Hypertrophic Press: Spring 2018 Issue

Hey y'all.

This post is a week overdue, but I'm thrilled to be part of Hypertrophic Press's Spring 2018 issue. My short story "Chinatown," originally published in Luna Luna Magazine (three! years ago), has been dusted off. The issue is available online and as a beautiful print issue, a lovely collection of poems and stories held together by some of the best artwork I've ever seen, courtesy of Victoria Olt.

You can purchase the print issue here.

Thank you to Lynsey Morandin and Jeremy Bronaugh for their hard work and dedication to this literary project. And a special thank you to Maddie Anthes, who works as their acquisitions editor and was gracious in accepting my work, which I didn't expect to be published again. Its original publication home underwent a redesign, and previous work vanished. "Chinatown" is one of my personal favorites, and I'm thrilled it's back out in the world again. I'm sending love to all three people: I hope editors and readers around the literary world know how much they're appreciated, since so much of what they do is behind the scenes.

And a thank you to AJ Wolff, b.g. thomas, Chloe N Clark, Courtney LeBlanc, Kanika Lawton, Hannah Gordon, Kathryn McMahon, Liz Howard, and Paul Schiernecker. It's an honor to be included with you and your amazing craft. Hugs and high fives all around.

Edward Williams: Photographer and Videographer

There comes a time in every writer's life when selfies just don't cut it. Luckily, my best friend is a talented photographer. I usually hate photographs of myself, and not for unnecessarily vain reasons: when I smile for photos, my eyes sometimes look like they're different sizes. Plus, having these professional shots done didn't feel selfish; the afternoon felt productive.

These are two of my favorite results from the session. My absolute favorite one is being saved for future publications that use author photos (hell, it actually inspired me to work toward placing work in one of my favorite literary journals, half to have my work there, and half to have one of Edward's photos accompany it). And if this novel-in-progress ever finds its way into physical/paper/holy crap you can buy this! form, I'll be using Edward for the jacket copy photo.

Do you live in Chicago? Are you looking for photography/videography work? Are you taken with these handsome photos? Give Eddie a buzz. His beautiful website is here.

We're working on some video projects, and it's been great to break out of my shell and create in different forms. Stay tuned.

Hobart: Photo Credits

Preface: my Instagram account includes this disclaimer: apologies to actual photographers. I know people do some stellar work with cell phone cameras, but personally, I don't think clicking a few snapshots on my phone allows me to even look at the word "photographer."

Onward.

The literary magazine Hobart did its annual online baseball issue in April. I contributed stories in 2013 and 2014. Awhile back, editor Aaron Burch put out a request for baseball photos and artwork to accompany this year's fiction, poetry, and essays. When I saw this request, I realized I had several baseball-themed photos on my phone. I e-mailed them his way, and I'm really pleased with how the images paired with some stellar writing.

Frankly, I don't care if someone reads the writing and doesn't think twice about the images. The emphasis SHOULD be on the writing here, but anyway, here are my first "official" photo credits:

2015 baseball predictions by Andrew Ervin (a concourse shot from U.S. Cellular Field)

A pitching guide by Emily Nemens (a game shot from a Tigers-White Sox game in August)

Little League memories from Dylan Fisher (I took a walk by a baseball field early one morning and saw this solitary Yankees cap on a post)

A short story by Chad Schuster (my glove and a battered ball)


I'm honored that my images are paired with some terrific writers.


To close, the Hobart baseball issue also included a terrific short story by one of my favorite Chicago writers/lit citizens. Enjoy "Pop Up" by the great Wyl Villacres.

"Artists in Residence" in Pithead Chapel

Hiya.

I had a new short story published in the July issue of Pithead Chapel, a lovely online magazine/press based in Michigan.

"Artists in Residence" is a story that I've struggled with for years. Its origins are embarrassing, with some details I'd rather not explore here (but I'll gladly share over a beer). It took several drafts, several wrong turns, and one big workshop push to get it to a state that I liked. I'm really proud of my work on this story, and I hope you'll check it out. It's also an honor to be featured with some great writers: Katherine Gehan, Erin Pienaar, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Kevin O'Rourke, and Rob Alexander.

Here's a paragraph from the story. Click here for the whole piece.

"Andy had full reign of the courtyard in front of his apartment, thanks to a landlord who enjoyed his installations and fancied himself a supporter of the arts. As long as he did it while the rest of the tenants were at work, he had freedom to chop wood and weld scrap metal to fasten together collages in his rotating outside gallery. Melanie sat on the front steps, jotting notes in her case book while Andy, shirtless, swung sledgehammers and caulked vases to broken down end tables he’d found in alleys and dumpsters. Whenever someone walked by, he’d stop momentarily mid swing to let them admire his clenched back before heaving and breaking down a pipe or a piece of plywood. The landlord sipped his coffee and peeked through the blinds."

As always, support literary magazines (print/online/both). Seriously. In fact, I'm taking a few weeks off from reading books to catch up on my pile of journal back issues. I may do some reporting about what I unearth, since the back issues date from 2009-2013/14. I'm sure I'll discover some little treasures. I can't wait.

"Renter"

My best friend Edward Williams wrote and directed a short film about a writer, a misleading landlord, and a diabolical demon. He plays the landlord and demon; I play the writer. It's a horror/comedy. You should watch it.

Renter from William Eddy on Vimeo.

My "film debut." Not quitting my day job anytime soon. This was so much fun to make, and I hope my bald spot isn't too blinding.

"Desert Places" Review at Fanzine

Yes, it's been awhile. And no, no grand promises of more consistent updates, BUT: I have another nonfiction publication, my first since 2011:

I reviewed The Desert Places for the excellent, often overlooked Fanzine (I just misspelled it as Franzine, which could be the name of a pretty good curmudgeonly Jonathan Franzen appreciation site, but I digress). The Desert Places is a wonderful, creepy collaboration between Amber Sparks and Robert Kloss, with some stunning illustrations by artist Matt Kish. It was published by Curbside Splendor last year, and I'm honored to review it for such a terrific literary publication.

The link is here.

I want to thank the awesome, talented Sarah Rose Etter for being open to my review, providing me with some great editing, and for being a terrific human being and writer. Visit her site. Read her fantastic writing (I highly recommend "Tongue Party." I read it a couple years ago, and it's one of those pieces that has stayed with me since my first reading). And support Fanzine. Not because they published me today (I could create an awesome list of great publications that have rejected my work more than once). But because they have such a great mix of literary reviews and original stories.

More to come! I have at least one if not two more book reviews forthcoming. The spring semester has been manageable, but I know it'll get very busy before too long, so I'm attempting to get these pieces ready before I'm delightfully swamped.

Happy Thursday to all.

Chicago Ex-Patriate: Now on Instagram!

Before 2011, I used to scoff at the idea of Twitter. Now, as you can see from the widget to your right, I'm pretty damn active there, and I've found it to be enjoyable and beneficial.

I haven't scoffed at Instagram, but I never saw the point of it. My thoughts were: "I can already post photos on my blog, Facebook, Twitter, what-have-you. Why in god's name would I need another site, another screen name, another password to remember, just to share photos? Well, here we are. I have an Instagram account. If you're so inclined to follow me, here's my link. I assume you can just search by my handle: @chicagoexpatjy; alas, I'm still getting used to the ins and outs of sharing, posting, etc. I only have two images up, with more to follow.

With how busy I've been with school, I didn't think I'd have time to update it, let alone consider the kind of images and photographs I want to post. But as I spend a good part of my day commuting from home to work to campus and back again, I've seen little moments that I wouldn't mind snapping. Some of these images are obvious: glorious sunrises from the train. Some of these are lesser known: next to the beautiful facade of Roosevelt University, there's a covered alley next to it. There are loading docks, boxes, and a general atmosphere of the industrial side of progressive education. Or something like that. Granted, I haven't photographed it, but I'm sure it'll be next on my list. I've toyed with the idea of doing a photo per day. But, as I've said too many times, no promises. The more I promise, the less my immediate vision translates to what I actually do. And a note to actual, real photographers: I'm using the word "photograph" lightly. I know that whipping out my phone and hitting "click" isn't the same as actual, artistic work. I salute real, dedicated photographers. I'm not cutting into your world, I'm just interested in documenting little things.

