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Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion (1970)

Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion (1970)On the surface Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays looks like yet another story of a beautiful, privileged woman suffering a nervous breakdown. Maria Wyeth, an actress, is going through the breakdown of her marriage to director Carter Lang. Yet, Didion’s writing avoids the typical hysteria. Her technique is sparse, the restraint she shows is purposely alienating, intent at keeping the reader at a distance from the true horror of Maria’s suffering. It protects us from the oblivion of nothingness that Maria feels, and forces us to confront it ourselves.

She could remember it all but none of it seemed to come to anything. She a sense the dream had ended and she had slept on.

To recount the plot seems futile, the narrative is built from key events seen through Maria’s eyes. Maria has been committed to some form of institution, and looks back over what happened in the lead up to, during, and after the breakdown of her marriage. There is no clear linear progression, but events, signs, symbols gradually do fall in to place. Maria has an abortion. Maria visits her ex-husband on a movie set in the desert. Maria watches her close friend commit suicide. Something as simple as a stilted telephone conversation, as momentous as an arrest in the desert, or the nightmarish hallucination of the contents of blocked drains are all told in a brutally dispassionate third-person voice.

One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what “nothing” means, and keep on playing.
Why, BZ would say.
Why not, I say.

The structure of the novel is interesting too, opening with single chapters told in the first person from major characters – Maria’s manic, compelling voice, Helene reflecting on her conflicted relationship with Maria, and Carter trying to pinpoint where things started going wrong. From there, most of the novel is told in this distant third-person narration, until the end where Maria’s voice is heard again. This seems to mirror the state of Maria’s internal self, beginning with rampant self-obsession, turning to looking at herself from a disconnected and distant viewpoint and finally, we hope, gaining a stronger sense of her own identity by the end. It’s bleak, but Didion’s writing is so controlled that the emotional effect of these events, and of Maria’s perception of them, doesn’t hit until after. Play It As It Lays is a novel that lingers, becoming all the more powerful as time passes.

Closer by Dennis Cooper (1989)

Closer by Dennis Cooper (1989)Closer is not the Dennis Cooper I remember reading back at university. While the extreme sexual violence is still there, with suggestions of mutilation and masochism,  in Closer it simmers beneath the surface, lurks in the shadows. Instead, Closer is a dark, somehow touching, look at the lives of gay youths and the boy they all physically desire, the troubled George Miles.

Closer takes the form of a series of loosely connected chapters, George Miles being the thread that connects them, each from the perspective of a different young man. There is John, an art student, who draws portraits of beautiful people and desecrates their image until they are ugly; who forms a sexual relationship with George. John remains distant while he re-examines his artistic purpose, and cannot draw George’s face accurately. When he finally does, afterwards George tells him of his own issues, and John breaks it off with him. It’s as though the image is what he desires, and the realization that there is something “real” behind that image is too frightening.

He didn’t have time to draw everyone, but being picky meant choosing an artistic goal. John couldn’t. He didn’t know what he was doing. He wound up selecting the best-looking students because they were fun to deface and pretty easy to bullshit. He’d just sort of casually say that maybe he was portraying how tortured they were behind their looks and they’d gasp at his scribbles like they were seeing God or a UFO.

Other characters have a similar relationship trajectory with George, drawn to his flawless facade (which is not described in great detail, allowing us to project, like the characters, an image of impossible, otherworldly beauty), only to abandon him when they discover that he too has fears, feelings and flaws. That is, that he is a person and not an ideal. The chapters from George’s perspective reveal a sad, emotionally disconnected young man, numbing himself against his pain with sex, drugs and a childlike fascination with Disneyland.

Paul, a pathological liar who believes he is a famous, attractive, talentless popstar, spews stream of consciousness rambles about authenticity, performance and love. For him, George is a way to step out of the (imagined) spotlight and find love, separate from adoration. Other characters are also George’s school friends, only one of which is not in love with George himself, but in love with another who is in love with George. Their lives and stories are intricately connected, yet they seem unable to make a lasting connection beyond the image.

