The Kid's Break

(NOTE: This is my submission to the Steve McQueen Blog-a-Thon, being hosted by Jason Bellamy at Cooler Cinema. Please click on the above link for more information and for further links to the other submissions. The Steve McQueen Blog-a-Thon runs through Saturday, March 27th.)

I think it's appropriate to open this post with a sample of one of my favorite Simpsons dialogues:

Marge Simpson (trying to make Homer realize that he doesn't know about his son's interests): Who's your son's hero?

Homer: Steve McQueen?

Marge: Homer, that's YOUR hero!

When notes or conversations arise about Steve McQueen's beginnings, the first two names that understandably come up are The Blob and the television show Wanted: Dead or Alive. Further fame would come with his more memorable roles in the 1960s and 1970s, but a little-discussed aspect of his start is his first teaming with John Sturges in 1959's Never So Few. Perhaps the fact that this film doesn't garner much attention is because it's a movie weighed down with limitations and a generally poor script. Starring Frank Sinatra as an Army Captain leading a group of rebel soldiers in Burma, the film might have gained more attention as the first Rat Pack vehicle before 1960's Ocean's 11; Peter Lawford co-stars as an Army doctor, and the role of Corporal Bill Ringa was intended for Sammy Davis, Jr. However, the role went to Steve McQueen. Perhaps this story is apocryphal, but Sinatra told John Sturges to "give the kid a break" with specific camera shots and scenery. As a film, Never So Few is important on a pop culture level as opposed to great cinema. The teaming of the Chairman Of the Board and the King Of Cool doesn't get the attention it deserves.

Never So Few tells the story of Tom Reynolds (Sinatra), a Captain leading a band of O.S.S. operatives and Kachin rebels in the early part of World War II. After an ambush leaves some of his men dead, Reynolds is given leave, and he's picked up in India by driver/Corporal Bill Ringa. We first see Ringa as he's waiting for Reynold's plane to arrive, and it starts a recurring theme of excellent shots of McQueen that seem to last just a few seconds shorter than anticipated, especially if it's true that McQueen was supposed to be featured more prominently:



Even from the beginning, Ringa's charisma is evident. While picking up Reynolds and Captain Danny De Mortimer (Richard Johnson) from an evening out, he's stopped by an M.P. for public drinking. Reynolds and company watch as Ringa beats up his intended captors before resuming his duties as a driver. When asked to explain his actions, he offers a simple "cops make me nervous." The comedic effect is one of the film's better scenes, and works as an excellent example of McQueen's penchant for characters who thrive on trouble and potential tight spots. Reynolds and De Mortimer are impressed.....



....but they're even more impressed by Ringa's admission that he makes his own gin to sell to his fellow soldiers. He violates the rules, but as the film shows later on, Reynolds has no aversion to rule-breaking himself, and Ringa's candor and fearlessness makes him an intriguing potential asset to the cause in Burma. In addition to hinting at McQueen's driving scenes in future films, the screencap below is a better example of McQueen dominating the screen. Also, from a pop culture standpoint, we have two of the most famous pairs of blue eyes in film history, sharing the screen:



I'm glossing over a lot of the plot points in order to focus on McQueen, but it's for the best. Never So Few is also supposed to be a romantic film, with a love/hate relationship between Reynolds and wealthy socialite Carla Vesari (Gina Lollobrigida). Not only is their romance poorly and hastily introduced, but Sinatra and Lollobrigida have some of the worst chemistry in film history. In their scenes, Sinatra does what McQueen would be criticized for in later years: not acting, but posing. Despite a handful of genuinely terrific performances (From Here To Eternity, The Man With the Golden Arm, The Manchurian Candidate), a lot of Sinatra's films are marked by body language that says "I really don't give a shit." In the romance scenes, the horrible dialogue ("I know what kind of man you are! So brave in battle, but so afraid of life!"), combined with Sinatra's lack of care, is unintentionally laughable.

Before returning to the field, Reynolds demands a few things for his trip: a doctor, better medical supplies, and the services of Ringa. There's a wonderful line that can be read as a precursor to McQueen's future box office appeal. Reynold's superior balks at his request to take Ringa along. "He's a baby-faced kid." To which Reynolds replies: "We want him." This proves wise, since Ringa proves himself valuable in another ambush, firing a mortar with ease:



McQueen's final scenes are the best at establishing his screen presence. Chinese rebels have killed American soldiers, and Reynolds orders the killings of prisoners as revenge. He hands the reigns off to Ringa, first ordering him to kill the prisoners, and then effectively giving him command of the unit, since he realizes that his orders will likely mean a court-martial.







It's just as well that McQueen was never really noted for his dialogue or memorable monologues, and Never So Few is no exception. All around, if the dialogue isn't bad, it's offensive (Reynolds admonishes a soldier for referring the Japanese as 'gooks,' but later tells Lollobrigida that he wants to keep her pregnant if they get married). The film is beautifully shot, and hints at Sturges' ability to film stunning scenery shots just as well as he shot tight, enclosed scenes in The Great Escape.





