...or, as the philosophical investigators Wible and Pacheco also describe their activities, the case is the world, indeed.
Now, after a second reading in close succession to [from?] the first, I feel that I've come closer to 'solving' Icelander than I was immediately after the first time through (eg, I'm pretty sure that it's Hubert Jorgen who is responsible for all the footnotes, and that he was indeed in cahoots with the mysterious Surt...is/was Magnus really Surt? Yes. No. Maybe.), but that's still not particularly close. Deliberately enigmatic, confounding, unresolved, the text's stocks in trade are uncertainty, misunderstanding, simulacra and forgery, failure of meaning ("I -- no" / "I know") and paranoia; unreliable intertexts abound along with self/meta-referentiality (the throwaway Wittgenstein pastiche above, the coroner named Barthes, the victim named MacGuffin, the copy of Tristram Shandy lying around, &c, &c), and while there's a denouement of sorts (complete with the hoariest old detective fiction cliches, the gathering of the major protagonists in the parlour, ready to hear the explanation for all that has gone before), it doesn't at all function in the way that, on its surface, it might seem to.
The comparisons made by the blurb-writers to The Crying of Lot 49 and Nabokov are spot-on - as to that latter, Pale Fire in particular is much in the same vein - and, rather than seeming merely derivative, Icelander achieves a pleasing synthesis of many of the best aspects of those two and the various streams which come with them. In fact, the one thing that holds me back from believing Icelander to be genuinely touched by greatness is that it wears those influences too much on its sleeve - the centrality of the disputed play texts seems a direct nod to Lot 49 (and even if it isn't, the in-that-case-unintentional is rather too marked), while the manner in which the footnotes are used is very similar to that in the Nabokov...
But, that said, Long is very recognisably a writer of the now (although I didn't realise this until I'd got the book home and started reading it, it's on McSweeney's, and that fits) - he doesn't have the ever-ramfiying erudition of a Pynchon or the elegant classicism of a Nabokov (or, at least, he doesn't have them on display in his writing), and I get the impression that he's much more in line with the likes of JSF and Dave Eggers...but unlike, say, Everything Is Illuminated or AHWOSG, the way in which Icelander invokes and engages with its theoretical/conceptual terrain convinces me (whereas I must confess that I often found while reading both of those former two, and the Foer in particular, that I was thinking thoughts along the lines of "yeah, yeah, I've read the same secondary sources explaining the theory you're gesturing at as you - and I bet I understood it better than you, too" (gosh I can be an unattractive person sometimes!)). Then again, while both JSF and Eggers are capable of writing genuinely affecting passages and wholes, Long doesn't even try - that's not what Icelander's all about, and maybe it couldn't possibly be.
What it shares with Lot 49, Pale Fire (which, I ought interject, I've never read in full), Everything Is Illuminated and AHWOSG is the characteristic of being very, very funny, laced with a fine sense of the absurd, and a structure and sensibility which make that humour intrinsic and essential to the novel as a whole. Whether the humour is linguistic, riddle or joke-based, satirical, slapstick, some combination of the above, or something else altogether, one always feels that it's integral to the whole.
And likewise with all the other little details from which Icelander is constructed - and there are so many such details to savour, from the quirks in writing style to the eccentricities of the characters to the weird left turns in the narrative...and the whole time there's a strange sense of familiarity to it all, whether people are being abducted by the Refurserkir, fox-shirted spirit warriors who are able to summon an absence from which to appear (so that a sure sign that they are nearby is precisely when one hears and senses nothing, which is just like the sound that the Refurserkir don't make), or there is skaldic karaoke in the offing (traditional epic Icelandic heroic ballads done in beer halls), or people are musing about the semiotic significance of a dog's bark or the relationship between cause, effect, and being (ineptly) followed by the subject of one's own (circuitous) investigation.
So, Icelander is excellent - offhand, I'd say that it's my favourite book that I've read this year so far.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
100 favourite songs
Ahem.
Songs that I have definitely thought of as my Favourite Song Ever at some point, more or less in order: "#1 Crush" (Garbage); "Lightning Crashes" (Live); "Spark" (Tori Amos); "Creep" (Radiohead); "Wish You Were Here" (Pink Floyd); "Paranoid Android" (Radiohead); "Love Will Tear Us Apart" (Joy Division); "Lorelei" (Cocteau Twins); "Lazy Line Painter Jane" (Belle and Sebastian).
