Book Review: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

            Lunar Park is, to use an overplayed term, deceptively complex.  At once an autobiography, a ghost story, and therapy, Ellis tells the story of an edgy writer named Bret Easton Ellis who was catapulted to fame at a young age with the publication of Less Than Zero, only to come crashing back to Earth in middle age.   Bret (the character; I’ll refer to the author as Ellis) gets married to the movie star mother of his 11 year old illegitimate child and a six year daughter and moves to the suburbs to try to escape his past.  But his past comes back to haunt him, quite literally.   

            Ellis maintains the sleek writing style of his previous novels, but the tone is very different.  In his first three novels (Less than Zero, The Rules of Attraction, and American Psycho (I have not read Glamorama, and so will not comment on it)), the lifestyles of the privileged youth are depicted as shallow and ultimately meaningless.  While certainly depressing, the characters are in no hurry to leave that lifestyle behind, leaving the reader with the sense of the directionlessness and ennui the protagonists experience.  But Bret finds meaning and stability.  This book is about his (Ellis and Bret’s) coming to terms with maturity and responsibility and acceptance of the past.

            A particularly emotional theme running through the book is Bret’s unresolved issues with his father, and how those issues manifest themselves in his relationship with his son.  If Less Than Zero gave us a glimpse into Ellis’s world, Lunar Park gives us a glimpse into his psyche.  Over the course of the book, we see Bret grow emotionally in a way that we don’t see with any of his earlier protagonists. 

            As far as the horror goes, it was not as solid as the other genres wound into the book.  While genuinely scary at points, the horror scenes were on many occasions too bizarre to be taken seriously.  Likewise, Ellis draws out the process of reaching conclusions the reader makes pretty quickly, which throws the pacing off. 

            Overall, I’d recommend Lunar Park, especially to Ellis fans.  Lunar Park draws from previous works, both explicitly and subtly (at one point, Bret has a meeting at one Dorseah Diner) and offers a peek at the man behind the book.

     Favorite Quote: When you give up life for fiction you become a character.

Trailer Trash: Dark Skies

            Horror is hard.  You want to scare the audience, and you don’t want to go the torture porn/slasher route.  Judging by the trailer, “Dark Skies”goes for the haunted house/possession subgenre.  But don’t expect  “Dark Skies” to be the next  Shining or Exorcist.  I saw the following trailer in theaters yesterday:

            You know your horror movie is broken when the audience laughs at the previews as much as they did at the screening I attended.  What starts out as a standard (if a bit cliché) horror movie set up quickly takes a turn for the comic when Mrs. Barret (played by Felicity star Keri Russel) finds her husband (played by 1992 daytime emmy winner Josh Hamilton) standing unresponsive in the family’s backyard at night.   She approaches as J. K. Simmons’s voice-over warns them about strange behavior and loss of control.  She places her hand on her husband’s shoulder, turns to face him and sees…

            It only gets sillier from there, as moments later we see Keri Russel banging her head against a glass window with complete disinterest.

     On the bright side, it will probably be funnier than A Haunted House.

The Box: Uncanny Stories by Richard Matheson (book review)

            The Box: Uncanny Stories (originally titled Button, Button: Uncanny Stories) was released in 2008 and contains stories published between 1950 and 1970.  The name was changed to capitalize off the (then upcoming) film adaptation of the previously titular story, Button, Button. 

See The Box on Goodreads

            Button, Button is a good place to start when discussing Matheson’s short stories.  Most of his stories have a compelling “what if?” scenario behind them and end with a sort of poetic justice twist.  While reading this collection, I immediately made comparisons to The Twilight Zone.  A quick bit of research on Matheson turned up that he was a writer for The Twilight Zone.   Another comparison I’d like to mention is how some of his stories are reminiscent of the old radio program Suspense.  The stories Dying Room Only, No Such Thing as a Vampire, and Clothes Make the Man are very suited for a radio adaptation. 

            What follows is a brief (spoiler free) review of each of the twelve stories in the collection.