From another cultural angle, Never So Few features Charles Bronson in a small role, as well as an uncredited extra role by a pre-Star Trek George Takei:





In hindsight, can Never So Few be considered McQueen's breakthrough? Possibly, if one just goes by his visual scenes. As poor as the film is, said hindsight is 20/20. Even professionals have to start in the minor leagues. Culturally, the film is a memorable hint of things to come (McQueen, Bronson, and Sturges would reteam four years later in The Great Escape), and what could have been. With a little more focus and education, Sinatra and McQueen could have been considered among the greatest actors of their respective generations. While this isn't the worst film ever made, it does show the necessity of craft devotion and strong scripts. Even the star power wasn't enough to elevate this movie, but it's a great piece, even if viewed through a lens of revisionist film history or a more basic cultural filter.

Unquiet Songs

It's probably not a stretch to say that, for a band or a solo musician, if the music is described as "poetic," a major compliment has been paid. Taking lyrics by themselves, one can point to Andrew Bird or John Darnielle as being songwriters who create lyrics that can easily stand alone on a printed page as a poem. Some artists can equally wear both hats: for example, Jeff Tweedy published a poetry collection, Adult Head, in 2004, and Saul Williams is arguably the master of poetry jams infused with hip-hop and street culture. Of course, the line between writing poetry and writing music can be very blurry. In one of my college poetry courses, my classmates and I were instructed to lecture a class period on the poetry collection of our choosing. The professor was quick to stress that lyric books by musicians did not count, since the words weren't originally intended to be poems. All of these combinations, definitions, and blurred lines take on even more significance with Leonard Cohen. Not only has he been writing and performing longer than anyone else I've mentioned in this paragraph, but his tendency of being classified as either a poet or a songwriter is usually very specific, depending on the medium. I've long been an admirer of his music, but until my reading of 2006's Book Of Longing, I haven't read any of his poetry. This is probably odd, since most fans of his music have probably familiarized themselves with his written works, especially given that he's about as equally prolific in both mediums.

Given Cohen's mastery of language and the complexities of the majority of his songs, his poetry, even in longer forms, is strikingly minimalistic. Rarely is anything embellished in his words, and even with multiple examples of linguistic cunning and beautiful wordplay, he lets his themes do most of the talking, so to speak. Since so much has been made of Cohen, be it analyses or near-universal praise, it's unlikely that I've gained anything from his latest collection that hasn't been felt before. Even my introductory paragraph can be dismissed in the face of his poem "Titles." Of course, even in poetry, it's dangerous to confuse the writer and the subject; however, in this piece, one can't help but feel that Cohen's exasperated by the many names and designations that he's been given, and the overall feeling is that 'artist' or 'human being' would suit him just fine.

"I had the title Poet
and maybe I was one
for awhile
Also the title Singer
was kindly accorded me
even though
I could barely carry a tune...(Cohen 159)."




Love and sex are nearly constant shadows in his writings, if they're not the foremost subjects. Past loves and erotic encounters are the focus, but Cohen renders them as happenings, taking the good with the bad, and even pieces that are heavy on sadness seem to break through to reveal the old adage that "it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all." Of course, great writing can morph a cliche into an original statement. "The Remote," in all of its brevity, creates a scene of intense longing juxtaposed with a small moment of everyday life:

"I often think about you
when I'm lying alone in
my room with my mouth
open and the remote
lost somewhere in the bed (97)"

Cohen's shortest poems work like the literary equivalent of drive-by shootings. They come, they hit their targets, and they move on to the next assignment. But what strikes me the most is his use of rhymes. One of the first things we learn in grade school poetry studies is that poems don't have to rhyme. However, in my readings in Book Of Longing, I found that Cohen's rhyming stanzas seem to add another dimension to the overall emotion. Without being a distraction, it's as if he's attempting to write textbook poems, but knowing that the content far outweighs the musical meters of the lines.

"You Have Loved Enough"

"I said I'd be your lover.
You laughed at what I said.
I lost my job forever.
I was counted with the dead.

I swept the marble chambers,
But you sent me down below.
You kept me from believing
Until you let me know...(55)"

Book Of Longing is also filled with Cohen's sketches, some of which merely compliment a given poem, and some of which work as poems themselves. There's an undeniable beauty in them, but also, as the below example suggests, a sort of intentional ugliness, not so much caricature, but drawn more for emotional relevance than reality or any outlandish definition. For me, the images worked to create a feeling that I was looking at someone's personal journal instead of a published book. The words and images are meticulous in their placement, but given the randomness and the aforementioned brevity, readers have an excellent example of Cohen's creative progress.



This is what makes Book Of Longing a compelling, satisfying archive. The pieces are definitely autobiographical, spanning a wide range of feelings and eras in Cohen's life (loves, travels, and his stay at a Zen monastery in California). Despite this range, the undeniable understanding is that every page is marked by authenticity. Cohen is the consummate artist. Much has been made about his five year stay at the monastery, and it was a journey that few people would have the mindset to make. In closing with the idea of authenticity (or, more appropriately, honesty), the poem "The Lovesick Monk" is a wonderful combination of time and mind, acknowledging his place but at the same time being human about it.

"I shaved my head
I put on robes
I sleep in the corner of a cabin
sixty-five hundred feet up a mountain
It's dismal here
The only thing I don't need
is a comb (13)"

Work Cited:
Cohen, Leonard. Book Of Longing. Copyright 2006 by Leonard Cohen. Art copyright 2006 by Leonard Cohen.