Overall, this could be a good writing exercise. By accumulating images that I see in passing, or seeing infrastructures that strike me as odd, I hope to think critically and see how I can use my writing to uncover some of these smaller, tender moments. Perhaps I'm being too grandiose: so far, I have photo of Chicago's Rainbo Club and one from the interior of a CTA train. But hopefully this will make sense as I go along.

I'm only human, and this is the internet. So while I want to shy away from the obvious, I can't promise there won't be the occasional photo of (pick one or all of the above): a.) cats, b.) beer steins, c.) full whiskey glasses, or d.) plates full of food.

So follow me if you wish. And if you're aware of any accounts that specialize in urban visions, by all means let me know.

Telling Stories: Aleksandar Hemon's "The Lazarus Project"

I've read very little of Aleksandar Hemon's writing, so I was excited when my book club voted for The Lazarus Project last month. His books have been on my list for quite some time, and aside from a short story (or two?) and a handful of essays, my fascination with him is limited to the scattered readings and his history of living in Chicago's Edgewater neighborhood, a five minute walk from where I grew up and live now. His reputation has been equally fascinating, leading to his being the rare writer whom I knew I wanted to read, but whom I knew precious little about, stylistically. I didn't know what to expect from his full-length books, and unless his other pieces are even more varied, The Lazarus Project proved to be a dizzying mix of genres, voices, images and intentionally questionable narratives. But these combinations (and said dizziness) are not meant to be synonyms for "confusing." Upon completion of the novel, I was struck by how the narrative was so straightforward, jumping consistently from past to present, from fictional imaginings of real events to fictional depictions of fictional characters. The complexity lays in Hemon's themes: there's really no way to pinpoint an exact tone or message in The Lazarus Project, but rather, the reader sits back and is overcome by the variety of what the text accomplishes.

The novels tells two intertwined stories, one of them a compelling, ugly piece from Chicago's early twentieth-century history. In 1908, for still unknown reasons, a young Jewish immigrant named Lazarus Averbuch paid a visit to the home of Chicago's chief of police; not long after arriving, he was dead from multiple gunshot wounds, and the police and media were quick to paint a lurid picture of a violent anarchist with ties to Emma Goldman eager to commit a crime against the law:

"Neither does Assistant Chief find it insignificant that the anarchist has been meticulously shaved, probably that very same morning, and that his hair was carefully cut. His clothes are musty and worn, but he doesn't exude any stench; the man has without a doubt taken a bath recently. It is not customary with alien men of that class to take care of their persons, Assistant Chief tells William P. Miller. It looks as though he didn't expect to come back alive. 'He looks like a Jew to me," Chief Shippy says, as Foley is tearing the end of the bandage with his teeth to tie it up. Assistant Chief unbuttons the man's pants, pulls them down, then does the same with his long underwear; in doing so, he slips on the blood and brains, nearly falling on the body, but quickly regains his balance.

'He's a Jew all right,' he announces, leaning over the young man's crotch. 'A Jew is what he is (Hemon 26-27).'"

Lazarus's sister Olga knows he's not an anarchist, and sets out to attempt to clear his name. However, this proves to be a daunting challenge: she's struggling with poverty and is malnourished and has to deal with authority figures who sneer at her for being an immigrant woman, not to mention a sibling of a "dangerous anarchist." She remains undaunted, even as her brother's name is smeared and his body desecrated (the photo below appears in the book and is an actual photo of Lazarus Averbuch's body following his killing):

"Oblivious to the surroundings, she walks slowly. She moves quietly between the detectives, her dress too sweat-damp to rustle. It is only when they open the door of the room that she begins to hold back. Men are gathered around the chair where Lazarus sits, and she is relieved to see he is alive. She sighs and grips Fitzpatrick's forearm. But one of the men is holding Lazarus's head; her brother's eyes are closed, his face ashen; her heart stops, frozen. Fitzgerald urges her on; Fitzpatrick says, as if delivering a punch line: 'Happy to see him? Give him a kiss...' The crowd titters, transfixed by Olga's stepping toward Lazarus, as if she were mounted on cothurni: a short, reluctant step back, then two awkward steps forward to touch his lifeless cheek, whereupon she collapses, unconscious. The crowd gasps (Hemon 57)."

The second story is about Brik, a Bosnian writer living in Chicago. He's married to a surgeon, and their marriage alternates between blissful love and heated, violent confrontations. He becomes fascinated with the story of Lazarus Averbuch, and upon receiving a literary grant, he decides to travel to Eastern Europe to chart and track the Averbuch line and to see how the contemporary homeland reflects the early twentieth-century immigrant experience. He teams up with Rora, a fast-talking photographer who also hails from Sarajevo, with the hopes of having him document their trip. Brik and Rora become an uneasy odd couple, balancing between their natural alliance as men from the same land (and travelers on a sometimes dangerous trip) and their occasional but mounting friction. Rora is an avid storyteller, creating grand, embellished tales of war and travels. He is consistently annoyed with Brik's questions and conversations. Brik, despite his personal faults and boorish behavior toward his wife, is naturally observant, gleaning philosophical and sociological details and hypotheses from the most casual surroundings. Hemon's writing is excellent in these details, and is continual marked by moments of unexpected (and dark) humor, and the passage below ends with one of my favorite lines from the book:

"One morning in Chicago I had tiptoed to the kitchen with the intention of making some coffee. While customarily spilling coffee grounds all over the counter, I spotted a can in the corner whose red label read SADNESS. Was there so much of it they could can it and sell it? A bolt of pain went through my intestines before I realized that it was not SADNESS but SARDINES. It was too late for recovery, for sadness was now the dark matter in the universe of still objects around me: the salt and pepper shakers; the honey jar; the bag of sun-dried tomatoes; the blunt knife; a desiccated loaf of bread; the two coffee cups, waiting. My country's main exports are stolen cars and sadness (Hemon 73)."

As these two story lines alternate, the reader is presented with a myriad of themes--the obvious ones are how the immigrant experience in the United States has changed and remained the same, especially regarding the notion of terrorists and anarchists (substitute Muslims today with Eastern Europeans then); traveling as both a physical journey and an existential one. But what stayed with me the idea of storytelling. This might seem like such a simple, obvious idea, but Hemon crafts various avenues of storytelling, from the historical to the contemporary, but also with a balance between fictional and autobiographical. The little I know about his personal life and history in Chicago is reflected in careful detail via Brik: the mentions of Chicago's Edgewater, Andersonville, and Uptown neighborhoods; the Bosnian angle; and the fact that Brik is a writer who has received a substantial grant. I'm not suggesting that Brik is the complete personification of Hemon, but there's enough there to make the reader wonder how much Hemon has pulled and crafted from his own life, especially when the fictionalized stories of Lazarus and Olga are based on real people as well.

Within the stories lie what I feel is the biggest focus of The Lazarus Project: the art and complications of storytelling. There's never a moment or happening within the text that can't stand alone as its own tale or isn't part of a bigger one. Rora, for example, is meant to be a foil for Brik as well as a source of comic relief. However, his character is constantly telling stories, and after while, these mini-narratives become their own part of the plot:

"These people, these gangsters, Rora said, they are the same wherever you go--the same smirk, the same cell phone, the same goon. There used to be a guy named Pseto, a big gangster in Sarajevo just before the war. His business was racketeering. He ran a crew, including a few cops, who would break up a vendor if he did not pay for protection. He had a jewelry shop for money laundering, and sometimes he wore half of his inventory: diamonds and gold all over. He walked down Ferhadija Street with that Sarajevo-street-thug strut, and people would part reverentially. (I could see him: throwing his shoulders and jerking his neck, pursing his lips, the mouth half open to show that he was halfway to being very pissed) He would walk into a bar and the owner would have to buy drinks for everybody present, as though Pseto were the king. As his headquarters, he used a cafe called Djul-basta (I knew exactly where it stood); the owner was blessed with his protection but had no customers other than the people who came to do business with Pseto. He had trained the owner to bring him a short espresso every half an hour by the clock, and he would sit there, drinking coffee all day. Once he made a disobedient cop suck his cock. And when a stupid journalist wrote about the collusion of the police and Pseto, he had sent goons to bring the fool and had him tied to the tree in front of the cafe. He put a gun at the journalist's temple and told him to bark, so he barked. And he barked all day, was fed pizza leftovers, and had to fetch a stick (Hemon 131-132)."