            Button, Button (originally published in 1970): A stranger offers a married couple $50,000 if they press a button.  However, pressing the button will kill someone they don’t know.  The real effect of this story is in the ending, which you can find for yourself.

            Girl of My Dreams (originally published in 1963): The story follows a woman who dreams future tragedies and her exploitative boyfriend.  Together, they sell the information the woman receives in her dreams to those that would be affected.  Like Button, Button, there is a definite Twilight Zone poetic justice air to this story.

            Dying Room Only (originally published in 1953):  A married couple stops at a diner in the middle of the desert, and the husband disappears.  This is more of a mystery/suspense story than a sci-fi/horror story.

            A Flourish of Strumpets (originally published in 1956): What if prostitution became a door-to-door business?  That’s the premise of this story, which leans toward the humorous.

            No Such Thing as a Vampire (originally published in 1959): A Romanian doctor’s wife starts to succumb to symptoms of vampiric assault.  The story’s prose is very melodramatic, the first sentence describing the how doctor’s wife “awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor.”

            Pattern for Survival (originally published in 1955): A very short story about the dreams of a writer.

            Mute (originally published in 1962): At nearly 50 pages, this is the longest story in the collection.  It follows the story of a child named Paal, who is adopted by the town’s sheriff and his wife after the boy’s parents die in a fire.  Paal cannot speak, but has some telepathic ability.

            The Creeping Terror (originally published in 1959):  Despite having the most cliché title of any story in the collection it is the most original.  It’s written as a college paper (with brief interludes of third person omniscient narration) about a historical event known as the L.A. Movement.  Not only is Los Angeles alive, but it’s spreading.  This is a humorous story, which pokes a bit of fun at Los Angeles (as an Angelino, I’m all for this).

            Shock Wave (originally published in 1963): A church organist is convinced that the organ has gained sentience.

            Clothes Make the Man (originally published in 1950): There is a man who cannot think without a hat, walk without shoes, use his hands without gloves, etc.

            The Jazz Machine (originally published in 1962):  This is the only story where the prose is worth mentioning.  Written in non-rhyming verse, The Jazz Machine is the first person narrative of a jazz musician who is approached by a man who claims that he has a machine that can translate jazz into the sentiments it is meant to express.  While I’m not a fan of beat poetry, this story is very well written.

            ‘Tis the Season to be Jelly (originally published in 1963): A slice-of-life story about mutants living in a (presumably) post-apocalyptic world.  This is probably the strangest story of the lot.

Book Review: House of Leaves

            Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves is proof that there are still unexplored avenues in horror and experimental literature.  Danielewski takes the old mantra of “show, don’t tell” to its extreme, sculpting the layout of the pages to show the characters’ mental states and even, occasionally, their physical location.  Alternating between agoraphobic (a single paragraph at the bottom of a page) and labyrinthine (footnotes running through the text in multiple directions), House of Leaves is an exercise in form as an integral part of story-telling. 

            It was no coincidence that I used the term labyrinthine in the previous paragraph.  Both the story and the form it takes are like a labyrinth (an analogy the author (but not the narrator) of the novel within the novel also makes); getting lost in the branching corridors of the lives of Will Navidson, Zampanó, and Johnny Truant is easy, but you will be greatly rewarded if you can find the right path. 

            If you have not read House of Leaves, you’re probably wondering what the heck I’m talking about with novels within novels and sideways footnotes.  There are three main stories in House of Leaves.  That of Johnny Truant, who found a manuscript among the belongings of the deceased blind man known only as Zampanó, the story within the novel itself, and the story of Zampanó.  The bulk of House of Leaves is comprised of Zampanó’s novel, The Navidson Record, which is written to look like a non-fiction exegesis on a fictional documentary of the same name.  It follows the story of an acclaimed photojournalist, Will Navidson, his children, and their mother, as they move into a house in Virginia and try to settle down (Navidson was never around, always documenting wars or disasters).  Navidson got grant money to make a documentary about putting down roots and becoming close as a family.  Things take a turn for the strange as they discover that the house is slightly larger on the inside than on the outside.  Then things become downright spooky as rooms start appearing including mile-long hallways and below-freezing chambers. 

