Non-Oprah Book Club: Splinter of the Mind's Eye

OK, this book isn't anyone's idea of high literature, but it was one of my favorites growing up. Truth be told, I haven't read it since probably junior high, and my tastes have matured since then (maybe) so re-reading it today would most likely prove it to be disappointing.

Star Wars was the center of my childhood. My grandparents took me to the first movie in 1977 when I was almost four years old - it's the first movie I remember seeing in the theater; I had just about every toy Kenner produced; I've seen each of the original three movies at least 200 times each... and my childhood pretty much died when The Phantom Menace was released. But since the Star Wars universe was a major part of my life when I was a kid, I grabbed hold of anything related to the movies, included Splinter of the Mind's Eye by Alan Dean Foster.

The book is a sequel of sorts to the first Star Wars movie (god help me, I will never ever be so moronic as to refer to the first movie as A New Hope). And if you read it (or find a used copy of it somewhere and read it now) you realized that it was conceived and written before Empire and Jedi were even considered. Or, if it wasn't, then George Lucas has some major problems. You see, the creepiest thing about the book is the sexual tension between Luke and Leia. Yeah, that's right - and Lucas has said that he's always had the whole story mapped out, including the whole brother and sister thing. So, if they had done it, their kids would have the power of the Force and an extra chromosome. When you think about it, that would be pretty cool - a powerful Jedi with retard strength. But then again, you'd have this touched child running around Hoth doing face plants in the snow and screaming, "Ice Cream! Ice Cream!" Or walking around the sand dunes of Tatooine telling everyone, "I went poo poo like a kitty."

Anyway, I really liked the book when I was a kid, so I thought I'd mention it here.

The Creative Process

So few videos come close to the essence of the creative process. (Warning: This is in no way suitable for any work environment, so keep the volume way down.)



I think my favorite part is that they're listening to the Indigo Girls.

Neglected Films: Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story

OK, when I originally envisioned this segment I thought I'd highlight older movies that have been lost over a number of years, however, I thought I'd include a movie that I actually watched last night. Now, this film was very much neglected when it was released a few years ago, in fact I think its total box office was somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 - someone got in for a half-price matinee.

Anyway, it's a shame because Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story is incredibly smart and incredibly brilliant. It's part adaptation of the unfilmable novel The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, which many believe to be a metafiction book 200 years ahead of its time, and part faux documentary on the filming of the movie. The whole film is a metafiction on filmmaking.

Actor Steve Coogan plays Steve Coogan, actor; a more or less fictionalized version of himself. He's insecure, childish and ultimately funny as hell. It certainly took a lot of guts to pull off this character. There are a few others who also play "themselves" in the movie, such as Gillian Anderson, but they aren't as painfully awkward as Coogan.

The movie was directed by Michael Winterbottom who has had a very interesting career to say the least (A great movie of his to check out, which belongs here too, is Welcome to Sarajevo). He is someone who's more interested in experimenting with filmmaking rather than sticking with the norms - which is probably the reason you've never heard of him. However, his approaches to different movies haven't always led to great movies. Winterbottom has the potential to make a major breakthrough, but I doubt he's interested in that.

I caught Tristram Shandy on the Independent Film Channel, so if you're lucky enough to have the channel you may be able to catch it; if not, then go out and rent it.





Again, I'm leaving an open invitation for others out there who wish to do their own neglect film. If you do so, let me know and I'll link you.

What Really Goes Through Men's Minds

This is the reason they could never make a movie called What Men Want.

Non-Oprah Book Club: The Giant's House

To prove to you that I do indeed have a soft side - it's not all blood and guts, you know - I offer a sweet book for this week's selection. This is the story of a lonely librarian who befriends a boy of unusual height, a sort of mundane set-up, I know, but Elizabeth McCracken is such a brilliant writer that you soon forget the high concept idea and become immersed in its complex emotional connections. I could not put this book down once I started it. Absolutely beautiful in its execution and prose.

The Giant's House was published in 1996 and gained some attention when it was nominated for the National Book Award - sadly, it did not win.



Excerpt:

You might think, living alone so long, so seldom touched, I wouldn't know what to do. But I did. Alone in my bed, I'd sometimes tested on myself. I ran a tentative hand along my collarbone; then a confident hand; then somewhere between. There wasn't an inch of skin I hadn't skimmed my fingers along, wondering would someone else like this? I thumbed my ears, traced the outer trough with just a fingernail; strummed my belly; outlined my nose, mouth, as if they were places on a map I longed to visit, a homeland I had not seen since childhood.

Some lonely untouched people might get used to it, decide they could do without. Not me. I learned to touch myself tenderly to give myself what I could not ask others for. I stroked my own cheek; late at night, I brushed the hair off my own tired, worried forehead.