Reality (Sound)bites

In most of the books and essays that I've read regarding the state of literature (no matter which direction one wants to take such a generalization), there's really no happy medium, as I'm fond of saying. From Jonathan Franzen's essay "Perchance To Dream" (better known as the Harper's essay) to Italo Calvino's Six Memos For the Next Millennium, writers both new and old seem torn between literature's possibilities of change and growth and its stagnation and continually diagnosed death. Of course (and I say this without having read his non-fiction, but merely since he's been cited more than once in my readings), even the most wary critics of contemporary fiction must have at least some optimism. Given these polar opposite views, David Shields' newest book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto is a refreshing critique. Instead of giving in to either side, Shields has compiled a fascinating combination of ideas, problems, and hypotheses, taken from quotes, passages, and writings that span multiple art forms. Taking his manifesto at face value, literature and non-fiction writings could become obsolete, but the current need is both an understanding and a need for the ideas of reality in a given text. Before I get into more concrete examples, I stumbled upon a passage from Alain Robbe-Grillet's For a New Novel, a paragraph that works extremely well as an introduction to Reality Hunger:

"For, far from neglecting him, the author today proclaims his absolute need of the reader's cooperation, an active, conscious, creative assistance. What he asks of him is no longer to receive ready-made a world completed, full, closed upon itself, but on the contrary to participate in a creation, to invent in his turn the work--and the world--and thus to learn to invent his own life."

Shields divides up Reality Hunger into twenty-six chapters, each dealing with a certain ideal that is central to writing and literary studies in the 21st century (these ideals include "reality," "thinking," "collage," and "risk," among others). Some of these are less than obvious, and I'll return to them later (namely "trials by google" and "hip-hop"). Every piece of this numbered manifesto is either an original thought by Mr. Shields, but primarily an uncited collection of hundreds of competing quotations and thoughts. In the book's appendix, he states that his original intention was to not include any citations at all, but a full list appears at the back for legal reasons (but noted with an urgent appeal to either disregard it or to physically cut it out of the book). To honor the book's intentions, any citations that I use will go uncredited. I originally found the format to be mildly irritating, seeing that, no matter how you slice it, the majority of the quotations are soundbites. However, that idea alone is the heart of the thesis. The passages are supposed to be soundbites, and not in the negative sense. The opening chapters are almost groundbreaking themselves, since Shields devotes quite a few pages to actually defining various terms, and offering quotations that highlight the origins of the written word. In most literary criticism texts, the basics are not covered, since the general assumption is that the reader will already know the foundation; however, seeing that Shields wants to connect ideas to vast change, it's essential that he begins with the basics.

20: "The etymology of fiction is from fingere (participle fictum), meaning 'to shape, fashion, form, or mold.' Any verbal account is a fashioning and shaping of events."

29: "...The novel feasted on the unimportant, mimicking reality. Moll Flanders and Clarissa Harlowe replaced Medea and Antigone. Instead of actual adventures, made-up ones were fashionable; instead of perilous voyages, Crusoe carried us through his days; instead of biographies of ministers and lords, we got bundles of fake letters recounting seductions and betrayals: the extraordinary drama of lied-about ordinary life. Historians soon had at hand all the devices of exploitation."

Again, these may seem painfully obvious, but these are only parts of Shield's grand scheme. Whether a reader realizes it or not, Reality Hunger analyzes the entire history of literature, and as much as this is a cliche, those who don't know the past are doomed to repeat it. This is not to say that the history of fiction and non-fiction have been lacking, but the necessity for change has always been a constant. Also, the distinctions between fiction and non-fiction (especially the ever-growing memoir genre) are blurring (I'm not entirely sure I agree with this assertion). Even in the cases of plagiarism and fabrication, the acts of memory and the blending of genres can be a defense.

104: "What I believe about memoir is that you just happen to be using the nuts and bolts of your own life to illustrate your vision. It isn't really me; it's a character based on myself that I made up in order to illustrate things I want to say. In other words, I think memoir is as far from real life as fiction in. I think you're obligated to use accurate details, but selection is as important a process as imagination."



Granted, I personally can't excuse blatant plagiarism, but Shield's sections on "hip-hop" and "collage" are equally compelling. The "hip-hop quotes" highlight the history of the genre, with both originality and the art of sampling and distortion being ways for fiction to explore new grounds. This also goes for other art forms, and it's not to say that the idea hasn't already been done before with the written word. It's also a hint that, like music, literature is headed to an era of free expression and acquisitions. Quite a few of today's literary journals have been founded upon these fundamentals, especially in the zine and blog formats.

269: "Lil Wayne, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead are hugely popular artists who recently circumvented the music business establishment by giving their music directly to their audience for free on the web. The middle man has been cut out."

340: "Found objects, chance creations, ready-mades (mass-produced items promoted into art objects, such as Duchamp's 'Fountain'--urinal as sculpture) abolish the separation between art and life. The commonplace is miraculous if rightly seen."

