Everything I Tell You is Hearsay

Ayn Rand was kind of a crazy bitch. I do not say this to dismiss her, I say it because although I find many of the themes she champions to have a profound resonance for me, I find her sort of personally repugnant.

I read a biography called Goddess of the Market By Jennifer Burns and though it is clear the author is not much in sympathy with Ayn’s views, she turned a fairly dispassionate eye on her life and actions. Ayn was a bit of a megalomaniac, and being one myself, I can relate to that part, but her absolute certainty that her own rationale was the only evidence she needed to support her sometimes outlandish claims flies in the face of sound decision making.

All that being said, The Fountainhead is a truly engaging novel about the ways in which well-meaning people with an overdose of white guilt can undermine the efforts of genius. And also, masochism.

The female lead in this story is utterly unlike any woman I have ever met. I understand she is meant to represent Ayn’s feminine ideal, but it is a truly fascinating experience to read a female character, written by a woman who also happens to be a raging misogynist. I can relate to her feelings; some women are wretches. But her wholesale conviction of the female of the species seems, like many of her views, partially justifiable but wholly overwrought.

Dominique fails to convince as a person, let alone a woman. In almost every instance she behaves in a way the defies reason, let alone natural human feeling. When she realizes she loves our protagonist, she forces herself to marry his rival to punish herself and him, for reasons that really don’t make bunches of sense. Ayn subjects this character to a rape that she romanticizes to the point where rather than feeling violated, Dominique feels freed of her pesky virginity and liberated to abuse herself some more, if that was what her attacker thought was best.

Howard Roark is more of an archetype even than his lady love. But he manages to seem more feasible than her because Ayn invests him with some vulnerability, even if it’s hard to see at first. He truly is a genius, thwarted by circumstance and jealousy, as well as his own unwillingness to compromise.

All of the forces and folks arrayed against the protagonists are caricatures meant to make a point about what Ayn saw as the terrifying slide of our capitalist system toward a socialist/communist nightmare like the one from which she fled in the USSR. Her fear and loathing of the type of  “government” serving as a legitimizing force for the abominations that Stalin enacted on his people is understandable, but her slippery slope mentality was a classic fallacy of logic and unlikely to amount to her dire predictions. 

Now, you might be a little confused so far, as this book is listed as one of my favorites, and thusfar I’ve kinda taken it to pieces. I did this mainly because I like it to be clear that I love it in spite of it’s rather glaring flaws. I am not unaware of them, I just see the entire as worthwhile and rewarding even with all of these things in mind.

Despite the extremity of her position, and the exaggerated tendencies of her characters, Rand manages to point out some rather disturbing undercurrents in American political ans social culture. She mocks the entrenchment of the intellegensia, and their fear of  accepted wisdom being challenged in significant ways; this classically because their position is assured by the conventional wisdom, and where would they be without it? She also points out the fundamentally patronizing and frighteningly persistant attitude that government is somehow better equipped to dictate the structure of it’s citizens lives than they might do themselves. She cunningly illustrates the frightening potential of mob rule, and questions why utilitarianism has become just cause to deprive individuals of their rights and the products of their toil. 

Whatever your political bent may be, her critique of the nanny state has moments of luminous clarity, and is phrased in evocative language which has captured the imagination of generations. And though I do not agree with everything she says, I owe her a debt of gratitude for being a voice that could articulate the dignity of the human spirit in the face of oppression, and explicate the value of a reasoned struggle against political forces that serve to undermine liberty.

If you haven’t seen The Sixth Sense, some of the ranting in this post won’t make sense. Even if you HAVE seen The Sixth Sense, it might not, but I feel like it has to be said: Somebody’s a Fuckin Thief. More on that later…

This book is actually composed of two novellas. The first is called Sabella: The Bloodstone and is a gothic sci-fi mystery romance. Sabella is the preternaturally beautiful and seductive focus of the tale. She narrates the course of her life in vignettes and outtakes slowly revealing that on her far space colony of Novo Mars, she is in fact one of the old inhabitants reborn; She’s a vampire.

It has it’s advantages, but she’s fairly paranoid all things considered. As she puts it “I’m a lady who’s past is all littered with dead gentlemen callers” She didn’t start out as a vampire, and what happened to her is part of the mystery, but she carries around a palpable sense of guilt for her feeding habits and tries in various ways to repent for her sins.

