Despair - Vladimir Nabokov

Read for the second time in August 2012.

The first time I read Despair was about 12 years ago, and I was an undergraduate taking a course in 20th Century Russian literature in translation. For some while over the next twelve years, if asked to make a list of my favorite 5 or 10 books, I would invariably include Despair on that list. I approached this rereading, expecting to enjoy it, but nonetheless also expecting to remove it from that heightened place in my own personal canon.

This is for many reasons. I began to doubt the person who I was when I had initially read it. I put almost no other Nabokov that I’ve read including Lolita on such an exalted plane. The haze of my memory of it seemed to render it a work of less and less substance. There were other reasons that are difficult to articulate as well.

To my surprise then, upon re-reading it, I did confirm its greatness. While I confess that I probably will no longer place it among the 10 or so best novels that I have ever read, it is legitimately great, and it is the best and funniest Nabokov that I have encountered. It reminds me of something like Camus’ "L’etranger," though not quite as good, which to be honest, is probably the book I wanted to put in that slot in the first place, but felt self-conscious about being that guy.

The first time I read it, I loved the tone and the style, and I think those were it’s main charms to me. I don’t think I even understood the concept of an unreliable narrator yet. Now it jumps right out at me. The whole thing is spent trying to read between the lines to figure out what really happened. It’s a fun game, and engaging. I’m amazed to look back at myself many years ago enjoying this on a superficial level, but not really “getting” it at all.

I pull this great line for special emphasis: “…because a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.” Of course as used, it turns out not to be true. As of course, the narrator is wrong about just about everything. He’s a small-minded and vulgar bourgeois who fancies himself an intellectual, a genius, an artist, et cetera, a purveyor of the perfect crime.

We’re left to ruminate on the notion that the vulgar notice the similarities between things, while the artist notices the differences, as the artist Ardalion notes at some point. It seems then exceptional, that the narrator sees such striking similarities between himself and another, when to other people they bear no resemblance at all. It’s an apparent absurdity that he would even pass this supposed double off as himself, though shocking to the narrator that it does not work. It’s a funny thing. And the whole structure upon which this misapprehension is built and then demolished is entertainingly laid out within.

Devil Hunter - Jess Franco

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

Jess Franco’s films can be judged along two axes. One, they can be judged on their eroticism. He was very prolific during the heydey of exploitation and even his films today still feature a heavy amount of nudity. They almost seem like they are the sort of movies that are made with complete prurient intent.

But they can also be judged on their uniqueness as Franco movies, which is a sort of cult movie or midnight movie. Similar to something like The Room, these films are notable for a very offbeat weirdness. The dialogue is dubbed, as was once common in european exploitation. The apparent inanity of the dialogue (or at least strange translation of it) along with the dubbing produces a very strange effect. Again this accounts for much of the weirdness in The Room as well, but unlike Wiseau, Franco has produced hundreds of films like this in all sorts of exploitation categories and believe it or not has developed in some circles a sort of reputation.

But to continue, characters in Franco movies don’t have conversations so much as they respond to the most immediate line of dialogue of the person they are speaking to, irrespective of the continuity of the conversation. Examples in Devil Hunter:

- Tell your friend that if he doesn’t show himself, I’m going to blow your head off.
- And if I don’t?
- I’m going to blow your head off.
- Alright…(pause)… Hey our friend says if you don’t come out he’s going to blow my head off.

OR

[Guy indicates he wants to trade money for hostage]
- You mean you want to make a trade?!?!?!?
- Not if I can help it.
- Oh. Why not then?

The helicopter pilot in this is particularly great for his strange accent and weird off-putting dialogue. But the weakness of this as a Franco film is that the content of the film places it squarely in the mondo-cannibal tradition. A film tradition that I have no enthusiasm for, nor does it seem to be a tradition, unlike say women in prison movies, that Franco enjoys himself. The inherent weakness of the genre is that the eroticism and the humor is undercut by the mutilation and the gore.

Nonetheless, the film does have some good eroticism. The most notable quality of Franco as a director is such that even in a 70’s-80s cannibal movie, he’s not going to destroy the pervy beauty of nubile nudity with the grossness and ugliness of too much blood and gore. Not to say that there isn’t blood and gore, but it never undercuts the pervy appeal of watching a Franco movie.

As a cult type movie, it is not as good as other Franco, hurt by cannibal genre conventions, but I would still score it a B+. As far as exploitation, I would also grade it a B+. A couple of naked blondes plus some naked tribal women. It’s well worth checking out, even as an intro to Franco, but it’s definitely not Franco’s best. Overall grade B+.

Railroaded - Anthony Mann

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

This is about as generic an example of classic film noir as I can imagine. It’s a bit like watching a television show from 60 years ago. Sort of hokey. No stand out performances. Literally nothing stands out. I actually watched this film two weeks ago and am restructuring my thoughts from notes I jotted down afterward. I’ve already forgotten just about everything that happens in this film. Is this the one where the guy perfumes bullets?