I knew in what order to caress a face, a back. I knew what would be expected, and what surprising. I remembered: there is bone, and there is skin, and muscle, and other things. You must always remember this, encountering a body, the same way you must remember when you walk around Cape Cod that there are trees, and also dunes so vast that while walking in them you cannot see the ocean or road; there are roads, and the ocean, and the bay, scrubby forests full of things that scratch, and bogs. It may seem impossible to dress in readiness for all these things, but you can as long as you are mindful.

Go to Patti's Blog for more Forgotten Friday Books.

Bad Boy

I did it. I told myself not to do it, but I did it anyway. I went back to page one and read the manuscript I'm working on before finishing it. Good idea? Bad idea? I can't say right now. I was pleased with what I read, even though I had to figure out some sentences that were horribly written or contained words that were creatively spelled. And there was one place where a character gets hit by a car and then miraculously comes back to life without a scratch on him, or any mention that an accident even happened. Some how I put the Terminator in there and didn't even realize it.

One conclusion I did make was that rewrite is going to suck. I was very good in that I didn't correct anything, I didn't add or delete and I didn't scratch any notes in the margins. I left it alone.

Now I have to charge into the last act and bring this puppy to a close... but I'm writing this instead. So goes the life of the procrastinating writer.

Neglected Film: Evolution

In the tradition of what Patti Abbott is doing with forgotten books, I thought I'd try the same thing with movies. I'm not going to tag anyone to do this, but if you happen to like the idea and want to join in (or if you want to tag someone yourself), let me know and I'll link to your site.

For my first neglected movie I thought I'd highlight a film that no one else seems to appreciate: Ivan Reitman's Evolution. Released in 2001, this spiritual cousin to Reitman's own Ghostbusters received little love from critics (it has only a 41% Tomatometer rating from Rotten Tomatoes) and moviegoers, grossing only $40 million - a blockbuster by independent film standards, but a huge bomb for a summer movie with a $80 million price tag. It's too bad because this is one hilarious comedy.



Faced with dangerous alien lifeforms that evolve at an astronomical pace (accomplishing in a few hours what it has taken us millions of years to do), two community college professors, a firefighter wannabe and a bumbling CDC scientist must find a way to save humanity. Okay, not the most innovative plot in the world - and if it were filmed as the serious thriller it was originally intendend to be, it would have been a disaster; but the comedy is so sarcastic and farcical that the plot doesn't really matter.

But as amusing as the comedy is, it probably wouldn't have been as great without its perfectly cast stars. David Duchovny's dry delivery is something approaching perfection; Orlando Jones, sadly, hasn't found a better role to showcase his vast comedic talents and Seann William Scott is wonderfully goofy. And not to be outdone, Julianne Moore is an amazing klutz.

So, if you're in a whimsical mood and want to watch something extremely giddy, then try Evolution.





Other neglected films:

Patti Abbott - Do the Right Thing

Todd Mason - Prime Cut and The Explosive Generation

Forgotten Books, or the Resurrection of the Non-Oprah Book Club

Patti Abbott, mother of recent Edgar Award winner Megan Abbott, (congrats!), has started an around the blogosphere friday project that asks bloggers to write about a favorite book that has been lost to the general public. Make that reading public, because the average man on the street couldn't even recall The Great Gatsby. So, I thought I'd chip in, and in doing so, bring back a long forgotten idea I had for this blog, which I called the Non-Oprah Book Club. I'm sure you all remember it and the two books I recommended. By the way, did you like those past recommendations?

Anyway, on to today's forgotten book: The Temple of Gold by William Goldman. If you recognize the author's name, then congratulations, you haven't had your head up your ass for the past forty years. Yes, this Goldman is the same guy who wrote Marathon Man, Magic and The Princess Bride. But beyond that, he is also the Godfather of screenwriters having won two Oscars for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All the President's Men; as well as adapting The Stepford Wives (the good one with Katherine Ross), Misery and The Hot Rock. In his published scolding of Hollywood, Adventures in the Screen Trade, he famously wrote the often quoted axiam of Hollywood, "Nobody knows anything."

While Goldman's name will continue on, especially in its attachement to The Princess Bride (Goldman has written that the only reason he'll have an obit in the The New York Times is because of Butch and Sundance, but I think his work of Princess Buttercup and her Wesley will overshadow the outlaws); however, The Temple of Gold has already been lost from neglect from the reading public in general and literary snobs who refuse to believe that the author of Marathon Man (a secret favorite of dentists everywhere) could write something that deserves their attention. It's a shame on both counts. This coming-of-age novel is usually only referred to as Goldman's first book without any acknowledgement on how well written it is. When it was published in 1957, some critics mentioned the book in the same league as Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye; and personally I agree. It is a story of an unfocused character confronted with the devestsating consequences of his reckless actions. To say anymore would spoil the book for its reader. Highly recommended.