As Olga processes the story of Lazarus's murder, she does her own painful storytelling. She keeps mentally crafting letters to her mother to break the news of the killing. These drafts are always brief, yet constantly switch in tone and climax as she goes about her investigations.

"Dear Mother,
You will think me cruel and mad, but I cannot keep this inside me anymore. Lazarus has been slain like an animal for no reason at all yet they call him an assassin. He--an assassin. There is no end to evil, it reaches us here too (Hemon 169)."

"Dear Mother,
Lazarus's funeral was beautiful. The rebbe spoke of his kindness, and there were hundreds of his friends, mountains of flowers (Hemon 148)."

The photographs that break up each chapter add their own layers to the narrative. Some of them, like the one of Lazarus above, are real photos from old newspapers. Others are meant to be Rora's photos as he helps document his travels with Brik. Some of these are beautiful landscape shots; others are random snapshots of people related or unrelated to the corresponding text. However, there's a definite subtlety to these images, even if they are jarring and uncomfortable. For as meticulous as Hemon is in his fiction, the idea of imagery and photography are vital to the stories, and therefore the photos become necessary as well as aesthetic. They make The Lazarus Project feel like a sort of time capsule. The early murder is its own historical document, and the travels of Brik and Rora feel like recordings for their own future prosperity. After awhile, the reader is no longer awaiting closure to the events of Lazarus, Olga, Brik, and Rora--the stories unfold into themselves as present-tense happenings, as if we're seeing two events becoming part of one long strain. There's never really a question of reliability--Brik is so open about his own faults and shortcomings that the reader focuses on experiencing the mysteries as they unfold. Also, the blatant lies of the police in covering up Lazarus's murder are the only truly unreliable narrations, but those are expected and obvious.

This is one of the more memorable, expertly crafted novels I've read this year. I found myself inserting Hemon into Brik's stories, and I somehow get the feeling that, personally, Hemon suffers from his own outbursts and unsavory tendencies. But going strictly by the novel, I'm still amazed at how much complexity he wrings from what is otherwise a very simple collection of tales. He writes with emotion without going for obvious sentimentality. During our book club meeting, I expressed the critique that Hemon piled too much misfortune on Olga, getting to the point that it seemed too much to handle. A fellow participant made an excellent point that rendered my criticism false--in history, the Jewish experience has been that way for some people: sometimes there's so much strife and pain without a "happy ending." Hemon's mix of themes, plots, and philosophy were extremely well done, and I'm happy not only that I've finally read one of his long-form works, but that it was this one. It's storytelling both big and small, and a constant stream of information and history that keeps one constantly deep in thought. I very much look forward to reading his other novels and stories, and I plan to tackle these (hopefully) sooner rather than later in 2013.

Work Cited:
Hemon, Aleksandar. The Lazarus Project. Copyright 2008 by Aleksandar Hemon.

"Lincoln" Avenues

When I review a book or a film, I tend to wait at least a day or two before writing my assessments. I do so in order to have enough time to process the opinions and to make sure the various components of the media aren't hastily explored (I do this via copious note-taking and/or long stretches of deep reflection). By waiting, I'm also giving myself time to avoid jumping to conclusions. I'm sure more than a few of my previous essays have the veneer of being glowing endorsements rather than truly critical reviews. However, it's been nearly a week since I saw Steven Spielberg's Lincoln, and the more time I have to analyze the film, the more and more I like it, and for unexpected reasons. A lot has been (rightfully) made about the title performance by Daniel Day-Lewis, but that's merely a part of a more complex exploration of a public figure who has been depicted countless times, often with historical inaccuracies. As it progressed, so much was revealed and presented in beautiful, stunning ways. And most importantly, Lincoln feels like a painstakingly collaborative result, with the acting and behind the camera work blending together almost seamlessly. I do have some mild critiques (I'll get to those soon), but they were not enough to bring down or mar one of the best films of 2012.

Lincoln is partly based on Doris Kearns Goodwin's 2005 book Team Of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. The focus of the film is Lincoln's attempt to get the 13th Amendment to the Constitution passed in the House of Representatives, outlawing slavery before the official end of the Civil War. Like any political issue, it's not without its potential downfalls or manipulations. The Democrats are generally opposed to the legislation, and much scrambling and lobbying is needed to secure some of their votes for the Amendment's passage. President Lincoln has to maneuver to get the Amendment passed before the Confederate States are accepted back into the Union; any delay or veto would render his Emancipation Proclamation defeated. He's aided and advised by his divided cabinet, led by Secretary of State William Seward (David Strathairn), who in turn relies on early versions of lobbyists (including excellent performances by John Hawkes and James Spader) to meet with certain Congressmen to ensure their vote for the Amendment. The vote of Abolitionist Thaddeus Stevens (Tommy Lee Jones) is necessary, but fraught with danger--he supports not only abolition, but complete equality among blacks and whites, an idea that seemed too dangerous at the time, when the focus was supposed to simply be on emancipation. In this process, President Lincoln is dealing with a strained home life, with wife Mary Todd (Sally Field) on a seemingly continuous verge of nervous breakdowns, and son Robert (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) eager to join the Union Army against his parents' wishes. Historically, the audience knows the Amendment will pass; however, the film is crafted to show how political dealings in the 1860s are not terribly different from today's fractured political climate.

Daniel Day-Lewis's performance as Lincoln is startling, and not just in the physical sense. Yes, he looks exactly like every famous photo of the 16th President, but this goes far beyond looks.

As a child, I had a VHS documentary about the U.S. Presidents, and long before this film came into my consciousness, I remember Goodwin discussing President Lincoln and his "frontier lingo." Most films depict him with a polished, deep, stately baritone, but Lewis plays Lincoln with far more historical emphasis. His voice is high pitched and twangy, and he has a penchant for long-winded, sometimes nonsensical allegories. His body is long and bony, and he constantly slouches or hunches, rarely standing straight up and looking dignified. Day-Lewis's performance, without hyperbole, is nearly perfect. He combines the general image of Lincoln with his own research and accuracy. Far better writings and analyses of his acting have been published over the years, so I'll offer this simple opinion: his performance as Lincoln is truly a work of art in the literal sense. This also applies to Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens, whom I learned more about through the film that I have in my scattered history of Civil War readings. Since Stevens isn't as mythological or revered as Lincoln (in fact, his views on equality were probably greater than the President's), Jones plays the role with various hints of flair, donning a dramatic wig, carrying a cane, and portraying the man as committed to his ideals, willing to compromise for the sake of the greater good, and delightfully cantankerous. Stevens was born in Vermont before becoming a Pennsylvania Congressman, but Jones adds a bit of Southern gothic to the role, therefore making it a more creative, inspired piece. David Strathairn has long been one of my favorite actors, and his portrayal of William Seward is one of the great political roles I've seen in quite some time. Seward is a staunch supporter of Lincoln, but is unafraid to voice his displeasure during times of crises or with disagreements.

Sally Field's Mary Todd is very well done, a careful balance between private torments and potential mental illness and a brave public face. Since the death of their son Willie, she believes her husband hasn't properly grieved or mourned, especially since the death occurred during the height of his stress over the war. Mary Todd and Abraham have one major cinematic argument, but their private conversations feel realistic and natural. The only real issue I had with the casting of Lincoln was the choice of Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Robert Lincoln, and this is through no fault of the actor. With such a variety of subplots and layers to the film, the moral and ideological arguments between Robert and the First Family over his joining the Army aren't very well-written. I enjoy Gordon-Levitt as an actor, but he didn't have very much to work with in the film, and therefore it feels like he's there as one of many famous faces in famous roles, which was slightly distracting. The father-son bond is explored well, but with limited time, since if every aspect had been given proper time, the film could have stretched into many untold hours beyond the standard film time allotments.

Spielberg's direction is excellent, and combines exceptionally well with the screenplay by playwright Tony Kushner. The directorial flourishes are minimal--the occasional setting of Lincoln in shadows or out of the main picture, the opening scene of Lincoln from behind and sitting down, rather than standing and looking more "stately." Since the events depicted are not the most well-known in the Lincoln Presidency, Spielberg and Kushner are able to present their own takes on the settings and the dialogue, with a careful, terrific mix of historical accuracy and inventiveness. As a co-worker of mine pointed out, Kushner's screenplay feels like a stage play at times--there are a lot of long monologues and interior scenes/conversations with dramatic arcs. Kushner also explores Lincoln's status as a natural storyteller, with my favorite monologue having to be seen to be fully appreciated, in which Lincoln recounts an anecdote about Ethan Allen and a portrait of George Washington in an outhouse. The writing is carefully executed, since Lincoln isn't a film about dramatic Civil War battles, but primarily about conversations and rhetoric. Most films (or screenwriters) would shy away from long, exploratory dialogue about laws and diplomacy, but this film simply has to use these, and even in the most technical and detailed explanations, there's never a loss of the built-up drama. Lincoln's famous speeches--the Gettysburg address, for example--are merely hinted at or recalled by other characters rather than filmed.

