Review of Chang-rae Lee's "On Such a Full Sea" in the Dallas Morning News

So my review of Chang-Rae Lee’s new novel, On Such a Full Sea, appears today in the Dallas Morning News, here. It’s a good book, with a soft-spoken, measured narrative voice.  Although some might say, “Not another dystopian novel!” I enjoyed the read. Plus I’m a bit of a futurist, so there’s that.

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Whatever You Do, Don't Diss the Social Media! On Roger Cohen's NY Times Op-Ed "Twitter-Bashing Bores"

So I sometimes read Roger Cohen, a columnist in the New York Times, who (sometimes) writes reasonably well about Israel and Europe, but his recent piece titled “Twitter-Bashing Bores” (here) illustrates a media obsession I’ve come to notice: Rabid and often dim-witted defense or shameless promotion of social media. Cohen is basically ranting against baby boomers ranting against social media. Perhaps Cohen and I move in such disparate social circles that we’re seeing the world through drastically different windows: As a professor I interact with young people daily, know (to some extent) the pluses and minuses of their use of social media, and live with it. I’ve come to use social media as well (sparingly), and form my own opinion—amusing at times, also an incredible time-suck. Cohen seems naive to the point of stupidity on the subject. For instance, many if not most classes allow the use of laptops in class (and tablets as well), and most buildings on my campus have wifi, so when you teach, sometimes you find your students distracted, staring at their screens, and you discover them shopping for shoes, scanning their Home screens on FB, or doing who-knows-what. Part of the art of teaching at the college level now is trying to get the students to focus as much as possible and to eliminate the distractions without eliminating the positive aspects of computer usage, and I do my best, and generally feel I’ve been able to learn a way to manage these distractions, to keep this to a minimum. I’ve talked with students about it, and they strongly voted (essentially unanimous on this subject) that I not ban laptops in class, and have made excellent arguments about being able to look up material we’re discussing. But I’m certainly not naive about the way things have changed in the last twenty years (my time of college teaching). Few students take notes anymore. That seems a lost art. Last semester I asked if any of them accessed their FB pages in class. The most memorable response was a follow-up question: “Do you mean in large lecture classes?” (I usually teach smaller-enrollment classes, where if someone is distracted with their laptop, it tends to be obvious.) I said, “Okay, sure. Let’s just ask about lecture classes.” They all laughed. “Of course we do! Everybody does!” Some of them went on to proclaim how their generation were masters of multi-tasking, an argument that’s largely been debunked and discredited by various studies.
But I’ll also add that few people I know spend much time ranting about social media in the way that Cohen describes. We use it, we’ve adjusted to it, but we’re not naive about it. I won’t swallow the blather he offers at the end of his op-ed piece, a variation of “Old people just don’t understand the ways of the young.” Please. I love to brag about my students (or former students), and spent last night at a party celebrating a former student and friend, Morris Collins, who has just published his first novel, Horse Latitudes.

At the party I was talking to a group of students who are terrific writers—undergraduates, to boot. But the reading skills of the average student have diminished in the time I’ve taught. Yes, my evidence is anecdotal, or based on my own experience, which to me is convincing. In the last year or two the level of reading comprehension seems shockingly diminished. This trend coincides with what Charles Blow mentioned recently in his op-ed piece titled “Reading Books Is Fundamental” (here), which contains this paragraph from Jordan Weissman’s “The Decline of the American Book Lover”: “The Pew Research Center reported last week that nearly a quarter of American adults had not read a single book in the past year. As in, they hadn’t cracked a paperback, fired up a Kindle, or even hit play on an audiobook while in the car. The number of non-book-readers has nearly tripled since 1978.” And actually, the article then makes an upbeat assessment of today’s youth as being the hope for readers. I’ll note, however, that many of that demographic, ages 18-24, are college students, and are required to read. One of my honors students last term told me, “None of my friends read for fun. They all think I’m weird because I actually like to read.” And sure, that anecdote is hardly rigorous statistical analysis, although I’m suspicious of all data and polls: I’d bet the number of non-student adult population who haven’t read a book in the last year to be actually much higher than 23%. How high? I don’t know. I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full kind of guy. But in this case, outside of academia, I hardly know anyone who ever mentions having read a book, as opposed to, say, having watched Breaking Bad or Game of Thrones.
I even agree with Roger Cohen on one point or implication: The world is changing. Deal with it. But as a writer, I hope we don’t become a nation (or world) of short-attention span entertainment junkies. My favorite book on the changing nature of reading is still Nicholas Carr’s The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains (2010), which provides some of the best arguments for a healthy role of the internet in our culture, as well as awareness to its seductiveness.