Ultimately she finds herself with a nemesis, Jace. He’s hot on her trail and seems to have a good idea of what she’s been up to. Jace is determined to make her answer for her actions. As she runs away from her pursuer, she runs toward the remnants of the Christian faith, imported from Earth. She finds herself sitting in a church whispering in Latin

De profundus clamave. Ad te domine. Domine exaude voca meam

Out of the depths oh, lord I have cried to you. Hear my voice.*

When Jace finally catches her, he does not punish her as she expects, but shows her a truth that sets her free of her guilt and teaches her a new way to live. And rather than being based on religion, it’s all about sex. I’m for it.

The second novella is Kill The Dead

In this story Parl Dro is a famous exorcist who travels the landscape leaving his legend to grow as long as his shadow at dusk. His history is melancholy and mostly solitare, but when he does come into contact with other people, his energy and seventh sense tend to impact the course of events rather profoundly.

We begin on a hillside on the outskirts of a small village. When Parl comes down out of the mountains, he can sense the presence of the undead in a leaning house by the wayside. It happens that unlike in some cases, where his services are welcome and wanted, here the ghost in residence is there due to the conjuring of her still living witch-gifted sister. She was called back from the spirit world as means to assuage the guilt the still living sister Ciddy felt after she killed her sister Cilny in the first place. She’s a charming girl, really.

When Parl sends Ciddy on her way to the next world, Cilny is incensed and driven to a mad rage that no human means of revenge could ever satisfy. She goes to the length of drowning herself to exact the particular brand of retribution she has picked out for the ghost-killer.

Meanwhile, back in the village, Parl has made the acquaintance of one Mayal; a minstrel who’s skills mark him as singularly gifted, but leave him generally despised. He hopes to write a song which will make his fortune, and when he sees the famous Dro, he decides to follow him about and try to make a ballad from his exploits.

Less than thrilled with this addition to his journey, Parl attempts to leave Mayal behind more than once. Somehow though, Mayal manages to find him nevertheless. After he catches Parl up a second time, it become clear that not only is Mayal following him, so too is the vengeance bent Ciddy. Dro attempts to exorcise her in the customary manner, but for some reason fail to send her away entirely.

Worried that Ciddy has latched on to Mayal as a source of ongoing energy for her weird pseudo-life Parl keeps the minstrel with him to try and rid them both of her presence once and for all.

De profundus clamave. Ad te domine. Domine exaude voca meam

Out of the depths oh, lord I have cried to you. Hear my voice.

*This will be important for the ranting

**This too.

It is hard to be both heartfelt and earnest, while also being world-wise and wry. They usually cancel each other out in a battle-royale style cage match of competing ideals, but somehow in this novel, they coexist. And the comfortable peace they have made with each other results in an excellent read.

This is Alex Shakar’s first novel, but you’d never know it. He is deft and confident in his storytelling. He handles having a protagonist of the opposite gender with great finesse and utter believability, which is rare enough generally, but more so for a man writing in a woman’s voice. There is almost always something missing, or added that should not be. Shakar speaks as Ursula with complete veracity, and I admire that.

Ursula is a character that is altogether easily liked. She is smart and determined, though it isn’t always clear to her just what she is determined to do. She is picking her way through the aftermath of a dramatic family crisis, and trying to build a world around herself that makes sense. She lives in a large city perched on the side of a volcano, and you get the sense that this very clearly demonstrates the volatile energy that both she and the city are possessed by.

For in addition to her own struggle to decide who she is, her younger sister Ivy is engaged in a much more literal struggle to determine this. She’s suffered a psychotic break and is suffering from intense schizophrenia. Somehow the mental and emotional arc of these sisters is remarkably similar, and appears to vary mostly in terms of intensity, rather than content.

The portrayal of mental illness in this book is different than any i have ever encountered. It seeks to discuss it in terms that are immediately relateable and easy for people who’ve never dealt with it to take in. Catatonia is described, rather than being a lack of awareness, as a response to stimulus overload. The body and mind cannot function with all of the input currently in play, and so in self-defense, all systems lock in place to allow processing to take place. Likewise the way Shakar describes Ivy’s paranoia makes it all too easy to see that, she might be crazy, but she also has a point.

At least, Ursula does. She has taken a job in marketing and finds herself trying to absorb all the countless ways in which we are manipulated every moment of our lives, without losing a grip on a kinder gentler version of reality.Her job has essentially become to watch and observe people so as to use the information to compel them to act in a particular way. Not too far from Ivy’s version of the truth, after all…

Throughout the book Shakar drops in little mini-lectures on advertising and the marketing mindset. Having read this novel several years before Mad Men came out, I recognized many of the compelling themes in that excellent show to have been touched upon here. One of the characters Chas delivers a speech to his clients not unlike the one Don Draper gives to his cohorts. How, not only to exploit desire, but how to create it where none currently exists. It is almost a treatise on consumerism, and it is compelling and deeply though provoking.