Anyway, it won't surprise anyone when I say that I've always been a very listy person, and music has always lent itself to that pursuit. Some years ago, inspired by triple j's annual hottest 100 countdowns (oh, those were the days!), I started keeping a list of my favourite 100 songs, updating it sporadically; all part of the personal canon-building...there are periods when the list doesn't seem particularly meaningful any more, for whatever reason, but I'm glad to know that it's still there somewhere on the hard drive.
So I was thinking that now might be a good time to revisit that list, and to make something of a project out of writing about each of the resultant current 100 faves ("current 100 faves of all time", natch). I've noticed before that reading something I've written in the past about music or literature that I really like will often remind me of the reasons for that liking in the first place (especialy the handful that I've turned out for epinions over the years), and hopefully the writeups of songs to follow will serve that purpose in the future. Often, I'll have written about them before, and in some cases many times, so there's likely to be a bit of self-quotation and self-referencing going on; also, given the strongly associative nature of many of these favourite songs, stay posted for a likely going-out-the-window of the frequently avowed and always only approximately adhered-to "no extraneous/revealing references to personal life" rule for extemporanea...
Songs that I have definitely thought of as my Favourite Song Ever at some point, more or less in order: "#1 Crush" (Garbage); "Lightning Crashes" (Live); "Spark" (Tori Amos); "Creep" (Radiohead); "Wish You Were Here" (Pink Floyd); "Paranoid Android" (Radiohead); "Love Will Tear Us Apart" (Joy Division); "Lorelei" (Cocteau Twins); "Lazy Line Painter Jane" (Belle and Sebastian).
Anyway, it won't surprise anyone when I say that I've always been a very listy person, and music has always lent itself to that pursuit. Some years ago, inspired by triple j's annual hottest 100 countdowns (oh, those were the days!), I started keeping a list of my favourite 100 songs, updating it sporadically; all part of the personal canon-building...there are periods when the list doesn't seem particularly meaningful any more, for whatever reason, but I'm glad to know that it's still there somewhere on the hard drive.
So I was thinking that now might be a good time to revisit that list, and to make something of a project out of writing about each of the resultant current 100 faves ("current 100 faves of all time", natch). I've noticed before that reading something I've written in the past about music or literature that I really like will often remind me of the reasons for that liking in the first place (especialy the handful that I've turned out for epinions over the years), and hopefully the writeups of songs to follow will serve that purpose in the future. Often, I'll have written about them before, and in some cases many times, so there's likely to be a bit of self-quotation and self-referencing going on; also, given the strongly associative nature of many of these favourite songs, stay posted for a likely going-out-the-window of the frequently avowed and always only approximately adhered-to "no extraneous/revealing references to personal life" rule for extemporanea...
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Don't Come Knocking
I actually considered watching this yesterday, mainly because what I knew of its subject matter seemed likely to be appropriate to the day/'occasion', but the timings weren't right; if I'd known that the main character was named Howard, I might well have made an effort to reorganise things so that I did experience it on Saturday; in any case, though, I caught it this afternoon, having found myself in Carlton with a couple of hours to spare.
What I (thought I) knew about Don't Come Knocking before I saw it was this: it's the new Wim Wenders, it's a western of sorts (complete with music by T Bone Burnett), and its story involves an aging movie star riding off the set of his current film and returning to his old home town where he is confronted with the possibility of making peace with some old demons, most particularly in the form of his family (I'd also picked up the identities of the main members of the cast). As it turns out, while he (Howard) does indeed first ride, then drive, back to his mother's, she is no longer on the old ranch but now lives in small town Nevada - and from there he spins on to Montana, where his son (with whom he's had no contact, and of whose existence he may not have known - I wasn't sure) and the mother of that child, an old flame, live...but, that minor detail aside, what I was expecting was largely what I got...storywise, it has some obvious similarities to Broken Flowers, and while its underlying concerns are quite different, it shares with that film a distinctive flavour and poetry that I can only describe as 'cinematic'.