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On Alexander Payne's "Nebraska" & a Christmas Without the Internet

So I happened to see the awesome/sad/hilarious film Nebraska, another classic by Alexander Payne, at a swanky art house theater (the Plaza Frontenac) in St. Louis before Christmas, but was unable to post anything about it, as I left the city the next day to travel to my mountain hideout in Colorado, only to discover that my ISP was malfunctioning, and basically all the holidays I had no internet. Yeah, sure, I could go to an “internet cafe” like every other terrorist in the world, but this is a tiny town in the Rocky Mountains, and twice when I did try to visit the local hippie coffee shop that has Wifi, it was closed. Ah well. So I lived without being online. Was my life made richer? Did the air smell better? The elk snort louder? The Great Horned Owls hoot more hauntingly? Did I enjoy the mountains any more than usual? (Usual being a state where I do have internet access up there, anywhere in the house, and even the yard.) Not really. I grouse about the internet but I think part of that grousing wears off in that I try not to let it take over my free time. But when I want it—mainly for business/communicating (as opposed to, say, online poker, which I eschew)—I want it, and it was irritating and annoying not to have it, rather than making me feel relieved to have all that extra free time. I set up a toy train set, like all good fathers have done since Jimmy Stewart played George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. I read the novellas of Jim Harrison in Brown Dog, and Chang-Rae Lee’s new novel On Such a Full Sea. And I played the old-timey board game Life, which has an astounding obsession with money, something I didn’t remember from my foggy childhood reveries.
But back to Nebraska. It’s ultimately sad and heart-breaking, as Bruce Dern plays a good man gone wrong and gone to seed & drink, but along the way of telling that story, Payne gives us his bawdy, awful wife/mother (to Will Forte, who does a good job as the caring son), and a couple of cousins who remind me of some ex-stepbrothers I had. Half the movie we were laughing hard, and the other half squirming in that Death of a Salesman kind of way, when you realize you are Willie Loman. See this movie. I liked Payne’s last film, The Descendants, but this was twice as good, more like the flip side of About Schmidt. Schmidt told the story of a moneyed man in his final years, while in Nebraska its about an ex-auto mechanic, husband of a beauty parlor operator.

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My Review of Jim Harrison's "Brown Dog" in the Dallas Morning News

So I’ve been woefully out-of-touch with my blog, my misbegotten red-headed stepchild (with apologies to all ginger stepchildren in the world), but I haven’t been woefully out-of-touch with reading & living, which should always trump blogging. My review of Jim Harrison’s collection of six novellas in one volume, Brown Dog (found here, in the Dallas Morning News), is high-spirited, if cut short somewhat by the brevity of the DMN review format—the first draft of this review was over 1,000 words, and the suggested length of their reviews is 600 words. As for the novellas, most have been previously published, except for the final novella, “He Dog,” which is new. Harrison is a phenomenal writer, one of those force-of-nature writers, who deserve to be read and reread. I went through a Jim Harrison phase years ago, when I stumbled upon him as a kind of bawdy, modern-day Ernest Hemingway, and I still think of him that way. He’s like Pete Dexter’s gourmand cousin. He’s confessed to counting birds throughout his life, which makes me like him off the bat, but is perhaps most famous for Legends of the Fall, a book of three novellas that scored some kind of literary trifecta when each separate novella was made into a film.

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A Postmortem on Dan Brown's "Inferno," and What's That Aron Ralston Dude Up to Now?