Lies are so hard to keep track of. It’s like your constantly being reborn every time you begin a new sentence.

The ending is unsettling, the violence is only suggested so as with George’s beauty, our warped minds are forced to go to the darkest places to imagine these unspeakable acts. It’s confronting and manipulative. The violence is made all the more vicious by everyone’s extreme apathy toward it, no one is horrified, no one is angry, no one is surprised. In amongst the visceral deaths, abuse, and unsightly injuries there is always a glimmer of hope. Not much, but it is there. The possibility of love, of moving beyond the image of the other no matter how beautiful or scarred it may be.

Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991 by Michael Azerrad (2001)

Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991 by Michael Azerrad (2001)It’s easy to get romantic and nostalgic about independent music, at the same time getting tangled up in messy arguments about authenticity and integrity.  Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991 avoids this problem and instead maps out the formation of the American independent music scene with a clear perspective and an evident fondness for the music and the energy such a scene provided.

Azerrad, an American music journalist, sets out to tell the origin stories of thirteen bands that played an important role in the formation and success of the American independent underground scene: Black Flag, The Minutemen, Mission of Burma, Minor Threat, Hüsker Dü, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Butthole Surfers, Big Black, Dinosaur Jr, Fugazi, Mudhoney and Beat Happening. These stories end either when bands break up or, the real death knell, sign to a major label.

They were replaced by a bunch of toughs coming in from outlying suburbs who were only beginning to discover punk’s speed, power and aggression. They didn’t care that punk rock was already being dismissed as a spent force, kid bands playing at being the Ramones a few years too late. Dispensing with all pretension, these kids boled the music down to its essence, then revved up the tempos to the speed of a pencil impatiently tapping on a school desk, and called the result “hardcore.”

What struck me about these stories is how key figures featured across many of the stories, creating the sense that in particular geographical regions and across the nation this really was a scene. An organic, thriving, cultural scene that managed to shape the sound of “alternative” music. This isn’t indie as a sound (you know, those guitar based bands on major labels that are relentlessly described as indie) or an aesthetic, but independent as prerogative. These bands were indie because there was no other option or outlet for the sounds they wanted to make.

I’m a punk/hardcore nerd, so the most interesting chapters for me were those related to Black Flag, Minor Threat, Big Black and Fugazi. However, even the chapters on bands who I’d never really connected with before (Hüsker Dü and Sonic Youth), managed to keep my interest. These are not always the stories of righteously independent minded individuals, the bands histories are marked by petty in-fighting, drugs, alcohol, strained relationships, the usual “creative differences” – there is a wealth of great melodrama here that Azerrad is not afraid to explore. A little more about gender inequality would have been interesting as only a handful of women feature in these bands, but I’m sure this topic has been covered in depth elsewhere. As a history of the time, the music, and establishing why and how these bands were so important to a form we take for granted now, Our Band Could Be Your Life is engaging, and dare I say it, even a little inspiring.

Minor Threat epitomized one of hardcore’s major strengths: It was underground music by, for, and about independent minded kids. These kids weren’t on the hipster-bohemian wavelength, either because they weren’t hip or bohemian or because they simply felt the whole trip was needlessly exclusive and elitist. So it figures that hardcore would become popular in a definitively uncool city like Washington D.C. Hardcore wasn’t some druggy pose copped from Rimbaud, it was about things its audience encountered every day, and it certainly wasn’t some lowest common denominator corporate marketing ploy; hardcore kids knew the consequences of the former and grasped the larger implications of participating in the latter. And it had a beat they could dance to.

Our Band Could Be Your Life has me thinking about the possibility or viability of a contemporary underground/independent culture. Much is made in the book of how the lack of communication technology beyond the telephone meant that much of the networking was done through old-school means, namely mail, telephone and zines. With the current saturation of internet technologies aiding communication and social networking, doesn’t that also offer ready-made niche audiences to sounds and ideas that would previously have to either wait for audiences to adapt to new sounds or actively seek out those who would “get it”? Then again, much of the creation of these audiences is due, in part, to the efforts of the bands mentioned here.