In some editions, the dust-jacket is smaller than the book.

            Because The Navidson Record has taken the form of a scholarly pursuit, footnotes abound.  While not a typical manner of comedic relief (although House of Leaves is anything but typical), the criticism of film (and perhaps literary) criticism is clever, albeit a bit repetitive.  Consider the idea that scholars wrote hundreds, or even thousands, of books and articles were about the physics, symbolism, and nature of the House on Ash Tree Lane, but were either unable or unwilling to go to the house itself.  (If it seems like I’m reaching, Karen, the love of Will Navidson’s life, gets opinions on a clip from the documentary from a number of real-life authors, filmmakers, architects, critics, etc., including Derrida, the father of deconstructionism.  While all the people asked provide different answers, only Derrida is portrayed as spouting incomprehensible nonsense.)

            Among the footnotes Johnny Truant will occasionally interrupt, his life having descended, slowly, gradually, into madness.  His history and his present are mirrored and affected by The Navidson Record and those acquainted with the enigmatic Zampanó. 

            Zampanó doesn’t have his own story, so much as he informs the other stories.  We learn about him through his acquaintances, through the information Johnny digs up, and through what he puts in his novel, or more importantly, what he tries to leaves out.   Sections of crossed out material (including the previously mentioned labyrinth analogy) that Johnny included in his transcription of the novel tell us about its author.  In this way, the book examines the relationship between the author and his work. 

            The way all the storylines interact with each other can be confusing, but creates something greater than the sum of its parts.  It’s not an easy read, but House of Leaves is worth the effort.

           

Breif Book Review: Dune

Frank Herbert’s Dune can be read two ways.  The first is as a story:

            With a few twists, the story behind Dune is an old one.  A noble family travels to another fief, only to fall victim to treachery resulting in the death of the father and forced exile of the son; the son must get his revenge and reclaim the throne.  Make the fief a planet named Arrakis, and add in prophecy, mystic abilities, and futuristic tech, and you’ve got the story of Paul Atreides.

The second (and I believe better) way to read this novel is as a portrait:

            Like I said, the story throughout Dune is an old one, one that will not surprise the reader too much.  But the point isn’t the plot, it’s the planet.  What Herbert attempts and (I believe) succeeds in doing, is giving us enough of an understanding of an entire world and population to be able to extrapolate and comprehend their present, past, and future.  He covers topics ranging from ecology, to theology, to military strategy, to Xenobiology.  The scope (and, I presume, intent) of this novel gives the readers more than just a window into another world: It gives them a guided tour.

            In creating a world, some things get more attention than others.  The simplicity of the characters is my biggest complaint (followed closely by the hundreds of times I had to skim through the glossary).  But the people are not the point.  They, like their culture and environs, exist to bring Arrakis to life.  Perhaps there’s something to be learned from the amount of work and detail put into bringing to life a nearly lifeless planet.

            At almost 800 pages (not including the appendices which cover ecology, history of noble families, the intent of a sacred order, and a glossary), Dune may require a bit of work.  Picking up on the lexicon of Arrakis may take some time at first, but is rewarding as you go along.  Dune also asks the reader to accept the mysticism as well as the superscience.  I am, admittedly, not a big fan of the fantasy genre, with many exceptions.  So take it with a grain of salt when I say that the mystic abilities are somewhat confusing in their limitations and uses.

            But at its heart, Dune isn’t any more about magic than it is about any one aspect of the Arrakeen society.  This novel is a portrait of an entire planet.  And it paints that portrait spectacularly.
            

In Defense of Adam Sandler, et al.

