Death Race

Yeah, believe it or not I went. I chose to go. Temporary Insanity? Well, I like the cultish Death Race 2000 where Carradine plays Frankenstein. Sadly, everything that old movie had is lost in this one.

Review: It sucked. It really sucked. Negative Starts, no plot, that was expected, no acting, that was expected. It even sucked at what it should be able to do, which is sustain action.

What in 1975 was a race across country with lots of satire and some nudity has been dumbed down to a rated 14 video game. The racers are now in prison under the watchful eyes of the formulaic Miss Prissy Ice in Pants Suit (Maybe playing Hillary Clinton which just might cause rednecks to develop excema.) They now race a short track. No points, no fun, no humor. Everone a racial, gender, sexual inclination, age appropriate stereotype. The whole movie is taken way to seriously for anyone to have fun. Hey stupids, it's not reality or a future dystopia, it's supposed to be pure absurdist entertainment -- how could you have missed that?

Please suggest a new word for the sort of movies like LOTR or The 300 or this one where most of the movie is 5 cuts per second, bad filming, wobbling camera, non-stop booming dolby, mostly post production animation. A.D.D. Movimation?

Hey! I nearly got sick on that oversalted popcorn so it wasn't a total waste of an evening. Afterward I found the journey prize winning short stories to soothe the pain -- now half way through.

Atlantic Monthly Fiction , Part 2

Now the second part of the reviews of the fiction. [If you've not read part one, click back and read that first -- pretty please.] Medicine first, then then one good response will tie this issue up.

Obituary, by Jessica Murphy Moo sort of sets the tone here, those who struggle against odds greater than themselves. There is much to like about Obituary in terms of plot but unfortunately it gets entirely lost in poor writing and no unique voice. In short stories more is less. You want, when writing, to let scenes create emotion that push the forward until it suddenly ends with the echo in our head. Moo, whose writing career seems to be just starting, overwrites nearly everything. She tells us then tells us again. She throws in sentences that make us want to drink an emetic. For example, "Living on a boat has made him aware that nothing in the word is ever static. Everything is moving, alive." No kidding dicky, really? ps. Don't look for more insight than this. Or, regarding a phone, "He lets it ring and ring..." yawn. Or, "For the next four days, he calls his son morning, noon, and night." Put aside the sheer idiomatic cliche of this, the way it's written suggest he calls his son that, "Hey morning noon and night, get over here." Moo really needs to find in herself what Hemingway called the shock-proof, shit detector. This story could have been half as long and be much better for it.

I admit I tried Stand by Me, by Wendell Berry, but I really hate this sort of backwoods, southern stuff. I did try, honest, but like a story about hockey, there's no possible way to get me involved. And it's all rambling telling us what everyone did and felt, sort of rule number one of the no no list of writing fiction.

Mark Fabiano has written We Are All Businessmen. Maybe so, but we sure are not all short story writers. This one really began the downward spiral for me into the land of complete cynicism. It's all about the language. I felt this is author never figured out what he is doing.

He develops a character who speaks English, either poorly or quite well depending on what part you read, who thinks, I guess, in his own language either quite poorly or quite well depending on what part you read. The language is so absolutely inconsistent that I struggled with wondering if this story was a complete joke, whether the text had skipped the editing process, or whether writer was just on magic mushrooms. To make matters even worse, the 16th line has what appears to be a major typo, "bank clarks" instead of "bank clerks" unless Fabiano means this as some sort of dialect, which I doubt but giving his inconsistency, who knows. I never could be sure what was accident and what was planned.

Sometimes the main character uses "a" and then other times he drops it. He writes, "...not even taking a sea bath" and then it's "This beach is not good for taking sea bath." Both are his thoughts, neither is spoken. Mr. Limited English, who in many places speaks like a second language learner then turns around and uses phrases like "I don't tout for the evil things..." which probably makes most readers rush for their dictionary. Or he constructs sentences like this, "Mr. Richard holds up a hand as he drinks the rest of his beer, as if to ask me to wait." I've worked with many second language learners and even taken a class on teaching esl. I can vouch for the fact they do not construct sentences in this manner. I'm still trying to paste most of my hair back to my skull.

The longer the story goes the more all the characters begin to speak like each other. If you want us to really believe your story we first have to trust you as a voice, and here, as in Moo's story a strong voice is thoroughly lacking.

But then, FINALLY:

A flash of lightning in the final story, Amritsar by Jess Row. Here is really a very strong story that kicks all the others in their dang sorry asses. Row's voice immediately booms out with a killer opening

"I don't like boats. For that matter, I don't like water, either, unless it's coming out of a tap or a hose. Where would I have learned to swim, in the hot dusty Punjab of my childhood?"

He comes from Chandigarh, which is a city designed by Corbusier into gridded concrete buildings. The Indians hated it. It denied them of their central meeting squares, for example. Early on he moves to Deli, and this little shift in location shows a shift from order to chaos. The idea functions as the theme which then circles as as issues of individual against society, or pacifist against violence are introduced. 911 happens but is not directly referred to paralleling itself against a 1919 massacre by Britain that killed 379 unarmed men, women, and children. The idea of order and chaos is further tested as the narrator, now a radiologist, moves to the American suburbs where his life once more becomes ordered, and finally into this comes violence, that chaotic element confronting his beliefs yet again.