Adding to the overall atmosphere is the cinematography by Janusz Kamiński. The cinematography is smoky, clustered, and sometimes feels like its presented through an old lens. Rick Carter's production design gives the White House and the Capitol Building a cluttered, dusty look, rather than orderly cleanliness that most films would opt for:

As much as I've lauded the historical accuracy of the film, I'm sure there are plenty of embellishments and creative licenses taken with some of the portrayals--any historical film simply has to do so. And as I've mentioned, some of the scenes are intentionally "dramatic" and clearly done in the interest of cinematic touches. Also, there are so many actors and characters I haven't mentioned in this review, since there are so many elements to Lincoln that a full, complete analysis would require multiple posts (I've done this for books, but I hope this single post on the film is a proper overview). Even with some stretched imaginings, it's so refreshing to see a film that's as entertaining as it is educational. I've only read samples of Goodwin's book, and there's so much more to Lincoln's political acumen. However, this film gives a stunning look at how political diversions and commentary aren't just twentieth and twenty-first century phenomenons. Toward the end of the film, when Congress casts its votes for and against the Amendment, people listen in and share the results as they happen by shouting them to outside listeners and sharing them via telegraph. It's too easy to imagine this happening today, with a constant flurry of tweets, e-mails, and social media updates. But it shows how, even in the days before instant news, historical events were followed with the same amount of fervor and excitement. However, the ugly side of compromise and ideological divisiveness was just as prevalent, too. In the context of the film, these connections aren't done in an obvious manner, but rather, it allows the viewer to make these assessments and links. The collaborative effort that is Lincoln is incredibly satisfying and compelling. While I'm still playing catch-up with some of the latest 2012 releases, I'm sure this film will keep growing as awards season and year-end lists start to approach. It's a relief to know that these accolades are warranted, and I hope it gains much more analysis and credit beyond Daniel Day-Lewis. As much as his amazing acting stands on its own, it's merely a single piece of a larger, excellent movie experience.

Continental Divides: "The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet" by Reif Larsen

On the world of Facebook, I'm always seeing friends (or friends of friends) asking for book recommendations, and this generally leads to a dizzying, varied amount of titles thrown about, sometimes with little regard for the tastes of the person making said request. For example, just because I loved Infinite Jest doesn't mean that everyone I know will love it. I take book recommendations very seriously. If someone suggests a title to me, or if I'm loaned a book, I always take them to heart, even if my schedule forces me to put a given work on hiatus for awhile. More often than not, the people who suggest books to me know what I like, or have at least a basic notion of what would appeal to me. A couple of years ago, my friend Jamie enthusiastically recommended The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet, a debut novel by writer Reif Larsen. Jamie and I had a long history of working together with books, and she's actually one of the better sources for potential material, since she and I either completely agree on books or completely disagree. This makes for great discussions, since we can either agree on something or have a tasteful debates. I finally got around to Larsen's work, and found myself with conflicting opinions about the novel's setup and execution.

The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet tells the story of the title protagonist, a precocious, genius mapmaker living in Montana. He's twelve years old, the son of a reticent farmer father and a scientist mother, living with them and his sister, Gracie. His older brother Layton was killed in a shotgun mishap, leading to added stress and distance between the already conflicting personalities in the household. His own personality leads him to map and chart virtually every aspect of his life, from his father's physical whiskey-drinking tics to the amount of time it takes to shuck ears of corn. These maps, charts, and diagrams are presented on almost every page of the book (more on these later). His incredibly intellect leads to opportunities publishing maps and charts in a variety of academic publications, without any of them knowing how old he really is. His mentor, an entomologist named Dr. Yorn, has encouraged T.S. to submit his drawings to the publications, which leads to the young man being selected for a science award, presented by the Smithsonian. After weighing his options. T.S. decides to keep the news from his family, and hitches a ride on a freight train heading east, in order to get to Washington D.C. in time for the presentation.

This plot setup allows for Larsen to explore a multitude of themes--family, identity, and personal/physical journeys. T.S. is supremely gifted, possibly afflicted with a mild form of Asperger's syndrome (hinted at early in the book), but for the most part, a child, coming to terms with his intellect and still-developing social skills. Some of Larsen's passages hint to this, balancing T.S.'s observations with continual actions that show his age. For example:

"A year ago, Dr. Yorn had submitted my first illustration to the Smithsonian under the guise that I was a full colleague of his, and the bad feeling that I got from the lying part of this statement was outweighed by the secret hope that perhaps I was a full colleague of Dr. Yorn's, at least in spirit. And then when this first illustration--a bumblebee cannibalistically devouring another bumblebee--had been accepted, and published no less, Dr. Yorn and I had celebrated, somewhat surreptitiously, because my mother still did not know any of this had transpired. Dr. Yorn had driven down from Bozeman, crossed over the continental divide twice (once west to Butte and then again south to Divide), picked me up at the Coppertop, and taken me out for ice cream at O'Neil's in Historic Downtown Butte (Larsen 23)(latter italics mine)."

There are many enjoyable, even near-brilliant passages throughout the novel. The observations made by T.S. are carefully balanced between intelligent and childlike, revealing some curious philosophies and assessments of thought processes and the way we view the world. While packing for his journey, T.S. inexplicably steals one of his mother's notebooks, which turns out to contain a fictionalized biography of her husband's great-grandmother, who was a budding geologist in the nineteenth century. T.S. occasionally assumes that, because of his mother's position as a scientist, that the woman was from his mother's side, not his father's. His exploration of this mistake is a good example of how his narration juggles the two sides of his mentality.

"Why do we make these illogical associations in our mind? No one ever said, 'Emma Osterville is Dr. Clair's [his mother] great-grandmother,' but I had come to vaguely believe it, simply through frequent association. I suppose children are particularly susceptible to such irrational connections: with so much unknown, they are less concerned with the sticky details than with trying to create a working map of the world (Larsen 143)."

T.S.'s journey on the train is the most memorable part of the work, and its elements of realism and fantasy blend quite well, whereas the actions and events following the train ride are much too forced and unbelievable. The freight car he chooses in Montana happens to contain an open Winnebago, giving him cover for some near-discoveries and highlighting two examples of Great American Travel. From his small town in Montana to the end of the line in Chicago to the final destination of Washington, D.C., T.S. finds himself in three different representations of the American experience. Being able to sleep in the Winnebago allows T.S. to make quite a few hypotheses about perception, physics, and movements in various forms:

"My body had grown so used to traveling in reverse that whenever we stopped, I found that my whole field of vision swam at me. I had first noticed this when I was hiding in the bathroom of the Cowboy Condo during one of our numerous station stops. I had become increasingly convinced that the railroad knew my exact location and it was only a matter of time before they sent one of their bulls to come and kill me. As I sat on the toilet in the confines of the tiny bathroom, I suddenly was overcome with the sensation of running into the wall in front of me. It was nauseating to find that your reflection in the bathroom mirror was moving toward you when you were in fact standing still, as thought it had managed to break free from the normal laws of refraction and optics. Gradually, through the steady influence of backward motion vectors, my confidence was taking a beating.

And so where did I find solace from this herky-jerky quagmire of momentum?

I knew there was a reason I had packed my studies of Sir. Isaac Newton. I searched through my suitcase and grasped the notebook as one grasped an old childhood teddy bear in times of distress (Larsen 172-173)."

