The List is Life

Yes its that time of the decade once again: Sight and Sound magazine has released its Top Ten Films of All Time list, the once-every-ten-years list of great films as voted and ranked by almost a thousand filmmakers, journalists, critics, and general cineastes. Cinematically-inclined folks like myself salivate with speculation every time the S&S list gets updated: what's going to be on the Top 10? Will Citizen Kane be unseated for the first time in fifty years? Who the hell votes for this anyways?

Well, speculate no more my fellow film-snobs, for the list has been unleashed! Alright, I admit I'm a bit of a list junkie, and I'm inordinately excited for this particular one, seeing as I was crafting my filmgoing taste ten years ago, and had no idea what the hell Sight and Sound was in 1992 (and in '82 I suppose I had other things going on, like crawling). So this is the first list where I can actually look at the trends, zeitgeists, and choices of critics and really understand what is going on. Sure, I've examined the past lists with zeal, but to be awaiting the release, awash with blogger buzz and speculation, is a new experience. Needless to say, I was excited.


The first S&S list was released in 1952, with Vittorio DeSica's Bicycle Thieves taking the top spot. Every decade since, Citizen Kane has been perched at the top, glowering over lesser masterpieces and generally wallowing in its own crapulence. Until now. Vertigo has knocked Kane down to the number two spot, which itself was seated it in 2002. Some people saw this coming. I didn't. I assumed that Kane would stay on top forever. Really. It was one of those sure bets, like paper beating rock. Citizen Kane just feels important, from the incredibly inventive cinematography, the playful score, the believable performances (many first time actors from Welles' radio troupe), and the puzzling, non-linear structure many assume was birthed by Tarantino. Kane has been on the list so long that it has been galvanized into a diamond-hard capital M masterpiece that can withstand any critical backlash. In fact, so many words have been written about Citizen Kane by better people than me that I feel like I'm treading water just typing out the title, let alone why it's so great. So just take my word for it. If you haven't seen it, do so. The tagline for the movie is It's Terrific, for God's sake.

So how does Vertigo stack up as the greatest film of all time? Well I haven't seen it nearly as many times as I have Citizen Kane, but I did revisit it last night, and before that it has been in my rearview mirror for about five years, maybe more. It's certainly got the cred: master director, engaging cast, initial critical drubbing, countless essays from film theorists (not just film critics, natch) like Laura Mulvey, and an aura of mystery surrounding it. But where Kane's back entrances opened into tycoon William Randolph Hearst's private life and public empire, Vertigo's open into something far more interesting: Hitchcock's own psyche. Vertigo is often cited as the most Hitchcockian of all Hitchcocks, and for good reason. It was, by 1958, a summation of everything that made Hitchcock who he was and what he was capable of. Scotty is not only our entrance into the story but Hitch's own stand-in, an alter-ego who demands and obsesses over every detail of Judy's appearance. He demands perfection to satiate his own inner desires and lusts, no matter her opinion. From Eva Marie Saint to Kim Novak to Tippi Hedren, Hitch has always made his icy blondes exactly into what he wants.

Vertigo is just the right mix of subversive, obsessive, campy, melodramatic, and downright kinky, but never superficially. The viewer gets just as much out of the picture as they put in. On the surface, there's a cracking good mystery with a twist near the end and a shocking denouement. Dig deeper, and you may as well dig up Hitch's corpse, lay him on a couch, and ask him what he thought of his mother. So, short answer yes, Vertigo is a worthy successor to the crown. It's placement on the top of the heap will no doubt attract even more critical attention, more shot for shot analyses, and hopefully shine a light on Hitchcock's ouvre that budding film enthusiasts may not have known existed had it not been for the Sight and Sound poll.

So besides Vertigo, what else is on the list? Here you go...

1. Vertigo (Hitchcock, 1958)

2. Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941)

3. Tokyo Story (Ozu, 1953)

4. La Règle du jeu (Renoir, 1939)

5. Sunrise: a Song for Two Humans (Murnau, 1927)

6. 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick, 1968)

7. The Searchers (Ford, 1956)

8. Man with a Movie Camera (Dziga Vertov, 1929)

9. The Passion of Joan of Arc (Dreyer, 1927)

10. 8 ½ (Fellini, 1963)

Pretty solid list, I'd say. Each entry may seem pretty "film school" (read: safe, obvious, too academic, embarrassingly antiquated, etc. etc.) at first blush, but upon closer inspection and armed with a little bit of knowledge, that is hardly approaching the truth. We've discussed Citizen Kane and Vertigo. Tokyo Story and The Passion of Joan of Arc turn visual storytelling on its head (and the latter eschews it altogether for something far more urgent and sinister). The Searchers is a Western that embraces a full-blown movie star as a racist bastard on a selfish quest. Man With a Movie Camera is silent and has no narrative to speak of. 2001 still confounds and confuses to this day, and was so well executed that some believe tha Kubrick was the man who 'directed' the moon landing on a sound stage a year after his film was released. Sunrise is a silent film (one of three <!> on the list) about a slatternly woman who wants a farmer to kill his wife. La Règle du jeu was so incendiary upon it's first screening in France that the a moviegoer tried to burn down the theatre! And if there's one film that approaches the fetishism, kink, and obsession that Vertigo has in spades, it's 8 1/2.