As is, to my mind, this whole book. It creates a world where there is a serious push toward and market for diet water. Finding the means to sell this absurdity become Ursula’s job, and though she is appalled at the notion of doing so on some core level, she is also seduced by the notion that she might have the skills to do so. The capacity to enchant a whole population into doing her will. Into traveling lite.

I feel like I’ve been describing a lot of my favorite things by saying they are “charming.” It may be the case, but I cannot escape the adjective with regard to this book. It is a novel, a middleweight example of the genre, and a perfectly enjoyable read.

We join Faris Nallaneen at the gates of Greenlaw College in turn-of-the-century France. She is attempting to gain entry, though she doesn’t particularly want to attend. She is the duchess of a small country called Galazon, which is situated somewhere amidst a semi-fictionalized Europe. The book follows her progress through the gates of the college, and to all else beyond, till she reaches the World’s End.

Most everything about Faris seems rather awkward and ill-fitting, but she is a winning heroine nevertheless. She is nobility, but taken away from her duties and her homeland, she is fiercely eager to return, and it sometimes robs her of her manners. She is feisty and stubborn, and though she is obliged to take her education far from home, she is convinced the claim that students can leave having learned magic is aught but superstition and fancy.

She makes friends and enemies both while at the school, and despite her skepticism, manages not only to learn magic, but even to perform some; accidentally, and later with a will. She is sent away from school to answer larger responsibilities and takes with her the best friend she made during her time in the college, one Jane Brailsford. She also has in her company Reed and Tyrian; one a subject from her homeland, the other a hired gun. As Faris begins to realize the scope of her duties, both to Galazon and the world, she is confronted with ever more dramatic encounters with the magic she wasn’t even sure she believed in.

This book touches on so many themes, yet it manages never to wander away from what is essentially an entertaining romp. Stevermer has a wry sense of humor, and all the characters display a sound appreciation for the absurd. Though the novel focused primarily on Faris, all of her companions and cohorts are fully fleshed out and three dimensional. Even Menary, as Faris’ primary antagonist, manages to be winning in her utter disregard for anything but her own pleasure. As they range all over the face of Europe, we feel more closely drawn in to the tight little clique that Faris has created around her. There is a feeling of friendly intimacy with these characters that is actually rather difficult to achieve in most stories. This sense of inclusion lends itself to becoming absorbed in this tale to a considerable degree.

And though it cannot be called totally uncluttered, the story is engaging in the extreme and touches on various compelling topics; duty, politics, romance, family, and the value of a sound liberal education. As Faris is suffering through deportment, her teacher scolds her for failing to execute her stance with proper finesse. Faris retorts that deportment is a stale discipline, and asks why should she not form her own fashions. Dame Brachet replies

You must form your own fashions in a way which demonstrates that you flout the standards from knowledge, not from ignorance[...]

From the first words, Faris followed this speech with eyes narrowed, “But I may flout the standards?”

“Of course,” said Dame Brachet with some asperity “What do you think standards are for?”

I think in the haste toward rebellion, or the weariness with traditions we feel are pointless, many people forget this very important truth.

Stevermer uses her language with skill and flair. She has as much a sense of fun with her prose as she does with her plot, and this always makes a read much more enjoyable to my mind. She isn’t taking herself too seriously, even though she is communicating some very touching and meaningful sentiments about love and duty throughout. And though the book is indeed romantic in style, the light touch with with Stevermer handles the actual romance in the story somehow makes it touching and dignified in a way with many authors fail by revealing too much; inviting too much scrutiny to be cast upon the most private dealings.

I customarily sit down with this book and find myself completely absorbed. I enjoy being in the act of reading it. It is comfortable and familliar without ever becoming stale. At just under 400 pages I can tear through it in a long afternoon, but I enjoy the process of savoring it. You can tell how much I love a book by how abused it looks; more so if I have a second copy that isn’t for reading, but rather just to have. Mine is edges curled, water stained, sauce be-spotted, and even slightly torn in spots. It’s condition a testament to it’s place in my heart.

I wouldn’t say I’m much of a fan of John Wayne. He was pretty good looking, and actually not a half-bad actor, but the type of film he was accustomed to appear in are not usually my cup of tea.