T.S. ends up forming a new relationship with himself, so to speak, hence the long, lonely journey. His interactions and relationships with others are both fascinating and illogical. There are touching moments when he tries to bond with his father, a man who no doubt loves him but has trouble expressing his feelings, especially since the death of his older son, with whom he felt closer and shared more common interests. T.S.'s sister, Gracie, is a typical teenager, prone to outbursts, drama, and loud music. He loves her, but views her as a specimen, as if he's doing field studies of the American Teenager. His chance encounters, however, are sometimes ludicrous. He has a run-in with a wild eyed preacher in Chicago, which I took to be a sly commentary on the battle between reason and religion. Upon arriving in D.C. (his getting there involves yet another chance encounter), his contact at the Smithsonian, after being taken aback by his age, sees T.S. as marketing gold, since media outlets would jump on the idea of a young award winning mapmaker, therefore increasing exposure and income for the museum. T.S. is initiated into a secret society, a group mindful of his life in Montana and supposed secrets. These happenings seem to come very, very rapidly, a far cry from the deliberately careful pacing of the previous two-thirds of the novel. Larsen had obviously outlined his work very carefully, but decides to throw far too many wild events at the reader once T.S. arrives in Chicago. The idea of a young child stowing away on a cross-country trip by himself was set up perfectly, allowing the reader to escape into this fantasy world with no questions. But as quickly as Larsen gains trust, he loses it by adding far too many diversions at the end.

The maps, images, and notes that accompany T.S.'s narration work well as interactive footnotes. He's a compulsive note-taker, and Larsen illustrates these with stunning detail, making the novel a marvel to consume, both textually and visually. But much like the novel's ending, T.S.'s compulsion becomes, well, tiresome. I genuinely feel bad for this critique, since I'm not at all complaining about the beauty of the illustrations. A late illustration of the Smithsonian is essential, especially combined with T.S.'s first impression of the building:

But there are constant illustrations of random thoughts, as evidenced below. Humorous, yes, but for as painstaking as the work is, constantly taking in picture after picture of T.S.'s observations and hypotheses becomes tiresome. Yes, the young narrator's mentality is far different than yours or mine, with notebooks full of these works and jottings. I just feel Larsen could have achieved the same visual and atmospheric effect with more carefully selected images. Humorous, yes, but being constantly bombarded detracts from what is otherwise a strong story.

And for all of my critiques, I'm genuinely interested in Larsen's future projects. For a debut novel, The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet is audacious in very good ways. The themes are varied, giving the reader a wealth of material to consider and imagine while for the most part being rooted in writing that feels classic and original at the same time. It just goes on far too many unbelievable paths and leaves far too many questions unanswered for me to praise it fully. With some careful editing, this could have been a masterpiece and one of the best debut novels of the early part of this century. As Larsen grows as an artist and storyteller, I have a great feeling he'll have marvelous creative advancements. Finding a balance between realism and strains of fantasy is difficult, and I was sad to see the work unfurl so rapidly. I can only imagine the time and energy that Larsen put into this book, and again, it's staggering to realize it's his debut. But in that fascination, we can see early struggles. Had the novel maintained a consistent tone and a consistent grounding in the created reality, I feel it would still be receiving positive attention in these years following its publication. I came out of this with full admiration for Larsen's skills, and I'm hoping his future works can capture or even outdo this first ambition. There were so many directions he could have taken for the better, and I'm left feeling very divided, wondering how much better this journey could have been.

Work Cited:
Larsen, Reif. The Selected Works Of T.S. Spivet. Copyright 2009 by Reif Larsen.

Fit To be Tied (In): A Critique

Not long ago, I viewed trailer for the film adaptation of David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, which is one of my all-time favorite novels. While the film version will very likely pale in comparison (not to mention the fact that the trailer did not, or rather could not, come close to visualizing the novel's intricacies and layers), it has led to increased attention and demand for the book itself. In one of the rare instances of joy in corporate bookselling, I've been able to discuss Mitchell's work with a variety of people, most of them new to the work, buying it because of the upcoming film. Virtually all of these people seem excited to tackle the book itself, especially when they receive a glowing endorsement and hints that the reading experience will be much more than they anticipated. Since sales of the work have jumped, I've taken to replenishing stock of the book, as well as tracking how many copies are selling everyday. However, I did this the other day, and I was taken aback by a new entry on the computer screen. I clicked, and while I knew full well what it was, I sighed anyway when I saw: Cloud Atlas--Movie Tie In Edition.

Before I continue, I'll gladly admit to owning a good handful of movie tie-in books (for clarification, I mean original works with movie poster covers, NOT novelizations of film screenplays, the last one of which I read when I was around eight years old), but these were purchased on clearance, since most publishers put out staggering numbers of these editions in hopes of capitalizing on the attention a film adaptation will receive. In my case, these MTIs were bought solely for the text and the chance to pick up a noted work for a bargain price. But I've never understood the appeal of picking up a book simply because it has a movie poster on the front of it. Add the fact that the original paperback version of Cloud Atlas, designed by Casey Hampton, is one of the most beautiful jacket designs in contemporary fiction, and it seems to add up to an assumption that a reader wouldn't be able to see a regular book cover and realize that it is the source material for the movie playing down the street. Someone with a more optimistic outlook could point to the possibility that MTIs might lead people, ones who would not otherwise be inclined, to read books after enjoying its film adaptation. There's a pretty complicated battle here, one between design aesthetics and the overlap between two very different mediums. While a film version of a novel needs to in some way pay homage to the original source material, there are other ways to go about this. Perhaps, during the opening credits, a full block of text, five seconds longer than the other credits, with a bold declaration of "BASED ON THE NOVEL BY ____" I have no aversion to a small, tasteful sticker that states "now a major motion picture," provided it can be peeled away easily. While some movie posters are powerful works of art in their own right, placing it on a book cover screams of an uneasy relationship between what started as a written story and is now a vastly different form altogether.

Some examples are insulting. When the MTI of The Hunger Games came out, the list price was about five dollars more than the original paperback version. Five dollars more for a glorified movie poster, for a series that would go on to reap a ridiculous amount of money from box office sales and an embarrassment of merchandising tie-in riches. Years ago, I purchased a clearance MTI of Jose Saramago's Blindness. The film poster (and subsequent book cover) was uninspired, and had two of my favorite actors featured: Julianne Moore and Gael Garcia Bernal. I never saw the film adaptation, and while I generally enjoyed Saramago's novel, I found myself subconsciously envisioning Moore and Bernal in their respective roles (even though I never saw the film, I did look up the casting online). In this case, the merge between the film and the book was an unpleasant experience, and it's why I much prefer reading the book before seeing the film. I enjoyed the language and the plotting, but in my head, it managed to be more "cinematic" than "literary." Am I making petty, needling arguments? Perhaps, but I generally limit my strictly opinion-based blog posts, and I'm trying to back these thoughts up with honest assessments. In other MTI examples, there's a question of what exactly the new book version is trying to do, visually:

The MTI of Don DeLillo's Cosmopolis is perplexing. I read parts of it years ago, and from what I've read, the film is generally faithful to the source material. And I enjoy the movie poster's design, but I can't help but wonder: Robert Pattinson looks pale, brooding, and isolated, just like Eric, his character (from what I remember of my early readings). But is this too, well, Twilight-esque? I highly doubt that this MTI was done to dupe Twilight fans into reading a novella that dives into post-9/11 and pre-financial crisis America. However, Pattinson is still so tied to his vampire character that any insinuation will call to mind his most famous role instead of hinting to his new territories as an actor. However, in a perverse way, I'd love to see teen Twilight fans read this and attempt to create Cosmopolis fan fiction. But in all seriousness, this MTI manages to create three levels of distraction: by (even unintentionally) evoking Edward Cullen, it detracts from David Cronenberg's film, and by the process of getting to the novel, DeLillo's original novel. I'm delighted that DeLillo's work is being adapted, so I really shouldn't be complaining too much. But my point is that MTIs can do more harm than merely blurring the lines between words and film.

I read Stephen Chbosky's The Perks Of Being a Wallflower a few times as a teenager, and like it did for many others, the novel did an amazing job of speaking to the intangible teen angst I felt at the time (I should do another reading, to see how my reading of it at age 29 differs from my reading at age 19). Much like the Cloud Atlas poster above, this does absolutely nothing to even broadly hint at the novel's content. The actors look vainly detached, but sort of bemused, a far cry from Charlie's (the main character in Wallflower)honest looks at growing up, sex, drugs, and maturity. The poster doesn't detract, but doesn't add anything, either. But this might be the most promising example of the bunch: I can imagine a lot of young adults seeing this film and being drawn to the book (even though the book is a perennial bestseller, I'm assuming that a good number of people will see the film first), and discovering a good narrative and epistolary story line. This film will be released in the next couple of weeks, and if I don't see it, I'll still be curious to read reviews to find out if the critical opinions reflect the book's overall atmosphere. So while I still prefer the cover of the original paperback, I can't criticize an MTI that might lure in younger, potentially reluctant readers. If adults need to be swayed by an MTI, that's sad; if it helps the other demographic read, I'll tip my cap.

