At first, I thought this book might relate to the movie The Women, but it turns out it only came out in December 2009. Boyle also wrote The Tortilla Curtain and The Road to Wellville (which I read ages ago), so he obviously enjoys recreating a historical milieu, as he does here, examining the women in the life of Frank Llyod Wright.
This book was timely for me, having seen the Wright retrospective at the Guggenheim recently and gotten educated on the fires at Taliesin, as well as the mistresses / wives. The story itself is compelling, if not terribly unusual – a gifted man and his unconventional relationships – but it was marred for me by Boyle’s choice of a layered narrative. The historical novel has strengths in permitting Boyle to recreate conversations, but his choice to add a Japanese-born narrator, presumably to add an outsider’s view of American society at the time, bogs the story down in sideplots the reader has no reason to care about.
Maybe I’m just crotchety lately, but I’m not interested in some of the formal exercises in narrative structure I’ve been reading lately. The subject of this novel didn’t need the formalities to make it interesting, so they’re just a reminder of how much may not have a basis in the historical record. If I want a display of literary virtuousity, I’ll finally get around to reading the first person plural narrative “And Then We Came to the End” by Josh Ferris (I actually do want to read this, especially because I used to work with Ferris’ wife and my Writer has served his time in a number of ad agencies).
Next up is Cesar Millan’s “Cesar’s Way” . . . Of course, while I’m waiting for it to show up from the library, folks on the subway seem to be on a reading binge of all sorts of great stuff.
If Watchmen was an important book that didn’t quite entertain, The Defector is a wholly unimportant book that’s fairly entertaining.
Part of a series starring an Israeli secret agent / art restorer, The Defector concerns a Russian defector (the titular character) the agent smuggled out of Russia and used to undermine a major Russian mafia figure. The defector has disappeared from the streets of London and the Israeli is summoned from the Italian villa where’s he’s restoring a painting for the Pope.
The Defector is the perfect airplane novel (less suited for the episodic nature of subway reading) – moving quickly and with some superficial emotional involvement (I hate the woman/child-in-peril trope and this book includes pregnant-woman-in-peril). The novel also feels reasonably “realistic” – not that I know anything about the CIA, MI6 or Mossad – but spends a decent amount of time on the “how” of creating covers and safe houses, which I found interesting.
So, not great literature, but fun. Next up – The Women by T.C. Boyle.
I’ve held off on posting a review of Watchmen because I’d been hoping to see the movie first, which is available on HBO On Demand right now, but the Writer wants to see it too and our schedules have prevented us from finding the couple hours necessary.
The main reason I want to see the movie is to see how they handled some pretty unlikable characters – The Comedian is a US army shill who tried to rape a fellow hero, Rorschach has the morality of Scott Roeder – able to justify vicious crimes by his uncompromising sense of morality, Doctor Manhattan has all but lost his humanity. I appreciated the sensitivity with which Silk Spectre’s affair with Nite Owl II was handled – while not middle-aged myself, I enjoy seeing a love story between adults who have pasts. I’m not sure if I was supposed to see Nite Owl as slightly pathetic – he really did look owlish, and not particularly heroic, in costume.
The other element that would seem difficult to translate to the screen is the layering, not only of each character’s arcs and flashbacks to earlier days of glory, as well as faux documents interleaved into the books, but also the framing and commentary provided by the pirate comic books being read by a young man sitting at a news stall. It’s occasionally a bit too on the nose, using “voiceover” in the pirate story to comment quite directly on the moral quandaries facing would-be heroes.
Ultimately, I am glad I read Watchmen, but I’m not sure I was entertained by it. The lack of sympathetic characters, the unrelenting negativity (it’s a Cold War work, focusing on Russians, the bomb, the economy, gang violence) – I enjoyed looking for all the literary allusions (the Gordian Knot lock company and so on) and was repaid with them being significant to the plot, but I really just wanted a happy ending.
Frederick Clegg is a shy and awkward man raised by aunts, a collector of butterflies and a forefather of Buffalo Bill (of Silence of the Lambs) and countless other twisted men whose heads novelists put us inside. Frederick’s interest in young Miranda is harmless until he wins a major lottery prize and decides to collect this beautiful specimen. His justifications are almost sympathetic – he knows she would never notice him otherwise. Frederick’s fantasy is not primarily sexual either, his greatest fantasy is that Miranda will come to love him. However, as Miranda repeatedly attempts escape, he comes to despair of this scenario and instead forces her to pose for salacious photos. Just as their conflict is building to a head, however, the narrative re-starts, now through the lens of the diary Miranda keeps during her captivity.