The film looks great - the myth of the American west has always loomed large for me, and this has only increased with my falling into the music which goes with those imaginative landscapes over the last 18 months or so, and Wenders doesn't stint on the panoramic vistas and the sudden, striking beauty (whether widescreen or more intimate). The casting and actors are a continuing highlight here: I'm not familiar with Sam Shepard (though the name is very familiar), but he holds it all together as the rugged, weatherbeaten cowboy at the centre of things and is unobtrusively good; the iconic status of Eva Marie Saint as his mother (I had no idea that she was even still alive, never mind acting) works for the part and she acquits herself well; Gabriel Mann (another unfamiliar figure), as Earl, Howard's skinny, angry, rock 'n' country music-singing son, is very impressive; Jessica Lange does another turn as the woman from the past knocked around by life, now aged but getting by, and does so with aplomb; and Sarah Polley fits right in in a context which I would never have thought would work for her...also, there's Fairuza Balk, her character seemingly transplanted straight from all the 90s alterna-chick roles that I knew her for back in the day, but also making it work; and Tim Roth in a queer turn as the company man sent to bring Howard back, far short of villainy nor rendered with any particular sympathetic features and nonetheless interesting.
Some nice cinematographic/directorial touches, too - the western elements, say (the stunning opening; the circling effect of the cameras at times; the ironic but still somehow genuinely appropriate modern tumbleweed-surrogate of the cardboard box blowing through the street), and some of the lighting (the glow which often surrounds Sky, Sarah Polley's character, for example) - and there are some killer sequences (the confrontation between Earl and his mother, Doreen (Lange), is fiercely affecting, and the quasi-montage depicting Howard's night on the sofa in the street is excellent, too - and there are others), as well as a well-pitched and uplifting ending. Overall, I think that Don't Come Knocking has its own particular rhythm, and one really needs to allow it to operate on its own terms for the film to work - it certainly won't be for everyone. But, evidently, it worked for me, and while I can't quite pin down how it works, I thought the film very rich and, by its end, satisfying in a way which feels rather profound.
* * *
Post-script: I thought I recognised the voice of the female vocalist on the theme song which plays during the film, but couldn't work it out - surprised and pleased to learn from the closing credits that it was Andrea Corr (the male vocalist being Bono, who I would've expected to be more distinctive but hadn't rung any bells at all at the time).
What I (thought I) knew about Don't Come Knocking before I saw it was this: it's the new Wim Wenders, it's a western of sorts (complete with music by T Bone Burnett), and its story involves an aging movie star riding off the set of his current film and returning to his old home town where he is confronted with the possibility of making peace with some old demons, most particularly in the form of his family (I'd also picked up the identities of the main members of the cast). As it turns out, while he (Howard) does indeed first ride, then drive, back to his mother's, she is no longer on the old ranch but now lives in small town Nevada - and from there he spins on to Montana, where his son (with whom he's had no contact, and of whose existence he may not have known - I wasn't sure) and the mother of that child, an old flame, live...but, that minor detail aside, what I was expecting was largely what I got...storywise, it has some obvious similarities to Broken Flowers, and while its underlying concerns are quite different, it shares with that film a distinctive flavour and poetry that I can only describe as 'cinematic'.
The film looks great - the myth of the American west has always loomed large for me, and this has only increased with my falling into the music which goes with those imaginative landscapes over the last 18 months or so, and Wenders doesn't stint on the panoramic vistas and the sudden, striking beauty (whether widescreen or more intimate). The casting and actors are a continuing highlight here: I'm not familiar with Sam Shepard (though the name is very familiar), but he holds it all together as the rugged, weatherbeaten cowboy at the centre of things and is unobtrusively good; the iconic status of Eva Marie Saint as his mother (I had no idea that she was even still alive, never mind acting) works for the part and she acquits herself well; Gabriel Mann (another unfamiliar figure), as Earl, Howard's skinny, angry, rock 'n' country music-singing son, is very impressive; Jessica Lange does another turn as the woman from the past knocked around by life, now aged but getting by, and does so with aplomb; and Sarah Polley fits right in in a context which I would never have thought would work for her...also, there's Fairuza Balk, her character seemingly transplanted straight from all the 90s alterna-chick roles that I knew her for back in the day, but also making it work; and Tim Roth in a queer turn as the company man sent to bring Howard back, far short of villainy nor rendered with any particular sympathetic features and nonetheless interesting.