The conclusion of the notes I took at the time are as follows: “Not bad, but cannot be recommended to anyone but buffs, and even then, it just feels unexceptional. Bad guy. The girl. The femme. None of it outstanding.” Grade C-.

The Asphalt Jungle - John Huston

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

A nice criminal heist film. The hooligan was a memorable character. Intense and intimidating yet proven to have a human side. Enjoyable film. It’s maybe dated in a hokey way with some of the police stuff, but it does not fail to glamourize criminality. This sort of thing makes the code requirement of crime failing to recompense a sort of blessing.

The criminals with which we identify meeting their doom gives these films a tragic power. Today the movies give the audiences what they want, and the glamorized charismatic criminals always get away with it. Grade A-.

The Rocker

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

This seems like a Jack Black vehicle that for some reason stars Rainn Wilson instead, and that I would suspect is to a superior effect. It has a good cast, but is unfortunately excruciatingly hokey. Mildly entertaining in parts, but not grandly funny. Jeff Garlin is great. This movie also reminds me that getting old makes me sad. Grade C.

The Barefoot Contessa

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

The technicolor era is a questionable era for Humphrey Bogart. His best work is in black and white, and I don’t think his persona transitioned into color. That is true of the The African Queen, and The Barefoot Contessa is not as good as The African Queen.

There is a lot of narration in this movie, as well as a alot of dialogue. By random chance and due to the fact that there is so much of it, some of it is engaging. But at over two hours, one feels a great deal of relief when it is over, though it is mildly successful at manipulating emotions. Grade C.

Palm Sunday - Kurt Vonnegut

Read for the first time in August 2012.

This is a collection of Vonnegut’s essays, speeches, short stories and other artifacts with some original writing tying everything together. It’s not a whole lot dissimilar to his later novels but without an overarching plot. It mostly covers the period 1974 - 1979 or so. It is very good.

It’s not even terribly dated. Not even the cold war stuff. It doesn’t feel like an artifact at all. It also reminds me of the importance of Vonnegut. He is not my favorite author really, though I do think he is really great. I read most of his novels about ten years ago and loved all of them except for Player Piano (run-of-the-mill dystopia, tedious read) and Timequake (weird small-mindedness; bitterness and cynicism pervades).

I don’t believe that Vonnegut is necessarily among the greatest novelists as producer of novels as a literary art form, but I do believe his ideas about how to be a human being are hugely important. If there is any author that I think people should read, it is Vonnegut. Even more so than people who I think wrote better novels.

People should read Vonnegut the way some people read the Bible, as a source of moral instruction.

There’s a lot of powerful stuff in here, including a non-religious passion play about Jesus that is a total highlight. A lot of great thoughts and a lot of great quotes. And just really a lot of great thoughts on how to be a human being.

His entire oeuvre (with exception of Timequake and Player Piano) should be studied and read and inculcated in children by good liberal parents everywhere.

The Campaign

Seen in the theater for the first time in August 2012.

I did not like this as much as I expected to. There were some very funny moments with big belly laughs. The campaign ads and debates were some of the funniest stuff. But there was a lot of pandering clunky humor as well, and some overall poorly executed comedy.

Specifically, the bit with the lords prayer went on too long and wasn’t that funny to me. The big trailer moments like Will Ferrell punching the baby also felt forced and contrived. The jokes with the Asian maid ended up botched in execution. Her speaking in an old southern black lady accent was hilarious. Her explanation for that accent and her righteousness was not. It was embarrassing. Not funny. Same with her service of the subpoena at the end. By the time she opens the door the audience knows it is going to be her speaking with the crude mexican accent, and the subsequent righteousness was just cringe-worthy.

There was a lot of good too, however. Dylan McDermott was great. Just an unexpected and superb comedic performance from that guy. Possibly funnier than either Ferrell or Galifinackis. The leads were also great and all of the major supporting characters were perfect. I really liked the lead villains being played the same as the lead villains from Trading Places as well.

Overall though, there were too many uncomfortable, corny, righteous moments. I don’t think political views mix with comedy too well, even political views I agree with. I also think straight up didactic righteousness also does not mix with comedy well. The Candidate had too much of both. I feel like it was close to an amazing movie but for these seriously tone-destroying missteps. Grade B-.

The Man in The High Castle - Philip K. Dick

Read for the first time in August 2012.

"The Man in the High Castle" gets too on the nose at the end. The final conversation between the novelist and the Juliana character is kind of bad in a didactic way and yet should have been fleshed out more. The pacing, as a storytelling matter seemed off as well. A lack of suspense. A lack of build. It was an enjoyable read nonetheless. But at the end, a lot of it seemed unresolved. A lot of the characters arcs just stopped with no resolution.