Book Loot: Week Ending August 1st, 2010

Hunter S. ThompsonMy postwoman was kept very busy this week, here are the bookish delights she dumped on my doorstep.

Two of these (Lilian’s Story and One Day) were won from various online competitions. I’ve been having such good luck in book related competitions, I wonder whether that luck would translate should I buy a lottery ticket? After watching Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson the other week I was inspired to fill in the gaps in my Thompson library, and the Simon & Schuster editions are so much more pleasant looking than the unbearably ugly MacMillan reissues.

The unstoppable Amanda from Desert Book Chick sent me Expiration Date, and it looks like a mind-meltingly awesome read, you can read her review of it here. August is Classics month over on her blog, and when I stop running my hands lovingly over my Penguin Classics and Modern Library editions and I’ll be writing a guest post for her about reading the classics. It’ll be my first guest post and I’m pretty excited about it.

This week I had to press the “MARK ALL AS READ” button on my book news folder as it got way too unmanageable in the time I spent away from the computer, so this Book Loot is sadly lacking the usual list of fascinating tidbits from the literary world. I’ve been busy with Melbourne International Film Festival screenings, but the past week looks mild compared to the crazy schedule I’ve prepared for myself this week. I’m most looking forward to The Killer Inside Me (I have the book on hold, and would have read it by now too if only some dastardly creature hadn’t kept it for three weeks past the due date.), Taqwacore: The Birth of Punk Islam (and I have the book that inspired this documentary on hold as well) and the newest film from one of my favourites, Harmony Korine, Trash Humpers – and yes, it is what it sounds like.

I’ve also (finally) decided to put up the Google Friend Connect widget, and although my loner tendencies like that it’s just me there at the moment, if any of you would care to join me over there, it is sure to be one hell of a party!

Image: a very young Hunter S. Thompson, via tumblr.

Recently Abandoned: July 2010

For the most part, I can’t see the point in wasting my time and energy on a book that isn’t entertaining or enlightening me in some way. Yet, these abandoned books also have a place in my reading history and I feel like it is necessary to document them. Thus, Recently Abandoned, a monthly post where I can write about the books that didn’t work for me.

The Vinyl Underground: Volume Two, Pretty Dead Things by Si Spencer, Simon Gane and Ryan Kelly (2008)The Vinyl Underground: Volume Two, Pretty Dead Things by Si Spencer, Simon Gane and Ryan Kelly (2008)

I hated volume one, Watching the Detectives, because of the simplistic reduction of the female characters to the stereotypical roles of pornstars or princesses. I can’t help myself though, and after feeling only mildly about the first volume of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, the second volume increased my appreciation for the series tenfold. Stupidly, I thought perhaps the same thing would be at work here. Within the opening pages the central crime to be solved by our dashing heroes involves the “pretty dead things” of the title, naked women kept and tortured as slaves, their objectification made literal by the everyday object names scrawled on their foreheads. I don’t need to read this. I flicked through the rest, but it is a series that I will happily forget.

Rabbit, Run by John Updike (1960)Rabbit, Run by John Updike (1960)

This really should not be on here. I started reading it while in the middle of my graphic novel binge, hoping that it would free me from my prose reading rut. At first, I found Rabbit’s attitude toward his wife really distasteful, his hatred and dissatisfaction masked by vain superficiality. I put the book aside for a while, and started to think about it more as the expression of a twenty-something malaise in a different generational setting. I couldn’t get Rabbit’s all night drive to nowhere out of my head. I put it aside again, this time for too long, in order to indulge in more Transmetropolitan and just lost all interest in Rabbit, Run. The writing had moments of beauty though, and I’m definitely going to return to Updike in the future, I just picked up Rabbit, Run at the wrong time.

What books did you abandon this month? Anything that you picked up in July and promptly lost interest in? Any books that compelled you to throw it at a wall or small child?