There are some brilliant pieces of writing here and I'll quote a couple, "Hate lacks imagination. Hate never made art, only dreary cliches." Or this, the narrator considering 911 and the racist responses to Indians living in America as he sits on the roof of his suburban house, replete with garage and steel refrigerator, surveying the cul-de-sac:

"Nobody was stirring, it seemed. At a time like this you would think people would come out of their houses and scream, or tear their clothes, or just weep and stare at televisions together, but we live in a suburb, of course, a place without a center -- no City Hall, no Boston Common, no village church. Nobody would know where to go. All this pain and anguish, and no place to put it."

It sounds like an ending but it's not and it gets even better. It's the longest story in the issue and it still feels short and tight. Sharp, unpredictable, deep, smart -- there's not much more you want in a short story and it's all here. Add to the reading list, other works by Jess Row. This one story makes the entire fiction issue worth every cent.

Atlantic Monthly Summer Fiction 2008 Part 1

I've been reading my way through Atlantic Monthly's summer fiction issue, a treat that I look forward to as I do the New Yorker summer fiction issue, which currently sits on my desk completely untouched.

I'll get to that but right now I've read about half the AM; it's time for responses.

Overall the writing is fairly traditional fare. It's the sort of writing Richard Ford says he likes in the introduction to the Granta Book of the American Short Story. "I've always liked stories that make proportionately ample rather than slender use of language...." he writes. He likes stories that strive to be "literature." Maybe I should capitalize that? These authors fit the bill; they work hard at writing a literary story full of,f or lack of a better word, stuff. My tastes are a bit broader I guess, and I would prefer to read a wider stylistic range as well as more experimentation. After a while the reliance on details seems to blur into overwriting. Many times I wished I could have a break from the template and I recalled wonderful stories by Donald Barthelme or Patricia Young and I missed how fresh they seemed against all of this striving. Maybe this is a sad condition of today's movies where the cliche of thumping soundtrack and action at every moment has ruined hollywood output. Or, maybe it was the editor.

I didn't look at who exactly chose these stories, but a bunch of what I've read so far have a missing parent and they are about kids. I believe that we respond to works that fit our norm, so certainly I wonder if the editor making this decision has kids or issues with lost parents.

First the good.

Ann Patchett writes on traveling to do readings. Heartening to most writers is the fact she showed up for readings where five or fewer people were in attendance. I recall seeing Richard Ford, of all people, in Calgary, there must have been twenty people in the audience? Pathetic.
This sort of Jane Smiley reflection on the art of writing and all that surrounds it is in vogue right now. Well, I like it so keep it coming.

Aryn Kyle sticks with her forte, viewing the world through a child's eyes in a story titled Nine. The girl's mother has left, and she struggles with her father's dating, schooling, and an impending birthday. It's light but well written. What hit me hardest was just how much this recalled the style of Joy Williams in her story Train. In that one two girls on a train grapple with life and the goings on of adults. One is quick witted and verbose, the the other insightful. The insightful one cries the same as Tess in Kyle's cries, as an outlet against the frustrations of the uncontrollable and the loss. And like Williams, Kyle fills her writing with descriptions and nouns until the page is bursting. Well, Kyle did admit in the book club Q&A at the end of The God of Animals that she absolutely admired Joy Williams' writing. I could mention a couple of confusing paragraphs, a juxtaposition of lying against Honest Abe that goes nowhere, or the perhaps what I find to be a mistitled title, but I won't. This writing is fun and hot. Oh yeah, by the way it's not "chorus dancer" it's a member of the corps de ballet. Finally, just what was on the note Mrs. Muirhead passed to her husband?

Patient, Female is a story by Julie Schumacher about a woman, whose mother had died, whose father is close to death, and who works as the exam patient for those studying OBGYN. Hey, kudos for the idea although I should mention that every woman I've told the plot to said right off the bat, "oh that must have been a man who wrote it, some fantasy." I didn't get that from the work and I tried to imagine the woman being a guy who volunteers for proctology exams but I still don't feel that punch in the abdomen they seem to feel. Her's a wonderful example of her writing when the woman is at her father's house watching tv:

"Idiot," I say, my mouth full of rice. "She left the front door open." The camera lingers on the woman's breasts. I point toward the TV with my chopsticks. "She's standing there waiting to be strangled."
"It might not be strangling," my father says.

Whoop-dee-doo repartee like this makes the reading lots of fun and the story blows forward with a terrific impetus. It reminds me of Amy Hempel's work and there's even the characteristic Hempel joke, albeit a really old and dull one. Let it go. The mixing of the main character's reality and projections, of in-the-body and in-the-mind really works well for all but the end section. Her it suddenly seemed too contrived as the author tried to give a distant, wide angle view to all that occurred. I will reread and reconsider because I trust so much of the rest of the story. Or it could be that the author didn't quite know what to end with. That happens.