Like many movie-lovers, I’ve been disappointed by the string of awful movies by actors who have been historically great.  Actors like Adam Sandler (Happy Gilmore), Jim Carrey (The Truman Show), Nicolas Cage (Leaving Las Vegas), and Eddie Murphy (Trading Places).  And I’m sure anyone reading this is familiar with the immediate backlash against “Jack and Jill,” which, as of writing this, has a 3% fresh rating and 38% audience rating on rottentomatoes.com.  Like many others, my first thoughts on seeing the awful trailer were along the lines of “Why are you doing this?” and “You used to be so funny!”  After thinking for a while, I stopped blaming Adam Sandler and other actors like him for their flubs, and here’s why:

They Didn’t Make the Movie

Adam Sandler was, undoubtedly, the big draw for moviegoers to see “Jack and Jill,” and as such, he’s the name everyone associates with it.  But a quick check on imdb shows that he was, at best, minimally involved with the production outside of acting.  There were three writers, six executive producers, three producers, one co-producer,and one associate producer.  In all fairness, Sandler's name appeared twice on that list.  But the fact remains that he did not have creative control of the movie (so if you want to blame someone, blame the Director Dennis Dugan, whose imdb awards page is officially the saddest thing I’ve seen all day).  But he was still the lead actor in the movie, so that’s still his responsibility, right?  Well…

The Movie Was Awful, Regardless of Acting

Let’s look at The Wicker Man.  One of the most commented upon aspects of the gigantic flop was that of Nicolas Cage’s acting.  Honestly, it was pretty awful.  But let me ask you this: If you replaced Cage with any other actor, would it have been a good movie?   And I don’t mean “a better movie,” because a better performed version would still be shit.  Why? Because the movie as a whole is terrible. 

Should an actor try his/her best, even if the movie is terrible?  Sure.  But then again, acting is an entirely different kind of job.  As long as they get asses in seats, it doesn’t matter to their bosses whether or not they put on a great performance, because after all…

This is Their Job

We in the audience like to think of movie stars as idealistic visionaries who hold the search for truth and aesthetic beauty above such common concerns as money.  We in the audience are (for the most part) wrong.  I’m sure all actors wish that they could do nothing but prestige pieces, make only movies that they feel are cinematic achievements in excellence.  But then reality sets in because a) a majority of movies are of average or below average quality and b) the crappy movies have a better chance of success. 

Don’t believe me?  In 2009, Robin Williams had three mainstream releases.  The first was Old Dogs, in which Williams and John Travolta have take care of twins (wacky hijinks ensue, and they learn important lessons about family).  Of 106 critic reviews on rottentomatoes, only 5 were positive.  It grossed $96 million internationally.  The second film was Night at the Museum 2: Battle of the Smithsonian, in which he plays Teddy Roosevelt as part of an ensemble cast.  This one did better on rottentomatoes, receiving 70 positive votes to 93 negative.  It grossed $413 million internationally.  He was also in a movie called World’s Greatest Dad, an R-rated dark comedy where he plays a divorced father and failing English teacher until his son accidentally kills himself and becomes a cult icon at the school Williams teaches at.  Of the 115 critic votes on rottentomatoes, 102 were positive.  It grossed about $200,000.   The well-reviewed, risky movie earned .03% of the combined gross for the other two mainstream movies released in 2009. 

An actor’s job is to act and to get people to go to the theaters.  If they can earn more money and do both by being in a crappy movie with a larger audience, it’s not just their right, it’s the smart thing to do.  Because they can’t buy things with prestige.  So why don’t we cut the actors a break, and take a look at ourselves, because they wouldn’t keep making these shitty movies if they weren’t so damn profitable.

Outdated Movie Review: Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance (2002)

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance is a South Korean film, and the first part of Park Chan-wook’s “Revenge Trilogy” (it’s a trilogy in terms of theme, the stories don’t connect).  While Old Boy (2003) is unquestionably more famous, I believe that Sympathy is the superior film.

It is very rare for me to see a film, and be left speechless.  Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance is as much a tragedy as it is a revenge story, maybe even more so.  While I’ll admit, I’m not a very good judge of acting unless it’s very good or very bad, none of the actors were bad.  Song Kang-ho (who played Park), in my opinion, particularly stood out.