I'm closing with an older example, and probably the biggest culprit in movie tie-in editions. I'll start by admitting that I haven't read the book, nor have I seen the film. Years ago, a co-worker of mine enthusiastically recommended Nick Flynn's Another Bullshit Night In Suck City, and even just by paging through the book, it's one of the most captivating blends of cover art and title. These two elements (words and illustration) combine to be mysterious, dark, darkly funny, and beautiful. No, you should never judge a book by its cover (or, for this matter, its title). But one would be challenged to think of any other immediate examples of the perfect evocations:

And below is the MTI/film poster. Yes, I'm critiquing a film I haven't seen, but despite the inclusion of Robert DeNiro and Paul Dano, two fine actors, the poster (and movie tie-in book) is an utter mess. It's trying to be "artsy" and "edgy," with the bright glare and faint outlines of the two characters. Of course, the book's title could never be marketed, but slapping the film title (what is less imaginative than Being Flynn) onto a cover that's the exact opposite in aesthetics? It's an insult to Flynn, plain and simple. Perhaps he liked the changes. If so, nobody should fault him, since the book itself was so highly received and is still well regarded today. But to go from the beauty above to the blandness below is staggering. And despite the lackluster title, the original title is clearly printed below ("Originally published as Another Bullshit Night In Suck City"), therefore doing away with the original intention of not offending anyone who would take offense to the word "bullshit." In this case, the book and the film need a vast separation. The movie tie-in doesn't have the true heart or edginess of the original.

And really, this is where "bullshit" is needed in big, bold letters. I'm not trying to be petty--visual design is not my field, so I'm trying to look at it from a literary standpoint. But to fall back on an argument that I tend to avoid, I know what speaks to me from a visual standpoint. The movie tie-in edition will not stop, and I know I should come to accept it, to cling to my original hardcovers and paperbacks, and hope that the words inside of a book become more important to someone than what's on the front.

However: if I discover a movie tie-in for The Great Gatsby this December, there will be some strongly worded letters and e-mails.

Moving Forward: "From the Back Of the Bus" by Dick Gregory

With the exception of some autographed titles and a few first editions, my book collection has little in the way of collector's items or fierce sentimental value. I'm big on margin notes, underlined passages, and freely lending books to friends with the full knowledge that it could be months until I have them returned. However, at last month's Printer's Row Lit Fest, I discovered a couple of vintage paperbacks published in the 1960s. They were encased in plastic and in pristine condition, and I spent a few weeks leaving them untouched. However, curiosity got the best of me, and my overriding belief in books being enjoyed rather than functioning as centerpieces won out. One of these titles was From the Back Of the Bus by comedian/social activist Dick Gregory.

I've been superficially familiar with his life and writings, and I was eager to read this particular work after I found it at the Lit Festival. My initial research shows that Gregory is still going strong as an activist, even with the occasional foray into conspiracy theories and sometimes outlandish ideas. The contents of From the Back Of the Bus weren't what I originally expected--the bulk of Gregory's writings are brief asides, jokes, and monologue samples, all grouped together by various subject headers (Ku Klux Klan, Miami, Hypocrisy, to give an idea of the mix). When discussing black writers, artists, and activists of the early twentieth century, the easy thing to mention is how revolutionary they were, and this is absolutely essential in regard to Gregory's work. He uses his humor to break barriers, but the overall atmosphere is one of an upfront challenge to the white audiences of the time. He mixes social commentary and says what a lot of people were likely thinking at the time, from both sides of the racial divide. The idea of comedic revolutions, especially in such a social context, is literally awesome, and considering the books publication in 1962, one can only imagine how shocking and ahead of the curve it really was. This is a fascinating artifact from the beginning of the Civil Rights decade.

The longest passage in the book is the introduction by Playboy founder Hugh Hefner, who gave Gregory his first break as a regular comedian at Chicago's Playboy Club. For all of Hefner's own criticisms and facets (spearheading the sexual revolution vs. Playboy continually objectifying women), he deserves credit for his early promotion of Gregory's material. Years ago, I remember a moving tribute from Gregory during the Comedy Central Roast of Hugh Hefner. In the midst of constant, tiring jokes about Hefner's age and sexual proclivity, Gregory moved him to tears by thanking him for giving him the chance and, most importantly, not censoring or asking him to tone down his material. As Hefner boldly states in his introduction:

"But more than this, Gregory has added a new dimension to the world of comedy. He is a black funnyman who does not get his laughs by fearing ghosts in B movies, rattling 'dem bones' or other such demeaning antics. He is another much-needed spokesman for his people, one who can reach the ear of the world in a way that makes it listen (18)."

This idea is important, especially in context. From a 1960s standpoint, one of the most vivid examples of breaking racial barriers in comedy was the banter between Sammy Davis, Jr. and the rest of the Rat Pack. According to writer Bill Zehme, the comedy, which was composed of seemingly racist jabs, was a way of calling attention to stupidity with stupidity. I find the Rat Pack comedy to be vastly overrated, and while Zehme has his points, I feel that Gregory's work was a much more authentic, real way of dealing with the views of that given era. From the Back Of the Bus isn't a work that lends itself to a capital-R "Review," but some of Gregory's passages are still very fresh and vivid fifty years later.

"Just for laughs, I've been thinking about buying one of those army rocket belts. You saw it in the papers--where you can jump fifteen feet up and land 120 feet away. Gonna take it down to Birmingham and tease Hell outta lynch mobs (Gregory 29)."

"All the record stores are playing that subversive song again...I'm Dreaming Of a White Christmas...It's kinda sad, but my little girl doesn't believe in Santa Claus. She sees that white cat with the whiskers--and even at two years old, she knows damn well ain't no white man coming into our neighborhood at midnight...be honest now. How many of you have ever seen a black Santa Claus? He ain't even black after he comes down the chimney--and he should be!...(Gregory 38)."

"You gotta realize, my people have never known what job security is. For instance, comes another recession and the economy has to tighten its belt--who do you think's gonna be the first notch (Gregory 59)?"

"I'm really kidding. Florida happens to be one of the most liberal states in the South. Why I can go to any place I like--restaurants, nightclubs, theaters--and I only have to do one thing. Change my name to Ricardo (Gregory 89)."

While I'm sure From the Back Of the Bus has its own following and has received its own attention despite the fact that I'm new to its existence, I was also fascinated by its combination of text and photography. The photos are the work of Jerry Yulsman, and the images tie very carefully into Dick Gregory's texts. These are not random images, but rather carefully constructed placements that give the work a layered, multimedia atmosphere. The images I've included, combined with the texts and captions, are a combination of mild humor and intense juxtapositions. The above image of Gregory in a fancy tuxedo and top hat, accompanied with the remark "Whaddya mean--I depreciate your property..." is still striking and yet again takes on increased significance with its era. It's impossible to tell whether these images are more from the imagination of Gregory or Yulsman, but I can imagine the two men sharing ideas of how to place the man in context with his surroundings, and, in effect, place his ideas within a then-contemporary context. My favorite image is the last one included, featuring a suited Gregory standing in a building that is either under construction or hollowed out from neglect. The connotations take on so many meanings, reflecting success in the face of failure, as well as Gregory's own journey of personal success and early substandard living. Yulsman's photos are not just random accompaniments; his closeups and long shots of Gregory are stunning, unheralded examples of striking photographic art, challenging stereotypes as well as engaging in hip, self-aware conversations about black consciousness and the still-ongoing struggles of race in America.

In some cases, these assessments would be a stretch, but in today's world, there is still a struggle with bigotry and reflections on race relations. While Gregory's words and Yulsman's photographs are still meaningful today, I feel the importance comes from placing them in their original context. While America still has a long way to go with its race dialogues, it's stunning to see these groundbreaking works of art and realize how they shook up and subverted the mindset of the 1960s world. In short, and without any hyperbole, From the Back Of the Bus still maintains its groundbreaking emotions, and I'm hoping it eventually finds its way back in print, not only because of its sociological weight, but also because of its terrific comedy and willingness to start dialogues that are still needed.

