Richard Stark's Parker: The Outfit by Darwyn Cooke

Darwyn Cooke's original outing with Richard Stark's Parker was a lushly rendered, graphic tour-de-force. With his second go-round, the aesthetic more or less remains, but much of the energy is gone. Part of this is due, I think, to Cooke's strict faithfulness to Stark's work. There are Parker books where the action is very physical, and moves relentlessly forward, The Hunter being one such. But there are also Parker books where most of the action is in Parker's head, as he adjusts tactics to stay one step ahead of his mark.

The Outfit (A) falls all-too-solidly into the latter category, which must have driven Cooke crazy. Midway through the adventure, Cooke resorts to several varieties of metatext, inserting a (vintage) men's magazine story to provide several pages of back-story, or ritzing out another caper in a Googie-graphic fashion that brought to my mind a very particular incarnation of the Wizard of Oz (source). Meta-text/narrative is a jarring strategy at the best of times, especially so in a work that is fighting stasis from the get-go.

The book concludes with the promise that "Parker will return in 2012." Two things are noteworthy about this announcement: (1) unlike the last outing, it makes no mention of which book Cooke will adapt next (2) Cooke has given himself a deadline that could extend to two years. I think both are worthy strategies with material that is as tricky to adapt as Parker, and I look forward to the next adventure.

Sorry: no illustrations with this post, because the stuff I'm wingeing about isn't the stuff on offer in teh interwebz. Thus far I'm the only one kvetching: this guy makes a strong case for the book. In his review, and other picture searches, all you get is Cooke's super-fab illos, which I've got nooooo beef with whatsoever.

Whither Canuckle-head Criticism, continued

André Alexis responds to his responders (the noisiest of them, at least). I continue to find it all quite thought-provoking, obviously. I realize my own response misses Alexis' larger point (this country's capacity to critically engage with the culture of the published word has faded to the point of obsolescence). But I still think the issue of writer and audience is pertinent. Can any writer content herself with being heard by an audience of one, or, possibly, none?

Lego Wedding Ring

This is amusing. I can't help but notice the Lego "bride" is head-and-shoulders taller than her groom. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but I'm curious: are the mini-figs proportional to their human hosts? Also, what's with her ring? The single stud not good enough for her?

If they ever need marriage counseling, I've got the bricks.

Stuck In The Middle With Franzen

'Tis the silly season for lovers of the printed (virtually or otherwise) word. It all began with the industry that's built itself up around Jonathan Franzen, of course. Time Magazine and a whole heap of others think he's Jesus with a Mac Book; others are sure he's the anti-Christ. This guy (linked via ALD) equates Franzen et al with "our bankers" -- to which I can only say, "Dude: time for a reality check." If there's a family sleeping in their car because Franzen spent five years writing Freedom, let me know at once.

It's either love or hate Franzen, isn't it? I haven't yet read the new book, but I kind of like his earlier stuff. I have very distinct visual memories from The Corrections, particularly of a younger Alfred in a white shirt, standing on a railroad trestle with a ball-peen hammer in hand. Franzen is, were I to resort to a reviewer-cliche, certainly an evocative writer.

Until it comes to sex: suddenly everything feels staged, and his characters have a distant, critical, authorial point of view I simply can't buy. Perhaps I should be the last to cast a stone, but I thought Enid's discussion of family financial strategy while fellating Alfred (complete with the Crumb-y onomatopoeia "glub") was a particularly vexatious low point in The Corrections -- and it occurs just pages after the scene on the trestle.

In the main, however, I do look forward to reading the new book -- as soon as it's available at the local library.

Elsewhere: I can't write in cafes -- especially not in my former place of employment, where everybody really does know my name. But malls? Give me a Bic and scribbler, and I'm off to the races.

Of Cars, And Such

I occasionally muse over what, if I had the discretionary income, my ideal car might be. Something comfortable and snazzy, that doesn't read as, "Mid-life crisis" or "Trying too hard." The Bullitt-tribute Mustang still appeals, chiefly because it separates itself in an understated way from the tricked-out 'Stangs that overpopulate our roads. My wife likes the Cooper, thinking of it as a fun, tool-around vehicle, while my tool-around choice would actually be the Smart Car.

But I might as well admit that, for a moment, I wondered if I wouldn't part with a mere $150,000 for the privilege of parking this in our garage:



Holy industrial respirator masks, Batman -- these fellas sure do have their Bat-swag down! Unfortunately, the trouble with driving something like this is that once you get behind the wheel there is simply no way you can avoid looking like these guys do:

My Money's Worth Of Music

This month's "On The Platter" and "On The Floor" selections might as well be filed under "The Usual Suspects" 'cos there aren't any surprises to be had. So far as the books are concerned, there is an element in my seasonal moodiness that keeps me from getting completely engaged in any of them, even the Pelecanos and Burke titles. If I were to analyze what's going on, I'd probably proffer a variation on Woody Allen's feeble mea culpa, "The heart wants what it wants." Right now my heart wants something other than what my favorite authors are prone to deliver.

As for the music, I can say this time that I am pleased by the lack of surprises. Los Lobos' Tin Can Trust has already been spun more frequently in our house than The Town & The City was. TCT sits closer in tradition to Good Morning, Aztlan, which to my ears is a good thing.

Devo returned to the studio after two or three decades of different members' side projects, generally to good effect. As I and their ouevre grew older, I typically found myself gravitating to their earliest incarnation as a guitar-centered band. Even so, this latest synthesizer-oriented outing has its infectious moments ("Human Rocket" and "What We Do" stand out), very much benefiting from the latest techno production trends which bring out that, "What was in that drink?" feeling. And it's more than a little comforting to see that the band can re-tailor their industrial rubber jumpsuits in a way that doesn't just accommodate late-in-life girth, but actually re-emphasizes the pertinence of de-evolutionary theory.

And I'm enjoying the new Robert Plant disc, as well, as much for its attitude as for its polish. It's gratifying that he eschewed the expected (and, I'm sure, vigorously encouraged) Raising Even More Sand project. It's also gratifying to hear him pick up from the "less is more" approach that he had to take with Ms. Krause. Band Of Joy doesn't have quite the oomph that Raising Sand had from beginning to end, but it certainly has moments of astonishing flash. But for whatever reason, Plant has, after several decades of solo projects that I couldn't be bothered with, completely recaptured my attention.

Finally, I apologize for the brevity-bordering-on-terseness, but I'm packing for a weekend in Montreal. Notes to follow upon my return.

Short Responses

I'm liking the Goodreads platform -- perhaps a little too much: the format encourages an Entertainment Weekly sort of brevity. Perhaps the medium imposed the predilection, or maybe age has just made me impatient. In either case I'm increasingly disinclined to give lengthy consideration to perfectly good books.

If you're already a GR member, do feel free to "fwiend" me (I use my real name). If you're just curious, here are a few responses to stuff I've recently read:

Rock & Roll Will Save Your Life by Steve Almond, here.

Pompeii by Robert Harris, here.

Killing Rommel by Stephen Pressfield, here.

What Disturbs Our Blood by James Fitzgerald, here.

I try not to get snarky on this blog, but at GR I occasionally lapse: here are my thoughts on Ellis's Less Than Zero.

And finally, a book my wife (and many others) devoured, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, here.