A lot of the passages I'm citing seem to be going from one idea to the other, but that's part of the idea. Shields makes no apologies for filling the book with such a wide range, and I believe that the unspoken goal of Reality Hunger is to fill people with so many ideas that it's impossible to not be left feeling provoked, thoughtful, and disagreeable. With technology making everything instantaneous and available, even the written word has to keep pace. The idea of reality isn't necessarily about literature being consistently "real," i.e. "everyday," but to keep mutating and reflecting today's speed. Readers can still sit down with a book and enjoy it at a leisurely pace, but as a whole, the establishment needs to be shaken up. I've never agreed with a dust jacket summary as much as I do this one: "People will either love or hate this book. Its converts will see it as a rallying cry; its detractors will view it as an occasion for defending the status quo." I believe that literature today and tomorrow will be about storytelling at its core, but this book is simply begging for readers and critics to be more actively engaged in thought. For such a dizzying work, its message is simple.

Work Cited:
Shields, David. Reality Hunger: A Manifesto. Copyright 2010 by David Shields.

Courage and Mirrors

A lot of my recent posts have been devoted to readings of authors who I've written about before, done in the interest of both making connections between texts and creating a sort of personal and open bibliography in the number of essays that I've written. I'm hoping that, for myself and others who frequent this blog, in due time there will be a decent number of links and multiple reviews of singular writers, available for both entertainment and literary purposes, with notes and essays representing my humble views on said works. With these ideas in mind, I recently finished reading Amulet (first English translation published in 2005), one of the smaller novels by one of my favorites, Roberto Bolano. I've given his writings the most attention here, at least in terms of the number of essays that I've posted on given writers and their works. Of course, I haven't been alone in singing his praises, nor do I claim to have "discovered" him before he became relevant in mainstream literary consciousness. Awhile back, I remember reading an essay on Bolano's works as a whole, with the underlying question being "how much attention is too much?" Despite his undeniable literary merits and his gifts of storytelling in his lifetime (1953-2003), it's sometimes hard to see through the haze of celebratory fireworks. While I've done my own reviews with scholarly intentions, there have been times where I've been lost in my own gushing over his novels, reveling in the excitement of having personally discovered such a talent. In both deep and superficial ways, it's one of the joys of arts and literature.

Amulet tells the first person account of Auxilio Lacouture, an eccentric woman who calls herself "the mother of Mexican poetry." She hails from Uruguay, but ends up in Mexico City, "exactly where my wanderings took me." Her story is reliable as a whole, but there's an unmistakable feeling that she either embellishes some of her details or skims over some important parts. This may seem oxymoronic, but this passage towards the beginning of the work could be read as an example of glossing or of succinct, logical details. After moving to Mexico City, she becomes an impromptu housekeeper for two revered Spanish poets:

"I orbited around those two great Spaniards, those universal minds, moved by a poet's passion and the boundless devotion of an English nurse or of a little sister looking after her older brothers. Like me, they were wanderers, although for very different reasons; nobody drove me out of Montevideo; one day I simply decided to leave and go to Buenos Aires, and after a few months or maybe a year in Buenos Aires, I decided to keep traveling, because by then I already knew that Mexico was my destiny and I knew that Leon Felipe was living in Mexico, and although I wasn't sure whether Don Pedro Garfias was living here too, deep down I think I could sense it (Bolano 3)."

The majority of the novel revolves around the stories and flashbacks had by Lacouture during the 1968 Tlatelolco massacre of Mexican students and protesters by the Mexican government. When the massacre starts, Lacouture is in the women's bathroom of the university, and ends up hiding there for twelve days, during which she shares her stories and experiences some equally scary but intriguing hallucinations. Given the scale of the killings, her account of the happens is almost creepy in its simplicity, as if she cannot fully comprehend what's happening. Bolano shows great skill in this rendering, given that psychologically, some people would be in such shock that clarity becomes heightened.

"What did I do then? What anyone would have done: I went to a window and looked down and saw the soldiers, then I went to another window and saw tanks, and then to another, the one at the end of the corridor (I bounded down that corridor like a woman raised from the dead) and there I saw trucks, and the riot police and some plainclothes cops bundling the students and professors they'd arrested into the trucks, like something from a movie about the Second World War...but with little phosphorescent figures (Bolano 25)."

The bathroom scene struck me as vaguely familiar, and then I realized that Lacouture was one of the dozens of "interviews" in Bolano's novel The Savage Detectives. The links between these two novels doesn't stop there, but also reflect themselves with Lacouture's meetings and friendship with one of the main characters in The Savage Detectives, Arturo Belano. Lacouture is open about her sexual encounters with the poets she meets, but she becomes more of a mother figure to the young Belano. There's a vague distance between the two, but also signs of immediate respect. Belano was such a central figure in the other novel, and in Amulet it's compelling to have even further personality sketches.

"I went over and talked to him, covering my mouth with my hand, and he looked me in the eye, looked at the back of my hand, and didn't ask why I was covering my mouth [Lacouture's teeth had fallen out], but I think he guessed straight away, unlike the others, I mean he guessed the deeper reason, the ultimate dignity that obliged me to cover my lips, and it didn't matter to him.
That night I made friends with him, in spite of the difference in our ages, and all the other differences! I was the one who introduced him, some weeks later, to the poetry of Ezra Pound and William Carlos Williams and T.S. Eliot (Bolano 38)."