So apparently Aron Ralston—the solo rock climber who cut his own arm off when trapped by a boulder, as portrayed in James Franco’s 127 Hours (2010)—has run afoul of the law, to the tune of “domestic violence,” which hopefully did not involve any Swiss Army knives or anything else threatening, Lord Help Us. (For the details, click here.) Is there a moral to the story? Probably not. All stories don’t necessarily have morals. And a moral without a story sounds like a rule to be broken. But as an ex-to-occasional rock-climber, I’ve been fascinated by Ralston’s story, not always supportive of it. One of the mantras of the rock climbing world is “Don’t climb alone,” for the various and obvious reasons that there’s danger involved, always, and you risk too much by not having someone there to help when the proverbial shit hits the fan. I’m a member of the Custer Count Search & Rescue team, and doing that you learn a lot of statistics for mountain climbing accidents, one of them being many deaths involve slightly older climbers (that’s me, though it depends on how you define “slightly”) climbing solo, getting into situations from which they can’t extract themselves. Ralston was young when he got trapped with that boulder, and here’s where I sympathize with him: It’s not always easy to find a partner when you have the time and energy to go climbing. I’ve backpacked solo, and done some bouldering alone, but I never felt like I was putting my life at risk. I guess I feel the way Jon Krakauer felt about Christopher McCandless, the subject of his book Into the Wild (1996). We’ve all done risky things, but in some cases, that risk proved fatal. Now Ralston’s charged with domestic violence, his risks might be altogether different, the kind associated with living and interacting with other people in a complex world, with being a good person. That’s also something that demands you not go it alone.
I should also report that I force-finished my reading of Dan Brown’s Inferno, which is not the worst book ever written, no. It was a fun read, if silly and repetitive at times. In the backstory you could say it’s “about” overpopulation, which is a serious threat to our world, and our consumption of resources, but mostly it involves a long, complicated chase scene through Italy, ending in London. And it includes the sinister Bertrand Zobrist. “You didn’t say Bertrand Zobrist, did you! My god, he’s a genius, and a madman!” Imagine reading that for several hundred pages. Plus a lot of art history text from the hero, Robert Langdon: a Harvard professor who wears tweed jackets and a Mickey Mouse wristwatch. And is apparently famous throughout the world, the lucky duck.

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On Jim Harrison's "Brown Dog" & Park Chan-wook's film "Stoker"

So I feel sorry for my poor blog, to which I don’t give enough attention—like the ignored dog that’s always whimpering to be taken for a walk or the proverbial red-headed stepchild (with apologies to all red heads and stepchildren in the world, hoping they’re not abused or taken for granted, you little ginger snaps). For the holidays I’m going to try to post something every day. Like those weird couples who take a vow to have sex every night (or day) for a year to spice up their love life. Only different. And for a ribaldly funny sex scene in cinema, check out what Marlon Wayans does to some stuffed animals in his Paranormal Activity parody A Haunted House (2013).
Right now I’m reading Jim Harrison’s forthcoming Brown Dog, which is a collection of six novellas, some of which I’ve read before in their earlier incarnations. Harrison is a terrific writer, one who loves a long, complicated sentence. He throws everything in the sentence like a baroque pizza, and you read all about the pepperonis, the mushrooms, and the mozzarella, only to get another pizza delivered to you in the very next line. I’ve always admired Harrison, and absolutely one of the best novella collections of all time is his (eponymous) Legends of the Fall (1979), which has three novellas, all of which were made into good films. How’s that for a long sentence about a writer who likes long sentences?
And last night I finally caught Park Chan-wook’s film Stoker (2013), which has the beautiful snow queen Nicole Kidman as a wealthy widow with a troubled teen daughter, who is visited by a sinister uncle, the kind of remote family figure who gives every family’s black sheep some kind of badness record to vie for. Although I can’t say that I loved it, the images are both glorious and gruesome. Plus it has that actress (Mia Wasikowska) who made for a great Alice in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland (2010). I most definitely recommend it. It’s like Blue Velvet meets Jane Eyre.