The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain (1934)

The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain (1934)I really didn’t like James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice, so this review is going to be a lot briefer than usual. Frank Chambers is a drifter who one day finds himself on the outskirts of Los Angeles. He wanders into the Twin Oaks Tavern, owned by Nick Papadakis, and takes a job. Intense attraction sparks between Frank and Nick’s wife, Cora, and they plot to kill Nick so they can be together, succeeding only on their second attempt. The police suspect them of wrongdoing and reveal that Nick had taken out a hefty life insurance plan after the first attempt on his life, and assume that the payout due was the pair’s motivation. In the clear after some knotty legal finagling, they decide to start their new life together but, c’mon, do you really expect a happy ending here?

“Then he came along. I took him, and so help me, I meant to stick by him. But I can’t stand it any more. God, do I look like a little white bird?”
“To me, you look more like a hell cat.”

The Postman Always Rings Twice is told in a sparse, dialogue driven prose with a quick and sharp rhythm. No time is wasted on motivation or detail, Frank’s desire and reasoning goes largely unexplained. The relationship between Frank and Cora lacks the passion to make their crimes seem convincing. If Cora was too delicate to hurt Nick’s feelings by leaving him, how does that morph into murderous intent? The pedestrian, dispassionate prose makes these characters difficult to comprehend. Where in The Maltese Falcon Hammett’s crime story was written in the stylish prose that defined the hardboiled genre, Cain’s lacks excitement, character or dense plot. Very disappointing.

Concrete Island by J.G. Ballard (1974)

Concrete Island by J.G. Ballard (1974)In J.G. Ballard‘s Concrete Island, architect Robert Maitland crashes his car through a highway barrier, and he expects that he will be easily found and rescued, returned to his safe world of family and extramartial affairs. Only he finds himself injured and unable to escape the abandoned island between motorways – he has great difficulty climbing the embankment, peak hour traffic won’t stop for him and the curve of the highway doesn’t give drivers enough time to register him. Increasingly desperate, he resigns himself to an extended period of isolation on the island.

He realized, above all, that the assumption he had made repeatedly since his arrival on the island – that sooner or later his crashed car would be noticed by a passing driver or policeman, and that rescue would come as inevitably as if he had crashed into the central reservation of a suburban dual carriageway – was completely false, part of that whole system of comfortable expectation he had carried with him. Given the peculiar topography of the island, its mantle of deep grass and coarse shrubbery, and the collection of ruined vehicles, there was no certainty that he would ever be noticed at all.

This is Ballard, and I’m surprised that such a bleak look at the world we’ve built ourselves was able to break my prose fiction reading rut. As always with J.G., the concepts are stronger than the execution, but the ideas are so compellingly prescient. Ballard’s prose style is a pornography of violence, with fetishistic details of Maitland’s seriously injured body and gleeful lingering over the twisted metal carcasses of crashed cars. It’s no surprise that this book was released only a year after Crash. In Crash the car crash was sexual, Concrete Island sees the structures which support transportation as potentially alienating, but again, offering liberation from the constraints of contemporary society.

After a few days spent in total isolation fending for himself – including a fevered psychosis that the the island is a physical manifestation of himself and his past – Robert is taken in by a brain-damaged acrobat and his young female keeper, Proctor and Jane Shepherd. They are curiously unwilling to do anything to help Robert escape the island, but do assist his survival. The return to primal instincts is a key element of the story, as Robert fights for his dominance over the two and their “conspiracy of the grotesque.” His cruelty is perhaps unwarranted – especially toward the sweetly loyal Proctor – but he is able to intellectualize it as necessary for his survival. Robert ultimately decides to remain on the island, intent on finding his own way out.

Concrete Island is full of ambiguity, lacking the closure that Robert’s escape would bring, the uncertainty about Jane and Proctor’s past, or the nature of the island itself. Otherwise innocent embankments now have a sinister implication, that element of the unknown. When so much of the earth’s land has been discovered, perhaps the only real places we can become stranded are those that we ignore daily. Ballard’s is an ugly world, where isolation in the shadow of heavily populated areas is all too possible, and when there is hope, there’s always a stolen sports car in the night, speeding with its headlights off to knock you back to reality.