A friend of mine who introduced me to the works of David Mitchell pointed out Mitchell's habits of inserting characters from his previous novels into his later ones, creating a web of interconnections, even if a specific character is only minor in one work yet central in another. However, and this is not to slight Mitchell's use of the device, Bolano uses it more to create a fuller fictional bibliography and history in his novels. In Nazi Literature in the Americas, he created fictional essays and lists of book publications that read like a real encyclopedia; in his other novels, he's attempting to create a real world in the midst of fiction, not making his characters grander than they need to be, but showing how "real" they are, even in simple storytelling.

Amulet has been (mistakenly) called a companion piece to The Savage Detectives, but with the end of the novel, it's clear that Bolano's preferences for poetry have taken over, and as beautiful as the writing is, the hallucination scenes are almost too abrupt, turning into a poem-like closure, but one that's not emotionally connected to the storytelling side of the story. Lacouture, for all of her happenings, becomes at best an enigma, a sort of mouthpiece for Bolano's expertly crafted assortment of the Mexican poetry scene. Despite being abrupt, the final pages are haunting, leaving themselves open to much interpretation, from the blood-stained history of Mexico to its academic/poetry scenes, and to the combination of the two. Her hallucination involves children singing as they fall into oblivion, and whether this is done out of stupidity or innocence, the effect is beautifully chilling. I'll close with one of the final paragraphs. In addition to what I've stated above, the literary metaphors are obvious, but not in an expected way, but instead heartbreaking.

"So the ghost-children marched down the valley and fell into the abyss. Their passage was brief. And their ghost-song or its echo, which is almost to say the echo of nothingness, went on marching, I could hear it marching on at the same pace, the pace of courage and generosity. A barely audible song, a song of war and love, because although the children were clearly marching to war, the way they marched recalled the superb, theatrical attitudes of love (Bolano 184)."

Work Cited:
Bolano, Roberto. Amulet. Copyright 1999 by the Heirs of Roberto Bolano. Translation copyright 2006 by Chris Andrews.

Passing Glances

"As long as I appeared to ignore insult and injury, I was a martyred hero to a lot of people...But the minute I began to sound off--I became a swell-head wise-guy, an 'uppity nigger.'" --Jackie Robinson

Even before this month began, I wanted to devote at least one post with a nod towards Black History Month. I went through a lot of potential options, from a look at Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing to readings in black non-fiction or classic fiction like Ralph Ellison's The Invisible Man. I'm not saying that I won't return to these ideas in the course of the year, and, obviously, any kinds of cultural studies or looks at black creativity shouldn't be limited to the shortest month of the calendar year. However, the more I thought about it, the more I had the urge to return to the fiction of Nella Larsen. Last year, I gained a lot from my reading of her 1928 novella Quicksand, and I made a note to return to what is generally considered her masterpiece, the 1929 work Passing. I took a black literature course eight years ago, and our reading of Passing was limited to some select passages. Having just read the work in its entirety, it's amazing to realize how much I had lost in that time.

Passing revolves around the intersecting lives of two women, former childhood friends who meet years later by pure chance. Clare Kendry is a black woman who has spent most of her life passing as a white woman, going so far as to use this to her financial and social advantage, marrying a well-to-do white man who happens to be racist. Her friend, Irene Redfield, is equally comfortable, but fiercely proud of her race, and married to a black doctor. She has the ability to pass too, and is seen doing so at the beginning of the novella, passing in order to get a table in a hotel restaurant. Clare, at least at first, enjoys her ability to pass in the white world, and doesn't seem to dwell too much on the disaster that would be her husband finding out about her true identity. Irene is both intrigued and dismayed by this, and her problems with her own husband become much more apparent as she is both repelled and drawn in by Clare's seductive nature. Brian Redfield is occasionally stubborn and mocking of his wife's problems, an adjective that is used multiple times in descriptions of his dialogue. These issues add up and continue the exploration of the problems examined in Quicksand, analyzing how black women of the time had to deal with both racism and the stirrings of feminism.

"Then why worry? The thing, this discontent which had exploded into words, would surely die, flicker out, at last. True, [Irene] had in the past often been tempted to believe that it had died, only to become conscious, in some instinctive, subtle way, that she had been merely deceiving herself for a while and that it still lived. But it would die. Of that she was certain. She had only to direct and guide her man, to keep him going in the right direction (Larsen 218)."

As the meetings between Clare and Irene become more constant (it would be a stretch to call it a true rekindling or friendship), the problems between the women become even more pronounced. Clare is dangerously leaving herself vulnerable to being "discovered" as black, and the more wary Irene grows, the more she herself grapples with the idea of "outing" Clare. In an early appearance, Clare's husband shows a violent hatred for the black race bubbling below his already racist beliefs. Not only would Clare be ruined, she very well would have her life in danger. Brian Redfield's actions don't help, as he takes a not-so-subtle liking to the beautiful Clare. The previous notion of "outing" takes on its more common trait, as Larsen's prose skillfully addresses what could be further romantic complications.