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On Stephen D. King's "When the Money Runs Out: The End of Western Affluence," With a Nod to Gus Van Sant's "Promised Land"

So I’ve been reading Stephen D. King’s When the Money Runs Out: the End of Western Affluence, which seems like a perverse act. Of all the things to read in the world, why this? It’s mainly about macroeconomics, the global ebbs and flows of jobs, currencies, buying power, unemployment—all that cool stuff. (He said, tongue-in-cheek.) It’s a warning of sorts, that all our economic models and past data and experience won’t necessarily translate into the 21st century. At times he certainly seems on target. Today’s NY Times had an article about the high rate of unemployment in Europe, here, and it certainly fits within King’s bleak view of current and future economic prospects. What he doesn’t say (but at times implies) is that 21st century global capitalism is essentially broken, or a deeply flawed economic system. The problem is: It’s all we’ve got. Soon we’ll all be like the farmers in Gus Van Sant’s Promised Land, having to decide between leasing their land for fracking just to make some money, even when they know it may ruin the land. Matt Damon plays the rep for a fracking company who is trying to get the farmers in Pennsylvania (though it didn’t look exactly like Pennsylvania, as in the state where I live, but kind of?) to sign bargain lease agreements. When they push back and the deal seems in jeopardy, the company surreptitiously sends in a fake environmentalist to stir things up with lies, then the company uncovers the lies (that they created), and they look like the good guys. But Matt throws a monkey wrench in the works when he spills the beans at the end.  It’s no great film, but it did make the story personal and real. Even when they find out the company tricked them, it’s a bittersweet “victory” for truth. That still leaves them in a bind, and what can they do? When the Money Runs Out argues we’re all in this bind, though no doubt, some more than others.

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How Is Dan Brown's "Inferno" Like "Doomsday Preppers"? Hint: Fun Factor

So I’m juggling the reading of about six different books right now, for various reasons, including Stephen D. (I think the “D.” is important here) King’s When the Money Runs Out: The End of Western Affluence (which I should really blog about before the money runs out and we can’t afford our laptops to read blogs anymore, but I’m guessing there’s some time for that), Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (rereading to make sure I know what I’m talking about in class), and Dan Brown’s new novel, Inferno. I have my reading quirks, as I imagine others do, and am mainly reading this one during my daughter’s swim lessons, when I sit in the bleachers at the YMCA pool and have to kill some time. Brown should get some kind of odd trophy or award, which is usually reserved for films: The So-Bad-It’s-Good Award. Although even that label doesn’t quite do him justice. The writing is awful. Simply awful. Clumsiness, corniness, and sloppy language abound. But . . . the book is fun. It’s preposterous and diabolical and fun. I realized it’s a little like that Doomsday Preppers show on the National Geographic Channel: full of conspiracy theories and clumsy people trying to prepare for the apocalypse, but fun in its own weird way. Although I can’t stop imagining Tom Hanks with that creepish haircut as the main character, Robert Langdon, from the risible (I’ve been waiting to use that word) film version of Da Vinci Code.

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Cormac McCarthy/Ridley Scott's "The Counselor": No Country for Old Men II, or No Country For Anyone in Love With Penelope Cruz, Either