"On the other hand, if you've liked the book--don't tell you friends. Just take me to lunch when it's not Brotherhood Week (Gregory 125)."

Work Cited:
Gregory, Dick. From the Back Of the Bus. Copyright 1962 by Dick Gregory Enterprises, Inc. Photography by Jerry Yulsman.

(Breaking) The Rules Of the Game: Spike Lee's "He Got Game"

As a teenager, I religiously watched the NBA Draft every June, even though it tended to hold the same interest level as the MLB All-Star Game: there's a lot of hype, pageantry, and breathless conversations by the hosts and announcers, and I'd enjoy the first hour and a half before being sidetracked by other activities. I haven't had cable for a few years now, so the time I devoted to this year's draft was limited to web previews and recaps. By sheer coincidence, I ended up watching Spike Lee's 1998 film He Got Game the same evening as this year's draft. In favorable hindsight, I feel that I got much more out of the film than I would have gotten out of the back-patting idolatry of the NBA showcase. Lee's film is presented with setups of conventional cinema, but almost gleefully tears down these conventions in one of the most unexpectedly artful films of the 1990s. Admittedly, there are large chunks of Lee's filmography that I still need to catch up on, but I've noticed that even his lesser acclaimed films have at least a touch of creativity not seen with a lot of filmmakers. He Got Game has a devoted following among basketball fans, and as always, Lee is unafraid of tackling even the most sensitive subjects head-on.

The film opens with a beautiful jazz soundtrack and footage of various youths--male, female, black, white, urban, rural--shooting baskets in a variety of ways, slowed down to showcase the art and physics of a ball arcing into a hoop. It then turns into a drama, with an established scenario that is both standard and slightly implausible, but done in a straightforward manner so the viewer doesn't get terribly caught up in the logistics. Jake Shuttlesworth (Denzel Washington) is summoned to meet with the prison warden, who offers him a deal. He's prepared to let Jake out of prison for a week to connect with his estranged son Jesus (now-NBA veteran Ray Allen). Jake is given a letter of intent to fictional Big State University: if he can convince Jesus, the nation's best prep basketball player, to accept a scholarship to the school (an idea proposed by the unseen governor, one of the school's biggest boosters), Jake will receive an early parole. Carefully monitored by an ankle bracelet and two police supervisors (including a terrific performance by Jim Brown), Jake is set up in a Coney Island motel and is generally free to come and go, with the seemingly insurmountable goal of a.) getting in his son's good graces, and b.) getting him to sign the letter of intent.

Jesus is rightfully angry at his father for the murder of his mother (this isn't a spoiler in a sense; when the scene plays out in a flashback, it makes the situation more complex, but not absolving Jake of wrongdoing) when he was a child. He rebuffs Jake's attempts at a connection, and is dealing with a serious amount of pressure. Everyone, from his high school coach to national commentators, are anxious to know which school Jesus plans to attend, assuming he doesn't jump straight to the NBA. He's the primary caretaker of his younger sister (a beautiful acting job by Zelda Harris), along with his ineffectual aunt and uncle. His girlfriend Lala (Rosario Dawson) is pressuring him to meet with an influential sports agent, whom she claims is a family friend. Jesus is continually claiming that he doesn't know where he wants to take his basketball career, and even in the face of corruption and pressure, he's steadfast in his resolve to (no pun intended) do the right thing.

His natural assumption is that his father wants money, not believing that he's out of prison on a "work-release program" (as Jake claims). As the film progresses, the idea of money becomes even more intense. In one of the film's best sequences, one of Jesus's associates asks him if he's ready for the people claiming to love him because of his wealth. A series of faces are projected on the screen, imploring Jesus for a handout in between claims of love and respect, until one of the faces goes even further: a young woman claims "my baby needs diapers, I need Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel." This idea, while relatively unexplored in 1998 (I could be wrong; I was fifteen years old when the film was released), has taken on more sociological meanings today. In 2005, the NBA established a rule that all eligible draftees had to complete at least one year of college ball, forbidding players from entering the NBA straight out of high school. There was rightful controversy over this, as expressed in the film in two different ways. Talented high school players, wanting to get their families out of the projects and poverty, now have to complete a year of college beforehand. The allure of money, as documented countless times since, leads a lot of young black players to be overcome by an influx of "friends" and estranged family members looking for security. Later in the film, Jesus pays a visit to another school, and is treated to lavish inducements to play for them, including sexual enticements and a ludicrous pitch from the school's religious coach (a hilarious cameo by John Turturro). Even before the 2005 rule, the idea of a student-athlete was fragile at best, and now, with players choosing colleges with an eye on getting to the pros after a year, it's even more laughable. Lee manages to make these two financial aspects both singular ideas as well as intertwined realities. Another wrinkle presents itself during a meeting between Jesus and a white sports agent. The agent does everything he can, from flattery to illegal bribes, to make Jesus sign a contract and turn professional. The agent knows nothing about Jesus's true personality, and the scene is shot to show how the man is doing his best to exploit the young man for his own financial gain. In a still prevalent world in which poor black men face limited options, the idea of exploitation is intense. If Jesus had no basketball skills whatsoever, he wouldn't be getting the kind of attention he does. This idea is meant to be obvious, but the claims of personal affection and respect are done not out of any true meaning, but because of dollar signs.

When not trying to coax a conversation with his son, Jake is primarily alone. However, he forms a bond with Dakota, an abused prostitute living in the motel room next to his (an early role by Milla Jovovich). Lee sets up the interactions between Jake and Dakota carefully, lulling the viewer into an expectation of a confrontation between Jake and the pimp. Instead, Jake manages to borrow money to get Dakota off the street for one night. They have sex, and while there's a definite connection between the two, Lee doesn't opt for the obvious solutions. There's no fight between Jake and the pimp, and there's no illusion that he and Dakota have magically found true love. Rather, it's the portrait of a bond between two very troubled people, and it's rendered as touchingly as can be. Jake, in agony over his son's hate, needs an interaction, and it shows his genuine goodness in the face of his previous actions. This notion of Jake's bad qualities being born out of his inner goodness (and the other way around) is also shown in the flashback to his wife's death. After riding young Jesus too hard during a practice session at a nearby court, their fight dominoes into an intense confrontation at home, leading to his wife's death. Jake is at fault, but his crime spiraled out of hand. In He Got Game's most wrenching scene, Jake tries to revive his wife and doesn't try to cover up or absolve himself from wrongdoing. Watch the scene, and look at Denzel Washington's eyes as Jake tells his son to call 911.

Jake and Jesus do end up having their conversations, culminating in their final interaction (more like a showdown). Jake gives his son an ultimatum, to be decided in a brief game of one-on-one. While the outcome is important, the scene is tied together by Jake's final instruction to his son, telling him to get rid of his hate, which will make him no different than anyone else on the street, talent be damned. Jesus makes his choice, and the film ends with alternating shots of Jake and Jesus shooting baskets alone, with a final shot that mirrors the film's opening (at least thematically) and hints to the act that spearheaded their biggest fight years ago and also leaves the window open for both men coming to terms with each other and themselves. Does this sound sappy and not unlike any other film ending? It sounds that way, but Lee pulls it off very carefully. It also shows the therapeutic benefits of shooting baskets by oneself. When I lived in Seattle, I dealt with my writing frustrations on my apartment's basketball court, and almost always came away from it refreshed and with renewed focus. Lee takes the tired cliche of "sports as more than just a game" and elevates it to a metaphysical level.

He Got Game has been on my "to-watch" list for years, and it's arguably one of the best sports films ever made. There are no cliches or easy answers provided, and Lee knows the game of basketball so well as to share its importance to the people who love it most, with the shady outside aspects leaving the game itself untarnished on a simple, pure level. Even with the standard cinematic conventions, it's an art film on many levels. The decision to cast NBA star Ray Allen as Jesus was a move of genius, since there are so few scenes showing him actually playing the game. He has the look and demeanor of a young man being exposed to too much at an early age, and Allen's stumbles with acting (in a few scenes, his voice barely rises above a monotone, flat delivery) make his role that much more believable, and everyone, from the main characters to the smaller supporting ones, are cast perfectly. Most importantly, Lee takes the ideas of race and opportunity in America and gives them a new sort of complexity. The business world of collegiate and professional basketball have always had a divide between predominantly black and poor players and white ownership and management, and fourteen years later, He Got Game can still be viewed as a contemporary sociological commentary.