The violence is over the top sometimes, but it is by no means obtrusive nor is it detrimental to the movie as a whole.

The movie stands out due to its story.  In almost every revenge story, from Hamlet to a Liam Neeson action flick, there is an obvious bad guy.  This villain will often be given some sympathetic aspect, but in the end the audience knows who to root for.  Not so in Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance.  This is a revenge story about good people who make bad decisions, and the damage those decisions cause to themselves and the people they care about.

Outdated Movie Review: Tron: Legacy

            I’d like to preface this review with the fact that I’m a nerd.  If Tron isn’t something you’d be generally be interested in watching, then take everything I say with a grain of salt.  But let’s get this over with.

            The basic premise is this: After the events in the original “Tron,” Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) takes over Encom with his friend Allen (Bruce Boxleitner) and turns it into one of the largest tech companies in the world.  He has a son with the female lead from the original, but she dies between films.  When his son, Samuel Flynn (Garrett Hedlund) is a child, Kevin disappears.  Twenty years later, Allen gets a message from Kevin, and Sam ends up in the grid.

            One of my favorite things about this movie is how it contrasts to the original.  The changes to the visual graphics in the grid and the complexity of the games mirrors the changes in technology in the years between the original and the sequel.  Visually, the film is amazing.  The action sequences are exciting and wholly entertaining.  On the downside, CGI Jeff Bridges looks like he’s stuck halfway down the uncanny valley, and occasionally it looks like the characters just stepped into an ‘80s music video.

            The story doesn’t break new ground, but it manages to keep the audience involved and caring about the fate of the characters.  Jeff Bridges does a good job, but he peppers his monologues on tragic or profound issues with phrases that seem more at home in The Big Lebowski.  It’s hard to take the heroes’ plight seriously when the response to almost certain defeat is “You’re messing with my zen thing, man.”

            I don’t think I can do a review of Tron: Legacy without comparing it to the original.  Is the Tron better?  Yes.  But I think Tron: Legacy carries on the spirit of its predecessor, and does so with style.  If you like the Sci-fi/tech genre as much as I do, you’ll like this movie.  I’d give it 7.5 out of 10.

Outdated Movie Review: The Next Three Days

            The Next Three Days was not what I expected it to be.  When I hit play, I was planning on watching a couple hours of an enjoyable, yet thoroughly ridiculous, prison break story.  A clear good guy, a clear bad guy, more of an action ride than anything else.  I was surprised that this was not the way that the story went.

            The main character, John Brennan, (Russell Crowe) wants to break his wife, Lara (Elizabeth Banks) out of prison.  His wife having been (so far as he believes) wrongly convicted of murder.  The majority of the movie focuses on his life with his young son, Luke, and his designing a plan to break his wife out of prison.  And it’s in this plan that the movie stands out.  There’s no storming the jail’s walls, no prison riots, it’s much more realistic given the capabilities of the character.

            But the film suffers from an identity crisis.  It splits its time between the escape and Brennan’s adjustment to life with his wife in prison, and doesn’t give enough attention to either.  If the film had chosen to focus on one or the other, it would have been much stronger.  Instead, it leaves the viewer feeling like they were just scratching the surface of a great story, not delving in. 

            For example, John Brennan’s relationship with Olivia Wilde’s character would have been  much more compelling if they had taken the route of his son needing a mother figure in his daily life, or if John developed feelings for her.  On the other hand, while the plan to get his wife out of prison was elegant in its simplicity, it lacked the complexity that would have made it more exciting if it had gotten time to do so.

            Besides a detective who jumps to irrational (if correct) conclusions, the movie doesn’t make any huge, individual mistakes.  The acting was average, overall.  And so was the movie for that matter.  It wasn’t a bad film, but it wasn’t great either.  It told an interesting story adequately.  Or rather, it tried to tell two interesting stories.  I’d give it a six out of ten.