer." As an apologist for overlooked Czech writing, I can commend this able storyteller with no fear of it being considered controversial and free of my habitual cynicism and sarcasm.
* In parenthesis here as Dr Rabinovich, Jewish scholar, points out later in the novel that Mendelssohn was christened as a child so he couldn't be Jewish
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
|We are what we pretend to be.|
So of what is it that I speak so knowingly? Vonnegut, in what is a Cervantes-esque editorial comment right at the start, claims this to be the testimony of one Howard W. Campbell Junior, only slightly edited to make it less objectionable to the reading public and then only to cut out some of the more overtly erotic scenes from one particular chapter, from his time incarcerated in a Jerusalem prison awaiting trial for war crimes, for the benefit of the Haifa Institute for the Documentation of War Criminals. Campbell is a war criminal, and possibly the greatest secret agent of the Second World War. An American by birth but raised in Germany for the most part, Campbell does what he needs to survive during the tumultuous years of Nazi rule, which mainly consists of doing nothing to stop them and also broadcasting the racial doctrines of the Führer's twisted dogmatism. However, unbeknownst to his Nazi Übermensches, through a cleverly disguised system of coughs and pauses, he is also broadcasting secrets of the Reich to agents of American Intelligence*. Married to a German actress of some beauty, his only loyalty, so he repeats to himself and to her, is to what he terms, and is one of the most enduring ideas of the book, Das Reich von zwei - the nation (or more accurately, kingdom) of two, paying no heed to the laws or requirements of any other nation but their own.
|All legal correspondence can be addressed|
care-of Jesus to the Pentagon...
Thankfully I'd read the book before watching the film for the first time, so my own mental images of the characters are burnished rather than dictated by the excellent on-screen portrayals by John Goodman and Alan Arkin of Campbell's Blue Fairy Godmother (the American agent who recruits him in the first place) and George Kraft (his New York Judas). But the film is quite faithful to the novel, convincingly done given the difficult nature of the timeline, and despite the director or screenwriter incarcerating Eichmann in the cell above that of Campbell rather than the very fleeting meeting of the two that occurs in the book. If you've not read or watched either, do the book first, as always. You'll find a rare moral satire of depth and complexity, written by one of the keenest minds in recent American literature. You'll find more great lines** than at which you'd be comfortable shaking a stick. And you'll find yourself feeling more for a notorious Nazi than years of cultural backlash could have prepared you so to do. It's one of my favourite Vonnegut novels, one of my favourite 'war' movies with one of my favourite male leads - the holy triptych - and incredibly relevant for our intolerant, ignorant society and its false, hollow politicians, pretending to be what they are.
* I choose to ignore the oxymoron.
** Some of which you can read here.
Friday, 28 November 2014
|It's here it's here!|
Because that's how I roll.
Don't expect a review any time soon.
|Stroking Malcolm Gladwell's ego|
Are they gone? Okay then, on with the story. I am very pleased to read things like this. Not that it's well written or a thrilling read; far from it. The authors are slightly lazy with their style, throwing out a reasonable-sounding punter / pundit myth which they then bust in a rather predictable fashion. It's all a bit, "You'd think this is self-evident, wouldn't you? But, AHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh! You're wrong." Yawn. To be fair to them, it's hard not to do just that with what is basically a myth-busting big-data-for-the-footballing-lay-person-type book. You set the reader up in his* comfortable assumption, plump up his cushions and get him a nice cup of tea, and then dash the cup to the floor, up-end the sofa and strip his clothes off as you push him out into the cold, hard light of statistical reality. It's how it's done. But it's still a bit repetitive over the course of X chapters, each dealing with its own fallacy. Plus, it lays claim to being one of those books with which you can lay waste to arguments in pubs about football. I disagree because I tried that and almost got punched.
However, I repeat I'm pleased to read such books, which include the excellent Inverting The Pyramid, Why England Lose, Brilliant Orange to name but a few, because I am inherently lazy myself, and find I often hold such opinions as espoused by the dim-witted pub punditry, or equally dim-witted former professional Gary Neville, in esteem higher than that which is their due. I'm easily swayed by enthusiasm, even if I find my cynicism, which before manifested for comic effect, becoming sharper and increasingly bitter with age, allowing me to pour forth scorn on such statements of 'fact' as score more goals and you'll win more games. When people take the time to remind me gently that I am lazy, and hold lazy opinions, then of course, I bristle (see opening paragraph for evidence...) with indignation, but also, do greatly appreciate the mind-numbing data-crunching that goes into such research as this. And it is all very interesting! I won't spoil it for you, but lots of the very scholarly studies of Myths and Facts about Football: The Economics and Psychology of the World’s Greatest Sport*** edited by Patric Andersson, Peter Ayton and Carsten Schmidt (Cambridge Scholars Publishing) are explained in simple terms, almost avoiding things like regression analysis (but not quite). It's compelling reading, and is one of those books that once you've read it, you can't quite see the game in the same way. You start to realise that the commentators are trotting out the asinine rubbish that they heard as players or from previous broadcasters. You realise that football is ripe for a statistical renaissance (to borrow the authors' own words). And you realise that neither Adrian Chiles nor Andy Townsend**** should ever be allowed near a broadcast booth again.
Is this football's Moneyball? Probably not, and the authors themselves admit that the Eureka moment that happened in baseball is an unlikely occurrence in this rather more complicated team sport. But it is an interesting foray for the average Joe Kinnear into Big Data analytics, and is well worth a read, regardless of how many times they shoe-horn Malcolm Gladwell into things.
*Forgive me for assuming the target audience might be heavily weighted towards a male demographic. I know lots of women who enjoy football, and a few who enjoy statistical analysis, but not very many** who might want to read this book.
***My favouritest book on the subject, a sample of which you can read by following the link to the Cambridge Scholars Publishing website
****But don't let that stop you playing the ever-popular 'Andy Townsend Bingo' game next time you tune into ITV's coverage of a dead-rubber Champions League tie.