"But that was as far as she got in her rehearsal. For Clare had come softly into the room without knocking and, before Irene could greet her, had dropped a kiss on her dark curls.
Looking at the woman before here, Irene Redfield had a sudden inexplicable onrush of affectionate feeling. Reaching out, she grasped Clare's two hands in her own and cried with something like awe in her voice: 'Dear God! But aren't you lovely, Clare!' (Larsen 224-225)."

I don't remember the text in question, but I remember another college course in which, when asked about possible homosexual undertones in a passage, the professor made the honest point that the occasional "queer reading" can be misapplied to a given work. However, I believe that Larsen's intention here is to highlight a possible attraction between the two women. Whether this was due to the times or Larsen's intent to keep the primary focus on race instead of sexuality, nothing about homosexuality is rendered explicit. However, given her clear intelligence and ability to highlight varying social issues, it would be hard to imagine a writer not even assuming the secondary meanings. The fact that Larsen is so amazingly blunt about the racial problems doesn't mean that she couldn't have hinted at something more. These, of course, are merely opinions, lest I commit the fatal mistake of assuming a dead writer's true intentions. But then again, being a black woman was hard enough then (as it is now); being a black lesbian would have been an even bigger obstacle, not that Clare and Irene have anything easy to come by in their lives.

In my essay on Quicksand, I wrote that Larsen "opts to shout the problems of early 20th century America as loudly and clearly as possible." In Passing, this idea is no different, and the similarity between the two texts is striking, especially given that the later work is remembered so much more than the earlier one.

"[Irene] said: 'It's funny about 'passing.'' We disapprove of it and at the same time condone it. It excites our contempt and yet we rather admire it. We shy away from it with an odd kind of revulsion, but we protect it.'
'Instinct of the race to survive and expand.'
'Rot! Everything can't be explained by some general biological phrase' (Larsen 216)."

And, with one simple citation, we can see why Passing is much more remembered. While the previous work did deal with equally strong issues, the saga of Clare and Irene is injected with a lot of issues that could either be ambiguous or painfully clear. The notion of "passing" is both hated but, as Irene's husband says, instinctual, no matter how low it may appear in today's view. At the time, as proud as many people were of their race, the bitter reality of the time meant that, if one could pass, it was at least an option for humanity in the face of a racist society. These ideas are partly why I found the Jackie Robinson quote to be so relevant. When he made his debut in the major leagues, he had an agreement with Branch Rickey, the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, to spend his first two seasons refusing to fight back against slurs or physical violence. Rickey told Robinson that he'd be absolutely justified in fighting, but that any possible melees would kill the goal of desegregating baseball. After this agreement, many members of the white press criticized Robinson for speaking out against anything. In the 1920s, the time of the writing of Passing, any speaking out against the mindset of the times would have done more harm than good, no matter how justified the black community would have been.

Of course, I'm more or less just stating the obvious as studied from history. As I believe I've mentioned in previous posts, as a white male, I have no true understanding of any of the issues faced in the black community, either past or present. However, using an author like Larsen as a point of reference, there are many avenues of further study, both sociologically and historically, especially in the realm of literature. Another full essay could be devoted to the famous ending of Passing, with its shocking actions and ambiguities, but I feel that what I've touched on here gives the best insights into what the text was trying to highlight. There are times when ambiguity in literature can be fatal, but in this text, it leads to a lot of satisfying thoughts and issues.

Work Cited:
Larsen, Nella. Passing, from The Complete Fiction of Nella Larsen. Anchor Books Edition, 2001.

Grave Understandings

Part of any review or look at the latest Johnny Cash album will likely include a plea, so it's probably best to get it out of the way early. At first glance, a lot of potential listeners (with the exception of the biggest fans) may assume that it's just a quickly released disc, culled together to squeeze some dollars based on the name of a deceased artist. However, this isn't the case with American IV: Ain't No Grave. Even if it were, the music would be enough to warrant a listen. But this is a carefully selected, brief collection of tracks that form a stunning chapter in the Rick Rubin-produced American series. When American V: A Hundred Highways was released, it felt like a fitting conclusion, but with this latest version, there's even more to appreciate. I'm not one for bombastic praise right off the bat, but it's important to establish that this album isn't another in a long line of releases done with the idea of "legacy" trumpeted, but with no heart put into it.

Given that Johnny Cash has been dead since 2003, there also may be the possible tendency of reviewers to resort to tired metaphors. I'm sure that somewhere this week, if it hasn't happened already, someone has written that "Johnny is speaking to us beyond the grave." However, the album shouldn't be viewed as some ghostly communication. The opening title track, "Ain't No Grave," begins with Cash's weakened but strong voice claiming that "there ain't no grave can hold my body down." However, with some minimalist musical accompaniment from the Avett Brothers, it quickly morphs into a gleeful defiance of death, a theme that, even if unintentional in the original sessions, has loomed over the last six Johnny Cash releases. He uses this traditional song to explore other common themes--being reunited with family, being called by God--but there's no vocal evocation of being passive about moving on.

The following two tracks are excellent covers, from an unexpected source (Sheryl Crow's "Redemption Day") and a veteran country songwriter (Kris Kristofferson's "For the Good Times"). One early review of Ain't No Grave that I've read explains that Crow wrote her track as a criticism of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Cash doesn't add much to it except a stern voice, and naturally that adds wonders. He lets the emotions of the lyrics tell the story, and combined with his somber touch, the effect works amazingly well. One might wonder or assume that, because of Cash's age at the time, that his voice has its limitations. This is evident on some of the American songs, but there's an unmistaken realization that he knew when to increase the dramatics or take them down a few pegs.