Some nice cinematographic/directorial touches, too - the western elements, say (the stunning opening; the circling effect of the cameras at times; the ironic but still somehow genuinely appropriate modern tumbleweed-surrogate of the cardboard box blowing through the street), and some of the lighting (the glow which often surrounds Sky, Sarah Polley's character, for example) - and there are some killer sequences (the confrontation between Earl and his mother, Doreen (Lange), is fiercely affecting, and the quasi-montage depicting Howard's night on the sofa in the street is excellent, too - and there are others), as well as a well-pitched and uplifting ending. Overall, I think that Don't Come Knocking has its own particular rhythm, and one really needs to allow it to operate on its own terms for the film to work - it certainly won't be for everyone. But, evidently, it worked for me, and while I can't quite pin down how it works, I thought the film very rich and, by its end, satisfying in a way which feels rather profound.
* * *
Post-script: I thought I recognised the voice of the female vocalist on the theme song which plays during the film, but couldn't work it out - surprised and pleased to learn from the closing credits that it was Andrea Corr (the male vocalist being Bono, who I would've expected to be more distinctive but hadn't rung any bells at all at the time).
Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner
First things first: I definitely felt a bit of (internal) resistance towards the idea of reading this book. It happened to be the first selection for the MS AC book club, and based on the blurb and the first two or three chapters, I decided that it was very likely to be utterly well-meaning, worthy, politely liberal middle class-friendly, and dull - the kind of book that people who read a dozen books a year would take to heart and treasure. Moreover, the main story (as disclosed by said blurb) is one of those which I find particularly tedious (unless done exceptionally well or in a sufficiently interesting and original manner) - the 'character does wrong and then seeks (and, inevitably in these kinds of novels, finds) redemption' narrative. Do I sound like just a wee bit of a snob? Well, then - there's not really anything I can say to that, except that, I guess, in some ways these distinctions are what I'm all about, and besides, if I'm unlikely to enjoy a book, then I'm unlikely to enjoy it, however putatively 'unworthy' the reasons for that likelihood.
So anyhow, it's probably unsurprising (for reasons of chicken and egg etc if for no others) that my expectations of The Kite Runner were largely met. I didn't find it difficult to read, but I also never - with one important caveat - really felt engaged by the novel...I think that it's a very good (in the positive sense of well-written and well done, rather than just particularly typical) example of its kind, but evidently not good enough to reach a reader like myself who isn't drawn to that 'kind'. The characters convince, the story has momentum, the settings are interesting - and I felt that I'd learned a bit about Afghan culture along the way - but in the end there just wasn't enough of anything to it, any intangible sparkle, to make me feel that it had been worth my time reading the novel. The one caveat, which I mentioned earlier, and which went some way towards making reading the novel a worthwhile experience for me, is that the last 30 or so pages do pack a genuine emotional punch, suggesting that I'd been more involved in what had gone before than I'd realised...but that, though something, just wasn't enough for me. If I kept different company, I would probably be able to recommend The Kite Runner quite highly to many of my hypothetical acquaintances, but as it is, well...
So anyhow, it's probably unsurprising (for reasons of chicken and egg etc if for no others) that my expectations of The Kite Runner were largely met. I didn't find it difficult to read, but I also never - with one important caveat - really felt engaged by the novel...I think that it's a very good (in the positive sense of well-written and well done, rather than just particularly typical) example of its kind, but evidently not good enough to reach a reader like myself who isn't drawn to that 'kind'. The characters convince, the story has momentum, the settings are interesting - and I felt that I'd learned a bit about Afghan culture along the way - but in the end there just wasn't enough of anything to it, any intangible sparkle, to make me feel that it had been worth my time reading the novel. The one caveat, which I mentioned earlier, and which went some way towards making reading the novel a worthwhile experience for me, is that the last 30 or so pages do pack a genuine emotional punch, suggesting that I'd been more involved in what had gone before than I'd realised...but that, though something, just wasn't enough for me. If I kept different company, I would probably be able to recommend The Kite Runner quite highly to many of my hypothetical acquaintances, but as it is, well...
