Salinger, et al.

I came late to the fiction of J.D. Salinger -- quite possibly too late. I'd seen his plain red paperbacks on just about everyone's bookshelf, and thought there was something pointedly biblical about its lack of ornament (much like the common cover to Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet). Since I was already over-familiar with the pseudo-piety behind this aesthetic, I was never curious as to its contents. If you want to appeal to me, resorting to the opposite extreme can only help. Dress it up! Do the jig!

Then I landed the job at the bookstore. From my very first day, we were beset with special orders for "the new J.D. Salinger book" -- Hapworth 16, 1924. It wasn't "new" at all, of course; just a reprint of an old New Yorker story anyone could scrounge up at the city library. Regardless, for months we were one of countless stores calling the Hap-less publishers, who had no updates to give us beyond, "It should be shipping soon." Finally we were told -- verbally, wearily -- that Hapworth was not to be. Four of us divvied up the customer call-backs, then got to work on the phones. I can't remember just how many calls we made (several hundred, certainly) but my ear and dialing finger were sore by day's end.

The entire folderol finally prompted me to purchase a copy of Catcher In The Rye, which was now sporting a plain white cover (a slight improvement, I thought). With visions of SCTV promoting "'Catcher In The Rye' Rye!" I made myself comfy and cracked open the book. This is the first I've admitted it, and I know I'll be disappointing more than a few good friends, but I was underwhelmed. It being the beginning of the 90s, most of the novels I was reading consisted of an almost-visible author peeling away irony after irony in an effort to discover or obscure the truth (example). When I finished Catcher, I wasn't at all sure if Salinger was aware of Caufield's own apparent phoniness. Since this wasn't a puzzle I cared to solve, I was happy to shelve the book as "read" and be done with it.

It's a first impression that's stuck, unfortunately. I hope to give the book another read-through in the next month or two, just to see if parenting adolescents has changed my receptivity to the material.

In the meantime there are two other authors who also passed away this week, who left a deeper first impression on me: Howard Zinn and George Leonard. Zinn needs no comment, really: having been raised a gutless pacifist, Zinn's collective histories were naturally blended into the educational mix (I was quite pleased to see Nicholson Baker recently pick up the standard).

Leonard, on the other hand, might be a bit off the beaten track. He wrote regularly for Esquire in the late 80s, where I first encountered him. His book Mastery (A) is something I still reach for from time to time -- one of the few self-help titles I've found actually helpful. And his enthusiasm for Aikido was infectious enough to get me enrolled for the better part of a year. As I grew older his style struck me as perhaps a little too West Coast Ecstatic to be finally persuasive (Tony Schwartz caught Leonard in a slightly more pensive mood (between wives, if I'm not mistaken) when he researched this book). But Leonard's writing was part of a stream that pushed me outward in my young adulthood, and I'll always be grateful for that.

Post-script: more on "doing the jig!"

I wish I'd said that...

"It's like they took the iPhone, and made it larger." (Thanks, JD)

Crazy Heart, A Soundtrack By T Bone Burnett

Coming home with a movie soundtrack by T Bone Burnett is a little like receiving a mixed CD from your best friend: you pretty much know what the general aural landscape is likely to be, even as you brace yourself for a few surprises. The effect is compounded if you buy the soundtrack before you see the movie. A friend of mine puzzled over the inclusion of no less than three takes of “I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow” before he finally saw O Brother, Where Art Thou. Prior to the movie, the alternate takes did not sustain enough tension to keep him tuned in. The ideal listener for O Brother is someone who loved the movie, and wants the CD for a souvenir. O Brother's polar opposite is the soundtrack to The Divine Secrets Of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood, which pulls together music of incredible depth and nuance for a movie that lacked both (A).

Burnett has become the go-to guy for people desiring a certain “Americana” sound. His own influences include two-string rockabilly and steel-guitar country, usually with a dash of beatnik bongos thrown in. He loves — he lives — to play, which is often the spirit needed to bring out a movie star's chops as vocalist. Thus, when the audience actually hears Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon singing together they can easily enough buy into these actors embodying Johnny Cash and June Carter, even if they'd rather hear the original on the drive back home.

The Crazy Heart soundtrack (A, e) has that same element at work. Not having seen the movie, I can well imagine that Jeff Bridges' slurry crooning carries the story where it needs to go. Much of what he sings is mixed to sound like it's being heard from the back of a smoky nightclub, which keeps the tonality from falling too hard on the ears. Even so, when the film's original material is interrupted by the likes of Lightnin' Hopkins, Lucinda Williams, George Jones and Townes Van Zandt, I can't help but notice there's something missing when the movie stars take the mic.

Never mind: it all rests easily enough on the eardrums. In the pantheon of T Bone soundtracks, it falls a few steps from Divine Secrets, just a shade below O Brother — at least until I get to sit myself in a theatre.

Update: I have a few further thoughts on the matter of movie stars' singing, in the comments.

Monday Music

Our family requires a little pep in their morning soundtrack when Mondays roll around. Usually breakfast is served with a dash of Big Band music, courtesy of Verve Records (one of the first CDs I purchased back in the 80s, actually -- A). Other times, if the girls are insistent, I'll mix something up.