The Quiet Man is different. It is, at it’s core, a romantic tale: One Sean Thornton returns to Ireland, and the town of his birth, to take up the lost threads of a life his parents had to abandon for better prospect in America. The town is generally charmed by his desire to do this, but he manages to immediately tread on the toes of one Will Danaher (a particularly excitable sort) by attempting to purchase his ancestral home, upon which Will had long turned a desirous eye.

Antagonist provided, Sean proceeds to become infatuated forthwith, to, who else, Will’s beautiful but tempestuous younger sister Mary-Kate. Much hilarity, scheming, romance, and larking about does ensue.

This movie is utterly, utterly charming. The director actually relocated all the cast and crew to Ireland for filming, and you can feel it in the dense and lovingly photographed scenery that appears throughout the film. Many of the actors are native Irish, and it does much to enrich the texture and tone of the film. John Wayne seems all the more a yank next to a cast so full of Ireland’s own. As villagers they are winning and always ready to help, as when Mary-Kate having thrown yet another epic tantrum is being… shall we say escorted home by Sean. One of the apple-cheeked grandma types races forward with the following advice:

Mr Thornton! Here’s a good stick for to beat the lovely lady!

It is funny and heartfelt and rousing good fun. It also contains, to my mind at least, one of the best brawls in the history of film. The whole TOWN is throwing punches at one point. I always finish watching this movie with a smile on my face and a laugh in my throat. It is sweet and charming and never gets too quiet.

Peter. Sellers.

I feel like that might be all I need to say.

Perhaps not…

Also, James Earl Jones, George C Scott, Slim Pickens.

Still not quite there? Okay…

This movie makes me laugh harder every time I watch it*.  It is dark humor at it’s pinnacle. It is smart and wicked and witty and weird. It perfectly illustrates the hysteria of the cold war without sacrificing the drama of a deftly shot film. Mr Kubric, no one can compare. It does do something to reveal the personal paranoia of SOMEONE involved in the making of this film…

Group Captain Mandrake, have you ever noticed I never drink anything but pure grain alcohol and rainwater?

Muuuuh huh.

Burpleson Air Force Base. General Jack D Ripper. General Buck Turgidson. President Merkin Muffley. Major Kong. I lack words, so I am reduced to spouting awesomeness.

I mean, Slim Pickens RIDES A NUCLEAR WARHEAD OUT OF A PLANE LIKE IT IS A MECHANICAL BULL.

What more do you want from me?

*Only The Big Lebowski can also do this.

And, I ask, who hasn’t been tempted; exhausted and angry. Wrung out and sad. To wish to wash it all away…

This movie is clamorous, and jumbled, and confusing and sweet. Just like falling in love. Tenderness can be obscured by these tics, long endured. When at first we see only the enchanting possibility and none of the tiresome rest. Here instead we are offered a glimpse of the contempt of familiarity sent into retreat; the rut undug.

This is a love story in reverse, let run forward again. It is a portrait of romance that is resonant and revealing. It portrays moments of intimacy as they are; heart-rendingly lovely and breathtakingly embarrassing all at once. There is no adequate way to explain how we found our nicknames for each other, why we love to dance in our underwear, why our rituals evolve into the pattern and myth that offers enticing hints about, yet cannot encompass, the story of a particular love? Somehow this movie with its playful jangling pace and tone, does a better job than any other film I have ever seen.

The cast almost defies intuition. Theoretically, Jim Carrey fails to inspire me as a romantic hero but his Joel manages to render an enchantment with Clementine so palpable as to convince me utterly. Kate Winslet, so often prim and lovely, embodies perfectly a slightly spastic but nevertheless compelling example of womanhood you cannot fault Joel for loving, despite her many trying tendencies.

I am avidly NOT a fan of Kirsten Dunst (people that successful should see a dentist about that shit-this means YOU TOO Patricia Arquette!) and somehow this works for me, because when we discover that she has been the dupe of the less-than-totally-scrupulous Dr Howie, I am all a-glee. I do however love Mark Ruffalo and feel deep chagrin at his fondness for this self-righteous and shallow git. His pained admission as she walks away “I really like you Mary Spavo!” and the heel of his hand in the corner of his eye is poignant and winning and wonderful. Even if it is wasted on that slattern.

I somehow love Elijah Wood as an Uber Creep; stealing panties FTW! And David Cross always delights “I’m building a fucking birdhouse!” The cast fits together in a way that allows each to illuminate the other in surprising ways.