Fowles masterfully manipulates his readers – even as you know how this scenario must turn out, you are lulled by the descriptions of Miranda’s attempts to civilize Frederick (who tells her his name is Ferdinand, but whom she calls Caliban). She believes that if she can find some kernel of fellow feeling in him, she can convince him to let her go. This is not merely a conflict between a deeply damaged man and a smart young woman; Fowles makes quite clear it’s also a conflict between bourgeois middle-class desires to control, and thus deaden, the world and idealism, hope and most of all art. The novel was published in 1963, and certainly reflects conflicts of that era, but I kept thinking it was from the 1920s, mostly because the blatant class consciousness was so alien to me. While belief in the transcendant power of art feels a little dated now, the psychology of The Collector holds up well, and in eschewing the stomach-churning acts of The Silence of the Lambs, permits a sickening degree of identification with and understanding of Frederick.
Can’t Buy Me Love, like Brothers (about the Kennedys) was a chance for me to catch up with the cultural touchstones of my parents’ generation. I grew up listening to the Beatles and aware of Beatlemania in a general sense, but appreciated this chance to learn more.
Gould takes an interesting tack in examining the Beatles phenomenon – combining a decently thorough biography of each Beatle with detailed descriptions of their music. This was my first significant exposure to music criticism and the vocabulary was occasionally beyond me. Because I have the One album on my iPod, I was able to listen to the songs while reading their descriptions and learned a bit. For example, I had never noticed the double-tracking of the vocals on many songs, and I am used to listening to them as Greatest Hits, divorced from their original context, so I learned a lot about the structure of each album.
The biographical material, however, was probably excessive. For one, Ringo didn’t do much interesting musically or otherwise and he throws off the attempt to balance all four Beatles; George takes quite awhile to establish himself as a musician, so coverage of him is also weak until he starts writing songs and learning the sitar. As the group started falling apart in 1968 and 1969, 500 pages in, I just ran out of interest. I knew enough about each’s post-Beatles performing life that I felt I knew how the story was going to end. A die-hard Beatles fan would probably know most of this already and for a newcomer to Beatles writing, it was a bit too much.
This was an odd book. When I first saw it on the R Train, just after finishing A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I only saw the bright blue of the cover in the hands of the twenty-something guy next to me. My first thought was that it was one of those “thug-life” novels that gets advertised on the subway, but after I saw the man flip past a full-page illustration, I realized it was something I might be willing to read.
It turns out Flawed Dogs is from the Young Readers imprint at Penguin and is based on a 2003 Berkeley Breathed cartoon collection. Since the book came out only in September of this year, I will not spoil anything about the ending, but I was deeply disturbed by the first two chapters and I think they’re fair game.
The opening chapter: the dog shown on the cover, with 3 legs and a ladle replacing the fourth, is carried into a dog-fighting arena. He smells blood and immediately understands what is happening. Placed in the ring with a slavering pit bull, he lays down to die. At this point, I think my jaw was hanging open; I could not believe this was a children’s book.
The second chapter flashes back to the dog’s memories of being owned by an orphan girl (who names him Sam the Lion) and sets up his antagonism with a prize poodle in the home of the girl’s uncle. Much general silliness also goes on, involving mischevious dogs and society matrons. At this point, I began to feel this might make a PG-rated Disney movie, like Lilo & Stitch, which dealt with misfit animals and orphans but toned down the emotional intensity a bit with charming visuals. Flawed Dogs doesn’t have enough illustrations to break me out of the mental pictures the text creates, especially as the owner of two rescue cats. I definitely do not recommend this book to sensitive types and those under 10, but if you can maintain a bit of emotional distance, it might be a fun caper in the end.
This book is absolutely enchanting. It spoke to me on so many levels that I ripped through 500 pages in just 5 days of commuting. It also feels apt to have been prompted to read it by seeing it on the subway.
Betty Wehner Smith was born in 1896 and her heroine, Francie Nolan, is a few years younger than her author, making her only a half dozen years older than my own grandmother, who also grew up Irish and working class. Like Francie, she and her siblings left school to work and she was a young woman in the war years. Reading the novel made me feel connected to my grandmother, to the clothes she wore (with hats! and gloves!), to the shows and the dances she enjoyed, to the worries and hopes she had.
And then there are the ways Francie reminds me of myself – as a voracious reader, as a big sister to a little brother, as an internal monologist. And now, living in Brooklyn, just like Francie, I can marvel at the multiple cultures I traipse through each day, perfect my technique for weaving through the Manhattan crowds and revel in the beauty of a rooftop view of the bridges.
The writing style of the novel is a charming blend of Francie’s voice and an omniscient narrator’s gentle and plainspoken statements. In another author’s hands, it could easily be didactic or faux-naive, but somehow it rings true. The only thing I don’t get is assigning this book to kids – I could never had appreciated the book’s emotional depth until I had some of my own.