Excerpt:

My father was a stuffy man.

That is not meant as criticism but rather to be the truth. It is the word that best fit him. Stuffy. He always wore dark suits and ugly ties, and was forever pursing his lips and wrinkling up his forehead before he said anything. “Is that you?” my mother would call when he came home. Then he’d purse his lips and there would go his forehead and after a while he’d say: “Yes, my dear.” He always called her that—“my dear”; never her real name, which was Katherine. And I was always Raymond.

It’s easiest to begin with my father rather than my mother or Grandmother Rae for the simple reason that I knew less about him than the others. We lived side by side in the same house for many years, but I never really got to know him. That again isn’t meant to be criticism; it was just the way things worked out.

Tag 'em and Bag 'em

OK, I got this meme from some bunny loving prick and I feel like taking a break, so here goes. The following are the rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you. See the link above.
2. Post the rules on your blog. (Ta-dah!)
3.Write six random things about yourself in a blog post.

i. I once shot myself between the eyes with a BB gun. (Think about it. Not easy to do. And no, I didn't aim the gun at my forehead.)

ii. I get calls at work from people who literally want to give me blood samples - the most recent was an hour ago - and I don't work in a lab.

iii. My first car was a red 1980 Ford Fiesta that needed sheet metal riveted to the floor boards, (fake) sheep skin covers over the seats to hide the hole, had no defrost or heat (I live in Maine) and had a shit load of hay stuck to the floor in the back that I could never ever get out. The whole thing cost me about $150 and lasted about six month before it caught on fire while I was driving it.

iv. I can't drink vodka and haven't done so in about 16 years. Long story short, lots of vomit and embarrassment; but it's mainly because of the vomiting.

v. My great-great-great, etc. grandfather was cousins with John Allan (his name was also John), the man who raised Edgar Allan Poe. So, my family put the Allan in the Edgar Allan Poe.

vi. I just spent twenty minutes thinking of interesting things about me and still had to cop out on the last one.

4. Tag six people in your post. (I'll spare the few people I know. But if you see this and want to join in, feel free.)

5&6 Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog. Let the taggee know your entry is up. Doing so by e-mail.

You Make Me Feel So Jung

I got this story second hand. At a recent event, a well-known author recalled an anecdote involving his mentor. This teacher was discussing planning and outlining a story before writing. When the, then, undergrad said that he believed stories emerge organically while one was writing, rather than mapping it out, the mentor said, "oh, you must be a Jungian."

The more I think about that observation, the more I believe that, to some extent, I am a Jungian, too. Writing is like an excavation to discover these archetypes buried deep within us that the conscious mind tends to ignore. Every story begins with a spark, whether it is a photograph or piece of music, but it is the process of picking at it constantly that leads to a cohesive piece of work. I find it incredibly interesting when a story I'm writing goes in a direction I wasn't expecting - I mean, how in the hell do you explain that? There is a collective unconsciouness, or objective psyche, at work within the artist (if I may be so bold as to call myself an artist) - almost to the point of possessing the writer. I've gotten lost in a manuscript where it seems that I'm more of a medium than the originator of the message - and it's wonderful.

I'm Determined to Fight this Affliction

I don't feel the sickness yet, but it's in the post. That's for sure. I'm in the junkie limbo at the moment. Too ill to sleep. Too tired to stay awake, but the sickness is on its way. Sweat, chills, nausea. Pain and craving. A need like nothing else I've ever known will soon take hold of me. It's on its way. (Mark Renton - Trainspotting)

No, I don't have a junk habit; but I do have a re-write problem. As much as I hate doing multiple drafts, I have this incredible urge to stop what I'm writing - with which I'm not done yet - and go back to the beginning. Live in the past rather than push forward. I know there are mistakes in characterization. I know that certain plot points don't make sense in relation to what I've written since. Locations and actions have become redundant and illogical. Developments of plot and character are weak. Jesus, I just want to go to page one and start fixing things. Oh, the pacing is not where it should be. The overall mood isn't right. Someone stop me from reading what I started less than a month ago. I can't allow myself to stop my momentum just so I can remain stuck in the mud of the first two-thirds of the manuscript. Oh, how much longer until this shitty draft is finished?

Must...remain...on...task...everything is blurry...water! oh god, water...red pen...my kingdom for a red pen...no!...must...resist...red pen...red is the mark of the devil...the measure of success is victory and success...Bush administration rationalition making sense...losing it...mind slipping away...where am I?...where...is...the...end?...help...help...help...help...help...

The Furious Underwear Monster

Grrrrr!