A frequent launching tune for the Monday Mix is "So Why Not Now?" by Peachfuzz, from their album About A Bird (A, e -- the title track is similarly infectious). I was introduced to these guys by Little Steven Van Zandt, who is partial to "Hero Of Nineteen Eighty Three" from Catch Your Snap (A, e). Musically, this group hearkens to a California sound some twenty years prior to that fabled year: the drummer is heavy on the cymbals, the guitars are jangly and the bassist holds it all down.

I've enthused about this band before, but these are the tracks that keep showing up on our family playlist.

Paul Quarrington, RIP

Paul Quarrington has died of lung cancer at the age of 56. I thought he was a pleasure to read. He was also, apparently, a really nice guy.

Photography Comes Full-Circle

My first camera, or one just like it (the flash extension allowed me to take flash photographs from as far away as 12 feet): I can't remember how many boxes of Christmas cards I had to sell on behalf of the Junior Sales Club of Canada (a subsidiary of this group) but the effort paid off quite handsomely. I was probably 12 when I got it. I used the Kodak Instamatic to photograph friends and family members, as well as the credit sequences of Space: 1999 and Star Trek, as broadcast on my grandparents' colour television. That camera was good enough to serve my purposes right into my early 20s.

Everything changed in 1985, when I got my first job at a photofinishing store. It was a typical low-paying entry-level retail job, but they also allowed me unlimited use of their 35mm cameras. Since this coincided with the advent of potential girlfriends, the plastic kiddie-camera with the grainy film was quickly abandoned in favour of a professional-looking SLR with interchangeable lenses and a couple of flashes with slave-units.

In the right crowd (say, the University's Department of Theatre) a tripod and a large camera bag was a surefire chick-magnet. Dramatic young women appreciated a guy who took the time to set up and bring out their very best. If this required an hour on location (during the Brave New Wave 80s, the mode was to strike an aesthetic balance between “gritty” verisimilitude and fashionable glamour — bricked-in alleyways were a staple location) and one or two more in the darkroom, so much the better. The long and short of it all was ample attention was amply rewarded.

What a difference a quarter-century makes. These days a lovely girl will make the duckface for any hottie with a cell-phone, and happily settle for that. SLRs and their endless accoutrement are strictly the purview of recent parents — not exactly conducive to fostering convictions of glamour. Unless you are a newborn, attention is more fleeting than ever, so take what you get and be happy. Better yet, be overjoyed! With extra exclamation marks!!!

Makes me pine for the days of Kodachrome. And Long Playing Records. And massive headphones that make your ears sweat. How did we so happily revert back to the quality of a 110 camera? When, exactly, did the Good Enough Revolution occur? (With a sweeping tip o' the hat to Darko)

Movies That Improved On Their Source Material

It's been difficult for me to read the various "10 Best of The Decade!" lists without getting peevish or envious, particularly when it comes to movies. This has been my Parenting Decade, really: ten-plus years when I let the zeitgeist blow other people into the theatres while I caught up with the state of children's programming. I couldn't cobble together much of an entertainment list, but there were one or two very bright moments that burned themselves into the back of my brain. With a little diligence I should be able to cast them onto the blank screen at this location before too much longer.

In the meantime, here is a list of 20 Good Books Made Into Not-So-Good Movies, courtesy of The Onion. In this case I am very happy to report I've seen only two of the stinkers mentioned. But is the reverse possible? Has the movie never been better than the book? I think otherwise.

I start with the novel that generated Up In The Air. I thought the movie was both pleasant and substantial, but I've only glanced at the book. I've never been fond of the "Central character on the verge of a nervous breakdown" motif, and given the "approach with caution" review from Publisher's Weekly (see link), I'm inclined to give the book a pass.

Movies That Improved On Their Source Material. There are two that come immediately to mind, the first being L.A. Confidential.



Is it wrong for me to admit I like James Elroy, but I'm not a fan of his fiction? I think he's a kick to watch and listen to, but tiresome to read. Nevertheless I slogged through a pair of his novels, back in the 90s when it was de rigeur. I couldn't imagine anyone making a film I wanted to see out of Elroy's ornery alternate Los Angeles, but Curtis Hanson pulled it off. The characters were all morally compromised, a la Elroy, and the first time I watched the movie I was thrilled with a sense of possibility: given the framework of the movie, it seemed like just about anything could happen -- everyone was qualified to meet a nasty end. American movies could stand a whole lot more of that.

The other example is Coraline.



Actually, it's my daughter who discovered this. She read Neil Gaiman's novel after having watched her most beloved movie a half-dozen times. "Dad: the movie is, like, so much better than the book! I can't believe it!" This from the 11-year-old who prefers Tolkien's books to Jackson's movies.

There's nothing wrong with the book, mind you. Gaiman's Coraline is a haunting thriller made tense with astute psychological observation. But the movie's creators took that tension, left it intact, then fleshed it out in a world of breathtaking texture and depth.

Any other nominations?