Those were the high notes so far and if you want to go about your day on a high, singing note, well, click out now. If you want the less than successful stories scroll onward. I'll try to keep the following if not sweet at least short.

Carmen Elcira: A (Love) Life by Cristina Henriquez is so much like a story by Roberto Bolano that appeared in The New Yorker I nearly choked. If I had to bet on who I believe influenced her.... We span years following the girl/woman's love interests. Would you predict both good and bad? How'd you guess? Do you think it might get somewhat reflective and melancholy at the end when she's older? Wow, do you have ESP? Still I can find sometimes make a silk purse from a sow's ear just as I can find the blemish on a pearl. A great little line: "...there are tender spots in every human heart that never disappear, no matter if the tenderness is caused by bruising or by love..." I'm not focusing on the writing, just the idea. Good one.

The Second Coming of Gray Badger by Carter Simms Benton is what happens when a young author tries very hard to write adult stories. It fits the conventions but the story is plodding, lacking energy and drive, predictable, introducing characters half way that sort of become the main protagonist or antagonist. Well I won't wail on it too much. Go to college, get a writing degree or skip the writing degree, at least write hard and read hard for quite a few years then we'll talk. And by the way, what the heck does "Edith grinned her little cherry-faced smile" mean? She grinned her smile? I bet his mother liked the story though, which is really all you want when you're young.

And Finally --

PREVIEW: next up is We Are All Businessmen with language so inconsistent you believe the story's full of grammatical errors and typos.

LAST THOUGHT: The visual art in the issue is an absolute embarrassment.

Capote

I've just finished Truman Capote's Answered Prayers. The book is divided into three part as told to us by P.B. Jones, a drinking writer who lives at the Y. I won't discuss plot because I agree with the late Norman Mailer on this one, the writing is terrific but the plot is thin.

What makes this book so incredible is really the first section, Unspoiled Monsters. The voice of P.B. is strong. The book blasts through time and space with nervous energy and writing so sharp you want to poke a pencil into your brain. Every time he describes a character it's always with the unexpected detail that makes you pine for the next one. Even when characterizing a city he's at his best as with this excerpt:

"Tangier is a white piece of cubist sculpture displayed against a mountainside facing the Bay of Gibralter. One descends from the top of the mountain, through a middle-class suburb sprinkled with ugly Mediterranean villas, to the 'modern' town, a broiling miasma of overly wide boulevards, cement-colored high-rises, to the sleaky maze of the sea-coasted Casbah. Except for those present for presumably legitimate business purposes, virtually every foreign Tangerine is ensconced there for at least one, if not all, of four reasons: the easy availability of drugs, lustful adolescent prostitutes, tax loopholes, or because he is so undesirable, no place north of Port Said would let him out of the airport or off a ship. It is a dull town where all the essential risks have been removed."

It chokes down a good sized city's worth of information with full use of alliteration and assonance that tickle the tongue as the words twirl outward.

Here's his brief description of the young Elizabeth Taylor, again beautiful and bang on.

"...Taylor, nineteen and ravishing, sublimely fresh as a lilac after rain."

The book in general as I mentioned has three parts, the first is brilliant, the second is good, the third rambles as we basically eavesdrop onto conversations in a hoity toity restaurant. It's nearly skippable, that part. But let it go, you don' t need to hit the mark in every part to succeed in a work of art. Sometimes the bits make it all worthwhile.

It's also difficult for me to believe Capote didn't write this. Yeah, drunk, drunk, drunk, worried about losing his talent etc. An editor or amateur doesn't pull this stuff out of a hat with consistency that would fill the 96 pages of the first part.

Skip the idiotic critics all tripping over themselves to write the most eye-catching blurb. It's not x-rated or to replace a shelf of books. Believing that stuff will only toss your expectations in the wrong direction. Capote dissects life with a razor sharp knife and as he cuts he flashes the blade so reflections glint off everything. It's stunning and blinding. INSERT BIG SIGH HERE if only more writers today could stop sucking the seductive sap from the schmaltzy television plot tree and get on with the job of real writing.

Coincidence??

Funny when you read something that triggers something else, like the way the Fat man of Lydia Millet's Everyone's Pretty is so much like the Fat man in Will Self's My Idea of Fun, which both are reminiscent of John Kennedy Toole's Ignatius in A Confederacy of Dunces.

Certainly it raises questions, one in particular being, are writers this influenced by what they read? I believe so.

The latest I've come across is best shown by example. Here's the celebrated opening to T.C. Boyle's Water Music:

At an age where most young Scotsmen were lifting skirts, plowing furrows and spreading seed, Mungo Park was displaying his bare buttocks to al-haj' Ali Ibn Fatoudi, Emir of Ludamar.

Now compare the passage to this line from Truman Capote's Answered Prayers:

"P.B. Jones? That tramp. No doubt he's peddling his ass to elderly Arab buggers in the souks of Marrakech"

I'll leave it up to readers to make their own decision on this one.