This idea is evident towards the end of the album on the track "Cool Water." One of the most famous versions of this was recorded by country singer Marty Robbins. In Robbins' version, the song is sung at a slighter faster tempo, giving an air of urgency to a story about two men hallucinating about water in a barren desert. The Johnny Cash version here is slower, opening it up to a less literal interpretation, highlighting the metaphorical qualities. The song could be about the search for anything elusive.

"I Corithians 15:55" is the only song that was written by Cash, and it goes against what I mentioned above. It's another song that highlights Cash's religious beliefs, but also seems to the lone exception to the idea of the man resisting death. On this track, he is almost passive, but welcoming of what's in store. But one part of the lyric adds another idea: "Oh death, where is thy sting?" For a song about the inevitable, for an artist with full religious convictions, it's almost shocking that he refers to death as a sting. To me, it shows a more realistic side, that no matter what one believes in, the idea of death has to be scary in some capacity. I'm not religious at all, and I have personal critiques of organized religion and Christianity. I don't mention this to make it more personal, but to highlight that, even despite my beliefs, I've always appreciated Cash's take on spiritual hymns. At the very least, there's no way one can doubt his personal convictions.

As darkly somber as the album is as a whole, it's strikingly beautiful. The tracks have a feel of minimalism, as opposed to the previous five albums, with light accompaniment almost taking a backseat to Cash's voice. With the mix of songs, from the traditional to the contemporary, to the little fanfare that's been given to this release, there's really nothing to critique at all. It's unlikely that any of these songs will immediately become listed as part of his greatest hits, but these are essential "new" recordings. Perhaps I'm biased as a Johnny Cash fan, but it's hard to find fault in an old master doing what he did best.

The Age of Reasons

(WARNING: One of the cited passages is Not Safe For Work)

In most cases, I have a tendency to avoid books or films that are described as "coming-of-age" stories. If they cannot be avoided outright, then I go into them with a hefty grain of salt. In recent years, this description has been more pronounced in the films I've seen as opposed to the books I've read, and my opposition to the genre stems from a pretty simple reason--the lack of originality. The coming-of-age story usually follows this formula: a young protagonist (usually male) breaks out of the shell of innocence, thanks to a combination of dismantled family relationships, alcohol, cigarettes, weed, foreplay, or sex. In the end, even if he's still at a young age, said protagonist is wiser or more hardened by life in general. Despite these occasional faults and tedious forms, there are excellent examples of this subgenre. The 2002 film Y Tu Mama Tambien created an original story despite being culled together from often used plot devices, and one could point towards the late J.D. Salinger's The Catcher In the Rye, even though Holden begins the novel wise and bitter beyond his years. After being absolutely stunned by David Mitchell's 2004 novel Cloud Atlas, I recently read his latest book Black Swan Green (2006) with great enthusiasm, completely disregarding my aforementioned critiques. I went into the novel with confidence in Mitchell's intelligence and writing style, along with remembering the old quote: "It's not what you say, but how you say it."

Black Swan Green sketches the life of thirteen-year old Jason Taylor, living in a section of Worcestershire, England of that name. The novel takes place over the course of a year, and matter-of-factly details the problems and issues that Jason faces, ones that aren't outlandish, but can be overwhelming to someone that age. He has a stuttering problem, which makes his social life in school a living hell. His relationship with his older sister is strained, and his father has a tendency to be cold and distant, which is partly to blame for his parent's crumbling marriage. Combine these issues with the onset of puberty, and a reader cannot blame Jason for being caught up in even the most minute details. He's a bright, keen young man with the occasional tendency to overanalyze, even if his age forsakes him from fully understanding his observational skills. The town of Black Swan Green is, to Jason and his friends, completely boring, but his descriptions highlight more than a few dashes of beauty that can be found even in the smallest areas.

"In the copse, the bridle path joined up with a moon-cratered track. Trees knitted overhead, so only knots and loops of sky showed. Dark and cool, it was, and I wondered if I should've brought my coat. Down a hollow, round the bend, I came across a thatched cottage made of sooty bricks and crooked timber. Martins were busy under its eaves. PRIVATE said a sign hung on the slatted gate, where the name should go. Newborn flowers in the garden were licorice allsorts blue, pink, and yellow. Maybe I heard scissors. Maybe I heard a poem, seeping from its cracks. So I stood and listened, just for a minute, like a hungry robin listening for worms (Mitchell 70)."

The problems in Jason's world stretch from three distinct areas. The smallest one is his own world, both with the troublesome family issues and the school bullies like Ross Wilcox, who, even with his British colloquialisms, is carefully painted to resemble every jerk one has known in childhood. The second area involves the community, and the fear of the gypsies who roam the fields, worrying the adults more in terms of property values and theft. The third area is the British war in the Falkland Islands, which scares Jason immensely, as would any war details being presented to someone who's still a child. This could be seen as a mere plot device to put the time frame of the novel into context (along with repeated mentions of the likes of Pink Floyd and Elvis Costello), but Mitchell shapes the Falkland War as a way for Jason to see the faults and bombastic ways of adulthood instead of just through his parents.