Creative Common Grounds: Miranda July's "It Chooses You"

Overall, I'm likely less familiar with Miranda July's work than most people. I loved her 2005 film Me and You and Everyone We Know, and while I've read only a handful of her short stories, they affected me in similar ways. I'm not sure if her short films and performance art pieces run along the same thematic lines, but July's work manages to take universal subjects--connectivity, love, and emotional states--and explore them in unique and tender ways. I missed the theatrical run of her latest film, last year's The Future, but I found myself drawn to her latest book, written in the midst of her work on that screenplay. I merely assumed that the above-mentioned themes would be at least hinted at in It Chooses You, but I was also pleasantly surprised to discover July's intelligent takes on the creative process and the universal obstacles that writers have to overcome.

During the writing of The Future, July found herself at a personal impasse. In the solitude of her office, the temptations of mindless web browsing proved to be detrimental, and her examinations of this kind of time wasting will undoubtedly ring true for virtually all writers:

"Some of this could be justified because one of the characters in my screenplay was also trying to make something, a dance, but instead of dancing she looked up dances on YouTube. So, in a way, this procrastination was research. As if I didn't already know how it felt: like watching myself drift out to sea, too captivated by the waves to call for help. I was jealous of older writers who had gotten more of a toehold on their discipline before the web came. I had gotten to write only one script and one book before this happened (July 6-7)."

During her lunch breaks, she began reading the PennySaver ads, a classified booklet with various items listed for sale, a sort of non-web based Craigslist. I've come to realize that the PennySaver has national publications, but I was unaware of its existence until reading this book. July got the idea to contact people offering pieces for sale, and asking them to submit to interviews while she looked at the items. She received her share of refusals, but managed to get enough agreements to form It Chooses You. Along with photographer Brigitte Sire, July set out on her interviews and documentations. Had this project been undertaken by almost anyone else, there is an excellent chance that the finished work would have looked condescending or pandering. The people who take ads out in the PennySaver tend to be poorer, sicker, and have less means than people who advertise online. In the process, July tells the story of the sellers, and manages to create a work of art in a touching, intelligent manner.

The book's first interview is with Michael, an older man selling a leather jacket and undergoing a gender transformation. July's interviews are straightforward, but given the dynamics of people, the simplest questions manage to illuminate the subject's desires and mindset, whether this was intentional or not.

"We murmured admiration for the jacket, which was entirely ordinary, and I asked if I could turn on the tape recorder. Michael settled into a medical-looking chair and I perched on the couch. I glanced at my questions, but now they seemed beside the point.

Miranda: When did you begin your gender transformation?

Michael: Six months ago.

Miranda: And when did you know that you--

Michael: Oh, well, I knew it when I was a child, but I've been in the closet all my life. I came out in 1996 and then went back in the closet again, but this time I'm not going to go back in the closet. I'm going to complete the transformation.

Miranda: So the first time you came out must have been hard. You must not have had a good experience?

Michael: It wasn't hard. I just decided to do it, and I don't know why I went back in the closet. It's one of those psychological things that I'm going to a psychologist to work out (July 17)."




In the second interview, July meets Primila, a woman selling authentic Indian outfits. The woman asks July about the nature of the project, and in the process, more illuminations of the creative process come about. Just like the simple conversation with Michael shed light on his life and the layers of his goals and psyche, Primila's questions allow July to add more insights into her overall mission.

"Primila: So do you want to tell me again a little bit more about what this is for? Do you have any brochure or write-up on things that you do, or your company?

Miranda: I'm just interviewing people. I'm really interested in just getting a portrait of the person and what they're interested in, and a sense of their life story. I'm a writer and I usually write fiction, but this is--you know, I'm always curious about people. So this is a chance to--

Primila: You write fiction? Do you have any particular themes or any commission or fashion?

Miranda: They're--I mean, gosh. They're usually about people trying to connect in one way or another and the importance of that. And the different ways people sort of make that harder than it needs to be (July 30)."



As the interviews go along, two other ideas surface. In making these seemingly random connections, the palpable loneliness of the interviewees becomes universal, especially against the backdrop of our digital, social age. It can touch everyone, whether one is a likely hermit/shut-in (some of July's subjects fit this mold) or if one has a wide circle of connections.

"It was a relief, meeting someone whom I had anything at all in common with. Michael and Primila and Pauline had exhausted me with their openness and their quaint inefficiency, but Raymond and I were the same generation; we both knew how to click on things, we both had a version of our name with @ in it. As I left his room I said something like 'Maybe I'll see you around,' as if our generation all liked to congregate at one coffee shop.
But the moment I got back in my car I knew I would never see him again, ever. It suddenly seemed obvious to me that the whole world, and especially Los Angeles, was designed to protect me from these people I was meeting. There was no law against knowing them, but it wouldn't happen (July 56-57)."

The other idea was July's notion of casting some of the people in The Future, and while the idea of capturing non-actors in real moments was tempting, she found that it didn't quite work out. She ended up trying out Dina, a mother selling a hairdryer, but found that her style, when done for a specific purpose, became more like unnatural acting than capturing a real person in a real moment. July persisted, and found probably her most touching subject (the final interview), an old man named Joe who was selling old Christmas cards and had a penchant for dirty limericks and caring for animals. His tenderness and genuineness were touching, and her interview with him caused July to reexamine herself.



"I thought about his sixty-two years of sweet, filthy cards and something unspooled in my chest. Maybe I had miscalculated what was left of my life. Maybe it wasn't loose change. Or, actually, the whole thing was loose change, from start to finish--many, many little moments, each holiday, each Valentine, each year unbearably repetitive and yet somehow always new. You could never buy anything with it, you could never cash it in for something more valuable or more whole. It was just all these days, held together by the fragile memory of one person--or, if you were lucky, two (July 199)."

She ended up casting Joe in a small part in The Future, and he was determined to finish his job, even in the face of a cancer diagnosis. He died after filming his scenes, and the book ends with July's conversation with his widow, who was initially reluctant to participate. It's incredibly sad and beautiful at the same time, and while this wasn't July's expectation, the entire project seemed to be leading up to this moment, the realization that her act, while not providing any monetary liveliness for Joe, gave him something concrete to do, and ended up giving his last weeks an unexpected direction.

For all of July's writing skills and ability to conduct moving interviews with unlikely subjects, It Chooses You succeeds just as well because of Brigitte Sire's beautiful photography. Her camera captures the sale objects with unnerving focus, illuminating them and highlighting a weird sort of sadness at the same time. Her images of the interviewees are a deft combination of random moments and posed shots. Even the posed photographs feel like quick snapshots, since the subjects, while aware of the camera, don't seem to be trying to pose or make themselves appear differently from what/who they are. The emphasis, whether via the objects or the people, is on the details, for better or for worse. They are serious, yet occasionally playful. These combinations and varieties are perfectly aligned with the July's words, since none of the subjects were completely alike, and all of them went into the interviews with different motives and emotions. Combining words and photographs can be a slippery slope. Norman Mailer and Jon Naar, in their collaboration on The Faith of Graffiti, hit a few missteps, since the beautiful photography sometimes seemed at odds with Mailer's occasional moment of embarrassing prose. Here, however, July and Sire work together beautifully, with the words and images supporting each other without one dominating the other.

With certain books or works of art, I have a tendency to say that some pieces are above or impervious to concrete "reviews." I believe this to be true with It Chooses You, since July manages to stay true to her subjects even when she turns the focus on herself and her own artwork. I only touched upon a handful of the subjects featured in the book, and copyright page explains that there was a certain amount of editing that went into it, for clarity's sake. Even so, the entire work feels natural, and July manages to make this a work that strengthens her creative mission as well as a sociological study. Most importantly, she doesn't always give her subjects the complete benefit of the doubt: there are moments of caution and trepidation, but even in these moments, she lets them speak for themselves. Overall, this is a stunning look at how lives and objects go back and forth between the universal and the personal, and gives artists reassurance that setbacks and detours happen, but can lead down positive paths. The reader will be fascinated and sympathetic to the interview subjects, but as I mentioned above, there's no pandering or "class guilt" that goes into July's work. She wants us to see the people the way she does, and in the process makes these random folks compelling and natural storytellers.

Work Cited:
July, Miranda. It Chooses You. Copyright 2011 by Miranda July.