"Casual Exhibit 06: Dom + Jen" @ Addix Cafe Bar
I bumped into Jenny W on the bus a couple of weeks ago and she mentioned that she and a friend were having a 'once off' exhibition evening showcasing some of their work in the near future; I made politely interested noises (well, I was politely interested) and glanced at the follow-up mass email that she sent a bit later, and that's probably where it would've rested had I not then run into her again last Thursday, the night before the exhibit (during which run-in something she said caused me to put the pieces together and realise that her co-exhibitor was in fact the very same Dom K with whose orbit my own briefly intersected a few years back). So anyway, with that encounter to freshen my recollection, I swung by for a while on Friday night after dinner and was quite impressed - taken as a whole, it was a bit all over the shop, as it was comprised of their separate work (ie, not collaborative) and both displayed in a variety of mediums and styles, but I thought that the works of each showed a bit of talent, and the event seemed to be going off well during the time that I was there.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Current soundtracks
Music of the moment is, in many respects, all of a piece. In particular, we're talking Neil Young (mostly On The Beach but also lots of After The Gold Rush), Wilco (especially Kicking Television and Summerteeth), and that pair of great late 90s R.E.M. records, New Adventures In Hi-Fi and Up (their best two albums, I reckon), as well as, to a lesser extent, bits of Gram and Emmylou (together and separately),[*] the Sundays and Big Star. (Also, "Elevator Love Letter", "Hold On, Hold On" and "There Is An End".)
It's not necessarily that I've been listening to all of those particularly much (though in most cases I have been), but more that it's the music which just feels as if it's drifting in the air around me right now.
* * *
[*] Speaking of whom, this is a good article with whose subject-matter I identified a bit.
It's not necessarily that I've been listening to all of those particularly much (though in most cases I have been), but more that it's the music which just feels as if it's drifting in the air around me right now.
* * *
[*] Speaking of whom, this is a good article with whose subject-matter I identified a bit.
Philip Pullman - The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass
Still ace. (See previously.)
Actually, following a link from bookslut, I noticed that a film version of Northern Lights ('The Golden Compass' overseas, apparently) is in the works. Early signs are good - it's being handled by New Line (the crew behind, amongst other things, the Lord of the Rings adaptation), and Tom Stoppard produced the first cut of the screenplay - and it's tentatively slated for early 2007, which seems rather optimistic given that the public announcement of the casting of Lyra was only a few days ago but is a bit exciting nonetheless.
Actually, following a link from bookslut, I noticed that a film version of Northern Lights ('The Golden Compass' overseas, apparently) is in the works. Early signs are good - it's being handled by New Line (the crew behind, amongst other things, the Lord of the Rings adaptation), and Tom Stoppard produced the first cut of the screenplay - and it's tentatively slated for early 2007, which seems rather optimistic given that the public announcement of the casting of Lyra was only a few days ago but is a bit exciting nonetheless.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
I ♥ Huckabees
I think that I got this pretty much right the first time - it's a wonderful patchwork of colours, ideas and human drama (not to mention a great source of conceptual shorthand for signifying various facets of existence and everything.
(Was inspired to rewatch by Icelander, with which I think Huckabees has a fair bit in common - not least in the prominence that both accord to a pair of existential/philosophical detectives - though Long's novel is more open-ended and unresolved, which may or may not be the particular prerogative of literature.)
(Was inspired to rewatch by Icelander, with which I think Huckabees has a fair bit in common - not least in the prominence that both accord to a pair of existential/philosophical detectives - though Long's novel is more open-ended and unresolved, which may or may not be the particular prerogative of literature.)
Wah-Wah
Arrived at Nova after work; I was wanting to see Don't Come Knocking, the new Wim Wenders (well, actually what I most want to watch at the moment is the new Pirates of the Caribbean, but that wasn't really on the cards), but both Swee Leng and Wei were keen on Wah-Wah so I allowed myself to be overruled. Took said overruling in good grace, though - of course! - not least because I could hardly begrudge the chance to see Emily Watson and Gabriel Byrne on screen together.