"In Argentina riots're being reported in the major cities, with lootings and shootings, and some people're saying it's just a matter of time before the junta's toppled. The Daily Mail's full of how Great British guts and Great British leadership won the war. No prime minister's ever been more popular than Premier Margaret Thatcher in the entire history of opinion polls.
I should be really happy (Mitchell 115)."

The adult dialogue in the book isn't given much unnecessary explanations, but left to stand on its own as filtered through Jason's mind. By reading what he's hearing, we can easily pick out the inherent lies, bullshitting, and forced niceness of various conversations. The best examples come from the conversations between Jason's parents and his aunt and uncle. Jason sees the shallowness of the interactions, and the reader feels just as awkward.

"Before starting the starters, Uncle Brian opened the wine he'd brought. Julia and Alex got a whole glass, Hugo and me just half, 'and a whistle wetter for you, Nigel.'
Aunt Alice did her usual toast: 'To the Taylor and Lamb dynasties!'
Uncle Brian did his usual: 'Here's looking at you, kid!'
Dad pretended to find that rather amusing.
We all clinked glasses (except Alex) and took a sip.
Dad is guaranteed to hold his wine glass up to the light and say 'Very easy to drink!' He didn't let us down today. Mum shot him a look, but Dad never notices. 'I'll say this for you, Brian. You can't half-choose a decent plonk.'
'Fabulous to earn your stamp of approval, Michael. Treated myself to a crate of the stuff. Comes from a vineyard near that charming cottage we rented in the lakes last year' (Mitchell 47)."

As was the case with Cloud Atlas, one of Mitchell's best skills is the ability to balance both the dramatic moments in life along with the comedic. Neither emotion is dominant, therefore giving Black Swan Green the possibility to be classified as either. At times, these two sides are combined. Given the fact that nothing is written to come across as more than a detail of someone's life, the feelings depicted are wholly realistic. A fight scene between two of Jason's schoolmates is one of many examples of this mix of reality, comedy, and drama.

"At the foot of the embankment, Ross Wilcox'd already got to his feet. Grant Burch was half-sitting up, cradling his right hand in his left and squinting with agony. Shit, I thought. Blood and soil clotted Grant Burch's face.
'Aw,' mocked Ross Wilcox. 'Had enough, now, have we?'
'My wrist's bust,' Grant Burch grimaced. 'Yer fuckin' wanker!'
Ross Wilcox flobbed, dead casual. 'Looks to me like you lost then, ain't yer?'
'I've not fuckin' lost, yer fuckin' wanker, it's a fuckin' draw!' (Mitchell 75)."

A friend of mine recommended the works of David Mitchell to me, and in doing so mentioned Mitchell's penchant for various characters making appearances in his otherwise unconnected novels. In Cloud Atlas, my favorite chapters were devoted to the writings and life of composer Robert Frobisher, and I was delighted when his life made a brief appearance in Black Swan Green. The daughter of Frobisher's mentor who was his forbidden love is now an elderly grifter, giving Jason secret lessons in poetry and French. Her relationship with Frobisher is hinted, but would not be immediately understood to someone who hasn't read the 2004 work. Even so, Mitchell writes the passages as a compelling mystery that appeals to the senses, even without the context of Cloud Atlas.

"'Yes, [Frobisher] is the one who wrote that incredible music. Robert revered my father. Like a disciple, a son. They shared a musical empathy, who is an empathy more intimate than the sexual.' (She said 'sexual' like it was any other word.) 'It is thanks to Robert, my father could compose his final masterpiece, Die Todtenvogel. In Warsaw, in Paris, in Vienna, for a brief summer, the name of Vyvyan Ayrs was restored to glory. Oh, I was a jealous demoiselle!' (Mitchell 159)."

The dialogue carries the novel, and Mitchell creates a (as much as I dislike this term) slice of life that's both believable and laced with moments of everyday suspense. The details are crafted especially well, but as a whole, Mitchell didn't seem to have the intention to create a story that focuses on the unique or unpredictable. The plot points (Jason's parent's divorce, the comeuppances of his tormentors, the depictions of the gypsies versus Black Swan Green's assumptions of them), do contain elements of surprise, but in reality (or more in hindsight) seem typical. But describing them as typical is not meant to be an insult. With Cloud Atlas, Mitchell proved his immense skills in both storytelling, literary history, and originality, creating a work that I would currently include in a list of my top ten favorite novels. With Black Swan Green, he opts for excellent writing on a smaller scale. Perhaps it's semi-autobiographical, and perhaps he wanted to go for writing a more standard, tidier work. While I wouldn't classify it anywhere near the awesomeness of his 2004 masterpiece, I definitely found it to be extremely worthy, and a great pick for anyone wanting to read a novel that's a fast read, but with some thought-provoking relevance. In June, Mitchell will publish his latest novel, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, and from what I've heard, it could be his most complex work to date. With that in mind, it seems natural that a smaller, more intimate work would be sandwiched between one established masterpiece and one potentially looming one.

Work Cited:
Mitchell, David. Black Swan Green. Copyright 2006 by David Mitchell.