Book Loot: Week Ending July 25th, 2010

This week:Good Friends (Berta and Capi) by Albert Edelfelt (1882)

This one was a freebie that I received for signing up to Penguin’s Young Adult newsletter Between the Lines. Pretty rad eh? You can still sign up and receive a free book, but it is open to Australian residents only. Now, there’s a phrase you don’t see very often on book blogs!

This week at the very last minute I decided to buy a minipass for the Melbourne International Film Festival. I was a cinema studies student for five long years after all! Originally I had only planned to go to a couple of sessions, but that very quickly turned into a few more sessions and in the end it was cheaper to buy the pass. I’m going to see lots of documentaries, a couple of new films from old favourites and some films picked at random. It’s a great time of year to be in Melbourne, after the film festival ends it’s not long until the Bret Easton Ellis event, and then after that, the Melbourne Writer’s Festival begins! City of Literature? City of Awesome.

Image Credit: Good Friends (Berta and Capi) by Albert Edelfelt, 1882.

The Vinyl Underground: Volume One, Watching the Detectives by Si Spencer, Simon Gane and Cameron Stewart (2008)

The Vinyl Underground: Volume One Watching the Detectives by Si Spencer, Simon Gane and Cameron Stewart (2008)Picking up graphic novels blindly, or relying on familiarity with author and illustrator names, publisher imprint and recognized titles has served me well so far. That is, until I decided to pick up and take home Si Spencer, Simon Gane and Cameron Stewart’s The Vinyl Underground: Volume One Watching the Detectives. It looked like a pop culturally aware, mod styled graphic novel but too much effort has gone into creating elaborate back stories for annoyingly quirky characters and not enough into creating engaging plot lines.

The Vinyl Underground is a team of misfits who work together to solve occult killings in London. Led by Morrison (Moz) Shepherd, the D-list celebrity son of an English football player and pornstar turned soap actress, a tabloid regular, drug addict and ex-con. See what I mean by elaborate backstory? Very little of this has anything to do with the plot of Watching the Detectives, the character histories are already set up and little is done with the story to develop them any further. Joining Moz in his hip converted underground station apartment is Perv – another ex-con whose seizures offer him psychic clues to the crimes they are tracing – and Leah, a forensic science graduate working in a mortuary and virgin online porn star. The keen-eyed among you will recognize that the two female characters mentioned in this overview are both porn actresses. More on that later. When a young African boy’s head is found washed up on the riverside, Moz and his team set out to find the occult connection and solve the murder. Enter Abi, African princess and Moz’s ex-fiancée, whose father has been wrongly accused and incarcerated for the crime.

Don’t give me that crap. You’re all in this Scooby Doo bullshit vigilante thing together.

The story, despite the promising premise, is murky and unengaging. A subplot about Moz’s missing mother and his father’s involvement with London gangsters is so intent on remaining mysterious that the direction is unclear. Rather than letting the story develop the characters (my sister has a great t-shirt that reads “Plot – it builds character.”) the writer has dumped a load of affectations and quirks upon them and the story drags under this weight. What insight is given to the characters’ past, Moz in particular, does nothing to connect me with them emotionally. I just didn’t care, about the story, the characters or the artwork.

I also take major issue that the main female characters are either princesses or pornstars. I know graphic novels aren’t particularly renowned for their anatomical realism but the women here are presented in such a cartoonish manner, looking most of the time like grown-up Bratz dolls. And don’t think for a moment that having a virgin pornstar is a comment on the bipolar view of female sexuality – again, the contradiction is supposed to be seen as a wacky impossibility. As for Leah, it is as though the writers thought that being restricted from showing her in explicitly sexual imagery (although there is plenty of this) they’d substitute that for her executing extreme violence wherever possible. In The Vinyl Underground Leah’s violence is unmotivated and largely pointless. When Moz is unable to get through to crooked criminals or protect himself, in jumps Leah to brandish her girl-styled violence – there is way too much use of a stilletto as weapon that is probably intended to be an empowering image.