Had had a couple of capsule reviews from people who'd seen the film before - one gave me the impression that it was good but kind of a downer, the other was along the lines (his words, not mine) that it was a film that you'd take your grandmother to. In the event, I think that the latter was closer to the mark, though I could see where the first comment was coming from too. I liked Wah-Wah - its account of latter-day colonial British mores (Swaziland in 1969 as it moved towards independence from imperial rule) is funny, squirm-worthy and, if frequently biting, also essentially fond or at least ultimately merciful, I think. In many ways, it's a film which doesn't go anywhere in particular - and my antipathy towards coming of age tales remains as strong as ever - but there's a pleasing, subtle flavour of loss and nostalgia to it, and some interesting stuff going on with camera work etc, and in the end it's quietly moving, too. Glad I saw it.
Had had a couple of capsule reviews from people who'd seen the film before - one gave me the impression that it was good but kind of a downer, the other was along the lines (his words, not mine) that it was a film that you'd take your grandmother to. In the event, I think that the latter was closer to the mark, though I could see where the first comment was coming from too. I liked Wah-Wah - its account of latter-day colonial British mores (Swaziland in 1969 as it moved towards independence from imperial rule) is funny, squirm-worthy and, if frequently biting, also essentially fond or at least ultimately merciful, I think. In many ways, it's a film which doesn't go anywhere in particular - and my antipathy towards coming of age tales remains as strong as ever - but there's a pleasing, subtle flavour of loss and nostalgia to it, and some interesting stuff going on with camera work etc, and in the end it's quietly moving, too. Glad I saw it.
Dustin Long - Icelander
Just a placeholding entry, this - browsing in Metropolis the other day, picked Icelander up and was intrigued by the blurb:
A Nabokovian goof on Agatha Christie; a madcap mystery in the deceptive tradition of The Crying of Lot 49; The Third Policeman meets The Da Vinci Code. Icelander is the debut novel from a brilliant new mind, an intricate, giddy romp steeped equally in Nordic lore and pulpy intrigue. When Shirley MacGuffin is found murdered one day prior to the annual town celebration in remembrance of Our Heroine's mother--the legendary crime-stopper and evil-thwarter Emily Bean--everyone expects Our Heroine to follow in her mother's footsteps and solve the case. She, however, has no interet in inheriting the family business, or being chased through steam-tunnels, or listening to skaldic karaoke, or fleeing the inhuman Refurserkir, or-- But Evil has no interest in her lack of interest, and thus: adventure ensues.
and the opening paragraph:
Our Heroine woke to the sound of snowflakes, plaughtting against the window, perfect stellar dendrites that shattered as they crashed against the glass. Through a too-dry throat she groaned at them--some Adamic word of banishing--but it was fruitless, and the snow's frigid spirit managed nonetheless to translate itself across the pane. From there it pressed on through blankets, quilts, and sheets to possess Our Heroine buried nude beneath. She shivered, let a yawn well through her body, and as she stretched herself out among the farthest reaches of bed, she felt the acids built up in her limbs; she felt how far she could stretch without touching anything at all.
and some other passages that my eye fell upon as I flipped, such as this (which I later learned, upon reading the whole novel, was an exchange between Our Heroine and the philosophical investigators Mr Wible and Mr Pacheco):
"Noted. And as long as we're being amiable, I do like the mustache, Pacheco. The grey Fu Manchu thing works for you. It does a lot for your image as a mystery metaphysician. Goes well with the trench coat."
"Your valueless flattery is not enought to distract us from our purpose."
"Duly noted. But, as pleasant as this all has been, I should really be going now."
"Of course. And in opposition to my partner, I appreciate your appreciation of my moustache. It took me quite a while to grow it out."
"Well, it was worth it. It looks good."
"The Image is the mask of Substance, but sometimes the two can become transposed."
"Okay. I'll see you guys later, then."
"Indeed you shall. Indeed you shall."
So I took it home, and finished reading it a few days ago, and have been delighted to find that Icelander lives up to all that was promised by those initial impression. But I started re-reading the book straight away, and am amidst that right now, so more thoughts to follow.