I must also make a point to mention the very excellent soundtrack by Jon Brion. Always one to offer compelling work, he here weaves music and sound effects to heighten the sense of disorientation at one moment, and enhance wonder at the next. It is by turns quirky and irksome, then soothing and sweet. It more perfectly matches the imagery and mood of this film than any other example of a soundtrack that I can think of.  More, in the summer this film came out, I listened to “Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime” by Beck on repeat for hours, as if it was the only balm for the particular pain I was in. And indeed, it was.

In fact, this whole movie had that effect on me. It both illustrated and redeemed many of the things I believe and want to believe about love. It is the same sentiment and understanding communicated in a line from a song by The New Pornographers that says explicitly what this film portrayed in more nuanced terms: “Whatever the mess you are, you’re mine.” This, to me, is the truest, and most beautiful expression of love that exists. I do not love you because I fail to see all that you are, nor all that you are not. It is not that I am unaware of your flaws. I love you rather in spite of and because of them. You are beautiful and precious to me, entire. What with all your obnoxiousness and smells. So there.

And this is so perfectly, gorgeously, and touchingly conveyed. They stand across from each other in the hallway, having just listened to a litany of complaints, each about the other, rendered in their own voices, and yet they look at each other and he says…

“I don’t care”

I can recite lines from this movie to a degree that almost defies reason. I can’t watch this movie with other people because, apart from the people who are quoting it right along with me, it bugs the shit out of any sane person*.

This movie is Epic. Yes, Epic. I like David Lynch, but am by no means one of those people who just worship the sand he strides upon (using irregular rhythm, naturally) I found Lost Highway to be kind of exhausting, and Mullholland Drive willfully obtuse. I respect his willingness to push the boundaries of what’s meant to be acceptable in cinema, but I don’t just slavishly adore whatever comes down the Lynchian pike.

Dune is Important To Me. It is one of my favorite books, and is a masterwork of fiction. More on that when I start talking about books…

This movie isn’t totally true to the book. But having seen it for the first time when I was all of about seven, and well before I read it, it didn’t bother me as much as it might have if I’d gotten to them in reverse order. I actually recommend doing it in that order, if you can possibly help it. That way you have the perfect means to fantasize about Sting while you read the novel.

Why Lynch decided to make the “weirding way” have anything to do with sound is still sort of beyond me. I guess he wanted a manifestation of something that’s essentially a religious discipline and that’s hard to convey by just referring to it.

Even with that being (to me) the most annoying departure, this is still an excellent film. It’s pacing and air of mystery may seem heavy-handed at times, but the themes of the book are serious: religion, politics, the oppression of native peoples in order to exploit the natural resources they are blessed with, and Jihad. The themes are relevant and deftly expressed.

There are also lots of pretty and talented people in this movie (I mentioned Sting already…) and the visuals are rich and hold up surprisingly well despite twenty odd years of advancing special effects technology. I won’t try to tell you it isn’t campy in it’s way, but it is both entertaining and moving if you can simply allow yourself to surrender to the fact that sometimes things that are campy, are still totally awesome.**

*This may exclude anyone who can quote that much Dune, but that’s a discussion for another day.

**like S’mores

in the continuing series: My Five Favorites

Magnolia is one of my very favorite movies ever. i unwisely lent my copy to some reprobate neighbor of mine about 5 years ago. Boo. Need to find it on DVD. My birthday’s comin!

It isn’t just because it helps me remember a more innocent time when watching tom cruise’s palpable intensity only moved me rather than creeping me out. nor only because jason robards delivers such a touching performance and i always wished he was my grampa ever since seeing “Max Dugan Returns” as a small child. the entire cast of this film moves together in a nuanced and tender way that exposes such loveliness and tragedy all at once.

i somehow forgot how many little tics i picked up from this movie. the scene where the little boy raps to Officer Jim about the identity of the murderer is classic:

i’ll help you solve the case, gotta get paid though, gotta get paid

i say this constantly. and of course, we all know i subscribe to the Seduce and Destroy credo

RESPECT THE COCK! AND TAME THE CUNT!

likewise, when Frank TJ Mackey gets cornered in a lie by the reporter and clams up on her, she asks him what he’s doing, his reply:

i’m quietly judging you

classic scorching derision!!

and not only this, but Magnolia contains what is, for me, the singlemost moving and beautiful scene in any film i have ever watched; each cast member sings a line or two from Aimee Mann’s hauntingly lovely song “Wise Up” and it does not matter if they can, or if they are even conscious but only that they are all bound together in this moment of vulnerability and wonder.