So on its first weekend in my neck of the woods, I caught Ridley Scott’s new film The Counselor, with the screenplay being by none other than the great Cormac McCarthy, finest novelist of our times: It was a, um, horrible experience. Not for the faint of heart, as they say. The ending is a gut-wrenching kicker. A shocker, although you do see it coming. Not horrible as in bad or badly done, but horrible as in sheer horror. As I don’t like to give too much away when a film debuts like this, and be forced to inject the ol’ Spoiler Alert, I’ll try to keep my comments on the analytical-but-not-revealing level:
Cameron Diaz, who is not exactly one of my favorite actresses, actually does a knockout performance as the wicked vamp, Malkina. Watch out for her. McCarthy often has a character who embodies some kind of evil, and in this case it’s a woman, Diaz, which is a twist for him. It also probably has the most sex and sex-related talk than all of his novels (I know, this is a film, and maybe that’s why), though there’s some great sex-related moments in Suttree (1979). (I once titled a story “The Witch of Fuck,” from a line in Suttree, and the journal that published it leaned on me heavily to change the title, which I did, and which now appears in my new book of stories The Lousy Adult as “The Next Worst Thing,” published just this month.)
Javier Bardem is one of the kookier, more enjoyable characters, and he should have given more time on screen. Brad Pitt, another actor I’m not thrilled with, does a great job as a hipster/cowboy drugworld entrepreneur, but you won’t like his final moments. Basically everything good in this world goes bad. Before I saw it I thought it sounded like No Country for Old Men II, and now that I’ve seen it, I think that’s fairly accurate. Michael Fassbender is good, but his character is somewhat limited. Greed does him in, but it’s also complicated by love: In his zeal to shower his love, Penelope Cruz, with a “cautionary diamond” (there’s a good scene at a diamond merchant’s office in Amsterdam), he gets in over his head, and gets involved with the wrong people. To say the least.
But The Counselor does raise an aesthetic question: Can a story be too horrible? I think the answer is Yes. My wife says I owe her one for taking her to a movie depicting such despicable behavior, and for its violence to women. I like Ridley Scott’s films, and I imagine this one will become notorious. For instance, at one point the story swerves to a discussion of “snuff films,” which is perhaps a definition of something too horrible to watch, and unfortunately, even though The Counselor is fiction, it’s tainted by that proximity to something as disgusting and sadistic as a “snuff film.”
My favorite part concerns another element of proximity: that of the nearness and elbow-rubbing of great wealth with great depravity. The diamond dealer is right is his soliloquy on “cautionary diamonds”: There are certain objects of desire, like a 3.5 carat diamond, that create entanglements you can’t comprehend, what people will do for money, or what great evil great amounts of money can encourage. Set in El Paso, Texas, with some tangential scenes in Juarez, Mexico, and London, The Counselor is a 21st century morality tale. A series of stylish interiors bought with dirty money (or so it’s implied by the film’s end) contrasts with the dry, bleak landscape, and combined, the images create a kind of frightening poetic backdrop. If you can stomach it, this is a film you have to see.

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On Hanna Rosin's "The End of Men": The End of Men? Maybe Not, But Thanks for Asking

So I’ve been reading Hanna Rosin’s The End of Men (2012)—why? out of sheer obstinacy, no doubt—which is at turns annoying, blockheaded, fascinating, fun, and scary. And for all those responses, it must be doing something right. I would have loved to review this one when it first appeared. It’s a study in contrasts: the first chapter, which at times reads as both gullible and myopic, is about sex, especially of the (mythic) “hook-up” variety, and for my money, should have been placed elsewhere, if not eliminated altogether. It’s the least convincing section of the book, and right out front. But after that unfortunate beginning, some of the chapters are both fascinating, and, at times, unintentionally funny. I’d love to do a parody of the typical anecdote in one of the later chapters. The pattern works something like this: It depicts a hard-working young woman somehow romantically linked/shacked up with a loser boyfriend/do-nothing husband, and how their typical day unfolds. All through the use of ‘semi-fictional’ identities, full of demographic tags: “Rebecca, 31, a part-time paralegal who is working her way through law school, gets up early to make breakfast for her six-year-old daughter, Jasmine, and her loser boyfriend, Chuck, 33 (and looking a lot like 40). Chuck hasn’t worked since his car broke down on the freeway two years ago, when he was fired after he walked home, dispirited, and cried on the phone while complaining about his bad luck to his mother. Chuck spends most of his day eating pizza, masturbating, and watching reruns of Nascar races or football games. He’s decided to grow a beard, and tries to help out with the care of young Jasmine, but really, he’s hopeless. Meanwhile Rebecca works all day, comes home and studies Chinese for two hours, and now and then takes advantage of the sexually available Chuck to relieve some tension.” It’s funny in its own way, and sad, too: Much as I can laugh at it, and feel superior (Hey, I don’t eat that much pizza, and I do have a job), I have to begrudgingly admit that at times her anecdotes more or less accurately describe the 21st century Feckless Male. The book has more in common with Charles Murray’s Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960-2010 (2012) than it would like to admit (Rosin being a Liberal feminist, and Murray most definitely not), I’m sure. It also spawns some juicy knee-jerk reactions, like this amusing one, here. I think everyone should read it, if for no other reason than to give us something to argue about, and a laugh in the same breath.

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