A Nabokovian goof on Agatha Christie; a madcap mystery in the deceptive tradition of The Crying of Lot 49; The Third Policeman meets The Da Vinci Code. Icelander is the debut novel from a brilliant new mind, an intricate, giddy romp steeped equally in Nordic lore and pulpy intrigue. When Shirley MacGuffin is found murdered one day prior to the annual town celebration in remembrance of Our Heroine's mother--the legendary crime-stopper and evil-thwarter Emily Bean--everyone expects Our Heroine to follow in her mother's footsteps and solve the case. She, however, has no interet in inheriting the family business, or being chased through steam-tunnels, or listening to skaldic karaoke, or fleeing the inhuman Refurserkir, or-- But Evil has no interest in her lack of interest, and thus: adventure ensues.
and the opening paragraph:
Our Heroine woke to the sound of snowflakes, plaughtting against the window, perfect stellar dendrites that shattered as they crashed against the glass. Through a too-dry throat she groaned at them--some Adamic word of banishing--but it was fruitless, and the snow's frigid spirit managed nonetheless to translate itself across the pane. From there it pressed on through blankets, quilts, and sheets to possess Our Heroine buried nude beneath. She shivered, let a yawn well through her body, and as she stretched herself out among the farthest reaches of bed, she felt the acids built up in her limbs; she felt how far she could stretch without touching anything at all.
and some other passages that my eye fell upon as I flipped, such as this (which I later learned, upon reading the whole novel, was an exchange between Our Heroine and the philosophical investigators Mr Wible and Mr Pacheco):
"Noted. And as long as we're being amiable, I do like the mustache, Pacheco. The grey Fu Manchu thing works for you. It does a lot for your image as a mystery metaphysician. Goes well with the trench coat."
"Your valueless flattery is not enought to distract us from our purpose."
"Duly noted. But, as pleasant as this all has been, I should really be going now."
"Of course. And in opposition to my partner, I appreciate your appreciation of my moustache. It took me quite a while to grow it out."
"Well, it was worth it. It looks good."
"The Image is the mask of Substance, but sometimes the two can become transposed."
"Okay. I'll see you guys later, then."
"Indeed you shall. Indeed you shall."
So I took it home, and finished reading it a few days ago, and have been delighted to find that Icelander lives up to all that was promised by those initial impression. But I started re-reading the book straight away, and am amidst that right now, so more thoughts to follow.
Helium - Pirate Prude
Fuzzy sharp-edged crashing waves of guitar noise with Mary Timony's reedy voice weaving uncertain skeins through and around, all things fiery, lo-fi and epic; melodies like falling tears in a hard autumn rain. On this record, at least (1994; Matador), Helium make music something like the way a cross between Siamese Dream-era Pumpkins (and especially songs like "Today", "Hummer" and "Mayonaise") and Mira would sound (maybe with a bit of Throwing Muses tossed in for good measure). For basically as long as I've liked 'alternative' music, I've been wired to respond to this kind of stuff - and, as far as that goes, Pirate Prude is pretty damn great. Four long songs and two shorter ones, all excellent.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Dorothy Parker, still
[7/9/17: this entry rehoused elsewhere. Not actually so revealing in terms of autobiography, but very much so in terms of sensibility!]
Philip Pullman - Northern Lights
Splashed out a little while back and bought myself the box set of the trilogy. I just read these last year (which was the first time), but some books lend themselves to earlier re-reading than most, and Pullman's literate fantasy cycle - supposedly written for children, and I can imagine the books having a huge impact on receptive ones, but of course we know better than to be misled by those kinds of 'supposedlies' - seemingly falls into that category.
This time round, there was less urgency to my reading - less haste to plow through and find out what would happen next, what strange wonder would emerge from the next casket to be opened - and I was better able to appreciate the craft and the elegance of the novel...the way it sets up a cascading series of uncertainties and realignments in its opening chapters, the deft way in which leaps from setting to setting are handled and foreboding inklings of future possibilities are introduced, the lyricism and grandeur of its key descriptive and imaginative passages. A'course, I have been reading it through the prism of the book's being primarily written for children (or, perhaps more accurately, that nebulous class of person which only seems to exist for the purpose of the marketing of books, 'young adults'), and made corresponding allowances, but it's darn good on any terms and remains so on a second reading.
Thoughts on first reading here, and also on The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, both probably soon to also be re-devoured.