I really liked the way some of the white characters spoke in stilted Japanese English. It was inventive and imaginative, and fun. I also really liked his depiction of being what it’s like to not be the dominant culture. This is the first Philip K Dick work that I’ve read. Based on this read alone, I wouldn’t go out of my way to explore his catalogue further. I think he’s behind Vonnegut as a writer, but maybe slightly better overall than Ursula K Leguin, though I think she never does anything as bad as that final conversation in this book.

Twister (1990)

Seen for the first time in August 2012.

Some guys at work suggested I watch the 1995 Helen Hunt Van Halen soundtrack Twister, and despite my skepticism I put it in my Netflix queue. While searching though, I came across this movie by that same name that looked interesting enough that I put it very high in my queue. I’m glad I did. This movie is great. It’s also very strange.

It’s a fun understated little comedy with a great cast, revolving around quirky dysfunctional family stuff. I like also that the main female doesn’t wear pants for the first few scenes. Interesting bit toward the end where Crispin Glover, intent on being upset that his family doesn’t like his soup, ignores the fact that Dylan McDermott does like it so that he can go on in dramatic anguish. Suggests some of these behaviors are put on for attention.

Overall this is a nice relic from the heyday of the independent/cult era before corporations got involved in making quirky pseudo-independent family comedies like the atrocious Little Miss Sunshine. A lot of fun and a lot of good laughs and totally and genuinely off-beat. Grade A.

Infinite Jest - David Foster Wallace

Read for the first time in August 2012. 

DFW is clearly very smart and has clearly a top-notch liberal arts education. He writes well, oftentimes better than well, willing to break so-called stylistic rules, and succeeding, which to me is sort of the defining demonstration of mastery of the written word. On the other hand, some of his stylistic tics do provoke annoyance, though only occasionally.

Nonetheless, I think, that of all the works of all the authors I have read, DFW is, in my estimation, the closest to a genius in the traditional Einsteinian unfathomably high IQ scientist capable of great discovery sense. This only serves to underscore my irritation with the use of the word genius to describe every Thom, Stanley, and Lenny who writes a great song or tells a great joke. Because I would suspect that actual genius in service of a creative artistic endeavor produces work very much like Infinite Jest. This is both its strength and weakness, as literature.

If there is one word I would use to describe Infinite Jest, that word would be clever. It is terrifically clever. It is a terrific book. It’s amazingly inventive, smart, and intimidatingly educated. It’s funny too. Huge swathes of it are aesthetically wonderful.

It took about 300 pages before I realized how good it was. At around page 800, I assumed that as soon as I finished I was going to immediately start over and read it again. But by the end I had changed my mind, as I realized that nothing would be gained from a reread. Anything I missed the first time around was as inconsequential as that which I had already processed.

This is fine. I am not complaining. Excepting intermittent bits of DFW’s sadistic noise, this is mostly a fun book to read. I can’t help but admire DFW. He’s so smart. He’s so educated. And Infinite Jest is so very clever.

But that’s all it is.

I wish I could convey my sense of unadulterated true admiration for Infinite Jest and simultaneous disappointment at its failure to achieve what literature is capable of without it being a criticism. Without the critical arrogance of it having unmet an expectation that no work should have the burden of bearing, that of being “great.” DFW was a ridiculously smart guy and he wrote a good book. Multiply that times ten.

I have to acknowledge the Don Gately stuff and how that is at least an attempt to get at the stuff that I love about literature, whereas the precocious Hal Incandenza stuff, while often enjoyable, doesn’t ever attain the necessary sincerity to be taken as a real human being with struggles or emotions we can care about.

However, if I want to put a finger on why Don Gately’s humanity doesn’t provide salvation for the twee unreality of O.N.A.N.* circa Y.D.A.U., I think it’s because Don Gately isn’t really that compelling, either on his own, or exacerbatedly relative to the intrigues of Quebecois separatists and O.N.A.N. Agents of Unspecified Services. Parts of his story are fascinating to read, of course. And perhaps, the struggle of a recovering addict’s resistance to narcotics and his eventual redemption, through violence and pain, should be compelling. But in DFW’s hands it’s not, at least not completely. Maybe I should just say it’s not enough. The pathos of one real guy’s pain is just not enough to counterbalance the aura of playful inconsequence of this staggering colossus of a book’s tour de unreality as imagined by a brilliant hyper-educated academic type.

Or maybe I should just give in to the temptation and say that Infinite Jest only goes to show the limited though not insignificant authorial value of brains and education. An interesting comparison on that point would be John Kennedy O’Toole’s “Confederacy of Dunces,” which I think does achieve the greatness that Infinite Jest is on the cusp of.

*The acronym O.N.A.N. is a good joke I think.