The female relationships are fraught with jealousy and petty bitchiness, again, seemingly unmotivated. Leah’s not interested in Moz, yet takes every opportunity to belittle Abi’s contribution to the group. Abi is defined solely by her relationship with males: looking to help her wrongly jailed father she turns to ex-fiancé Moz. Sure, there are hints that she’s highly educated in the psychogeography of London, but does that come into play in the narrative? Of course not, and why should it when she has the handsomely troubled Moz to come to her aid?

The Vinyl Underground features flat characters and a dismal storyline that doesn’t resolve itself clearly. I’m going to go and read another volume of Transmetropolitan to cleanse my palate.

Transmetropolitan: Volume Three, Year of the Bastard by Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson (1999)

Transmetropolitan: Volume Three, Year of the Bastard by Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson (1999)This review is going to be a difficult one to write. Every time I open Transmetropolitan: Volume Three Year of the Bastard I end up reading the damn thing all the way through again. I’m up to about four times now. Probably five by the time I manage to knock out this review. I take back everything I said previously about loving Transmetropolitan. That was just a schoolgirl crush, puppy love if you will. Year of the Bastard marks the true beginning of a full blown, intense, shout it from the rooftops love.

Volume Three, Year of the Bastard is the beginning of a major story arc in Transmetropolitan. Spider Jerusalem, professional muckraking journalist of the future, hits the campaign trail of the upcoming presidential election, doing all that he can to uncover the political corruption and deceit on all sides. The Beast, Spider’s political enemy, a larger than life all-American leader, is being taken on by hopeful upcomer Gary Callahan – nicknamed The Smiler for his constant and unfailing grin. Spider’s unbiased political position – he wants the best for the people, but doesn’t think that politicians will be able to offer real help – means he is free to report on the best and the worst of both sides. His ruthless honesty, his refusal to be bought, is admirable despite the toll it takes on his health and sanity.

I write a column for The Word newspaper called “I Hate It Here.” The joy of being in this City has worn off. I sense, vaguely, that I’m finally as beaten as everybody else. I sense everything vaguely, these days.

I’m not going to reveal too much of the narrative because the major pivotal point, a politically motivated assassination, has such a strong impact. It proves all of Spider’s cynical assumptions correct and betrays what little hope and faith he had in the campaign. A single page of the look of utter shock on Spider’s face, the background for once in the series just white space – none of the City’s technology or advertising crammed into the space – is just horrifying in it’s ability to convey so much emotion. This is something that I really like about Robertson’s art, the facial expressions are phenomenal. Much of the drama comes from human interaction and reaction, and the artwork is such an integral factor of the series’ appeal.

Royce:  “One day a little over six years ago I went to Spider Jerusalem’s house, Yelena. We were missing a column, and I’d had enough. I had a gun. I was going to walk away with either a column or his heart. I found him in his house’s bath, his body covered in regenerative tape set to reinflate and re-wall his veins, shooting heroin into the skin between his toes. He was bleeding from the eyes because he’d rubbed cocaine into his tearducts thinking it’d keep him awake. Banging H into his feet because all his other veins had collapsed. His last book was being released, he was writing hugely popular columns. He was beloved for torturing the president in print weekly, he was all over TV and the feeds and whispered adoringly over at dinner parties. And then it all stopped. He was loved and rich, and suddenly he couldn’t write anymore. Not like he was, anyway. Spider Jerusalem needs to be in the City to write, Yelena. But he also needs to be hated.”

In amongst all the political scandal, Spider gets a new assistant, Yelena Rossini, and his previous assistant Channon returns as his bodyguard after a brief stint as a Bride of Christ in Fred Christ’s church. Spider has to deal with his public persona being sold as a commodity and the responsibility of being seen as the voice of the people, and does so by ingesting ridiculous amounts of legal and illegal drugs. A single story issue finishes off this volume, while still bitter and misanthropic, adds a little trademark black humour to what is otherwise an emotionally draining collection. Spider, alone in the City at Christmas time, expresses his hatred for the holiday season as well as revealing several distasteful new rituals that have taken hold.

Transmetropolitan just keeps getting better, even when I already thought it was amazing, sucking me into its horrid vision of our future and the search for Truth within it. Now to read Year of the Bastard a fifth time.