This time round, there was less urgency to my reading - less haste to plow through and find out what would happen next, what strange wonder would emerge from the next casket to be opened - and I was better able to appreciate the craft and the elegance of the novel...the way it sets up a cascading series of uncertainties and realignments in its opening chapters, the deft way in which leaps from setting to setting are handled and foreboding inklings of future possibilities are introduced, the lyricism and grandeur of its key descriptive and imaginative passages. A'course, I have been reading it through the prism of the book's being primarily written for children (or, perhaps more accurately, that nebulous class of person which only seems to exist for the purpose of the marketing of books, 'young adults'), and made corresponding allowances, but it's darn good on any terms and remains so on a second reading.
Thoughts on first reading here, and also on The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, both probably soon to also be re-devoured.
Renaissance
Pretty good, this. Not good in a Sin City push-you-back-into-your-seat-with-its-sheer-force kinda way, but good nonetheless. Noirish animation, almost all in black and white, graphic novel sensibility without overplaying its hand either visually or 'philosophically' (had a couple of 'uh-oh' moments but the film always pulled back from the brink), story perhaps a bit predictable but, y'know, these moves and twists are, in a way, wired into us and so we respond to them anyway, whether because of their immanent properties or out of familiarity...
Raise The Red Lantern
As befits a film with the word 'red' in its title, Raise The Red Lantern is drenched in colour - reds, yes, and associated oranges, but also notably deep, rich blues (though sometimes almost garishly so, leading me to wonder about the quality of the transfer to the dvd) shaded with black. It's drenched, too, in what I can only describe as a sombre hue - a heaviness and sense of abject constrainedness that Asian directors (here, Zhang Yimou) seem so often to do so well; it's a beautiful and unshakeable film and its suffocating gilded-cage atmosphere is part of that effect. (Beauty as an effect? Well, never let it be said that I'm one to shy away from large claims or assumptions...)
For basically as long as I can remember, I've had the sense that, at some point far in the past, I saw this film, or at least bits of it, and probably Farewell My Concubine too (for some reason I always think of the two together), and had retained - or thought I'd retained - a profound sense of slow, stultifying sadness.[*] Having watched it last night (Friday), I don't think that I'd seen it before - though I'm still not sure, and after all, often it's the memory of how something felt that lingers rather than the memory of the thing itself - but it does have a certain iconic quality (even) on its own terms, a kind of intrinsic statuesquerie. This is augmented by some of the choices made - the way that the master is always occluded, say, as if his identity is irrelevant (as opposed to his symbolic tole), or the striking opening vignette in which Songliang. And as events go forward, things take on a genuinely tragic air.
I have to say, it impressed me more than I liked it - but then I don't know if 'liking' is really a meaningful category or type of response for a film such as this in the first place. There's something in Raise The Red Lantern that I'm not sure I've seen before in a film - something powerful and strange and, I suspect, unshakeable.
* * *
[*] Actually, it was the fact of this coming up in conversation with Steph a while ago which resulted in this viewing - a while later, she'd made a gift of the dvd to me (one of those occasion-less gifts which are always the more appreciated for their lack of a pretext).
For basically as long as I can remember, I've had the sense that, at some point far in the past, I saw this film, or at least bits of it, and probably Farewell My Concubine too (for some reason I always think of the two together), and had retained - or thought I'd retained - a profound sense of slow, stultifying sadness.[*] Having watched it last night (Friday), I don't think that I'd seen it before - though I'm still not sure, and after all, often it's the memory of how something felt that lingers rather than the memory of the thing itself - but it does have a certain iconic quality (even) on its own terms, a kind of intrinsic statuesquerie. This is augmented by some of the choices made - the way that the master is always occluded, say, as if his identity is irrelevant (as opposed to his symbolic tole), or the striking opening vignette in which Songliang. And as events go forward, things take on a genuinely tragic air.
I have to say, it impressed me more than I liked it - but then I don't know if 'liking' is really a meaningful category or type of response for a film such as this in the first place. There's something in Raise The Red Lantern that I'm not sure I've seen before in a film - something powerful and strange and, I suspect, unshakeable.
* * *
[*] Actually, it was the fact of this coming up in conversation with Steph a while ago which resulted in this viewing - a while later, she'd made a gift of the dvd to me (one of those occasion-less gifts which are always the more appreciated for their lack of a pretext).
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