But of course, the Sight and Sound, as scientifically ranked and painstakingly curated as it is, is still someone else's list. Wha truly matters, since taste and opinion are so wonderfully subjective, is what you think. If I had a ballot for the 2012 list, this is what it would look like:

10. Synecdoche, New York



9. City Lights



8. The Passion of Joan of Arc



7. Aguirre: The Wrath of God



6. Dr. Strangelove



5. Do the Right Thing



4. Persona



3. Raging Bull



2. Citizen Kane



1. Nights of Cabiria


Unlike the S&S poll, I can change my list more often than once per decade, so this is a snapshot of how I'm presently feeling. In two years, two months, or two minutes, my tastes may change, but for right now all of these films work for me. The films listed here represent all the best parts of the cinematic experience and the transformative effect that great movies can offer. Each takes me to an entirely new world I would not be able to inhabit without them, which serves as good a definition of great movie as any I can conjure.

I am curious as to how the list will change in 2022 and beyond. The newest entry on the 2012 S&S list is 2001, made in 1968. This begs the question of when will movies from the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00's be included. And more intriguingly, which ones will they be? The first two Godfather films made the list in 2002, only to be excluded this go around from one changed rule and a presumably split vote. One day perhaps Raging Bull, made in 1980, will make the list, and maybe even 90s films like Fargo or Pulp Fiction. Dare I say Mulholland Drive would show up on the 2042 list? Perhaps, although I'm not holding my breath. It took Vertigo decades to unseat Kane, as it should. A quick ascension through the ranks wold discount the S&S poll, opening it to fads and flashes in the pan that may not age as well as we may think initially.

For now, in 2012, the list represents filmmaking par excellence, and a terrific springboard for film buffs new and old to discover new movies, different directors, and open their world up to what exists beyond the multiplexes and box office reports.

Posted with Blogsy

Protecting the Flame

Spreading ignorance and fear throughout a population is easy, you just need a mouth that is loud enough. In the past there were soapboxes. One could stand tall and shout far and wide about whatever beliefs, no matter how silly or dangerous, they wished. Nowadays, TV, radio, and the Internet allow these opinions to spread instantly across most demographics. The general population is gullible enough to believe things they see on TV and read on the Internet, especially when these mouthpieces are backed by trusted, superstar celebrities. It's horrifying how simple it is to get people to believe you about anything, but particularly when it's about something they don't understand. Ease of belief is often related to simplicity. The more believable something is (directly linked to how simple the matter is boiled down) the more people will buy it wholesale. Seeing as how 'responsible media' is an oxymoron of epic proportions, we have celebrity crusaders appearing on TV shows like Oprah espousing their radical and dangerous ideas to millions of trusting people.

This brings me to Public Enemy Number One, a dangerous woman in the public eye who is vomiting bullshit that is being lapped up by people worldwide. The woman is Jenny McCarthy, the seemingly innocuous former Playboy bunny and 'actress' who is now using her celebrity to misderect and misinform people about a very serious issue: vaccinations and their 'link' to autism.

Jenny McCarthy has a child with autism, as anyone who has glanced at tabloid magazines or channel flipped through daytime talk shows knows. Parenting a child with autism is incredibly stressful, taxing, and requires 110% of one's time and patience. Relying on government funding is like relying on a cinder block to keep you afloat when you're drowning. For the average parent, their entire life is devoted to doing what's best for their child with autism no matter what. Sure, they can make their voice heard through newspapers and local TV stations, but global attention is something rarely granted to the average. For celebrities, though, things are different. They have a real chance to sink money into and shed light on scientific research. They have a chance to the advance the medical field and make a difference for people all over the world. This gift is a double edged sword, however.

When Andrew Wakefield published his 1998 paper in the medical journal The Lancet titled Ilial-nymphoid nodular hyperplasia, non-specific colitis, and pervasive developmental disorder in children, the ground of the autistic community shook. The paper itself was dense and full of jargon, as most medical research papers are, but there was a take home message that was very easy to understand: vaccinating your children is bad. Specifically, the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine (MMR) is an agent to cause autism in your children. Yup. Cause autism in your children. Talk about fearmongering. There are thousands of papers published in these academic journals, though. Controversial ones to boot. Perhaps this paper would have been swept under the rug, dismissed as pseudoscientific garbage, if it were not for a high profile mouthpiece attached to it. Enter Ms. McCarthy, a pretty blonde whose face looks great on magazine covers and TV shows, who also has a personal stake in autism research. She chooses to back this pseudoscientific nonsense with as much firepower as she possibly can. The result? In 2008, for the first time in 14 years, mumps was considered an endemic in the UK. In 2011, there were over 200 cases of measles reported, up from the 60-70 average per year. True, before the vaccine was introduced in the 60s, cases numbered in the millions, but this is a startling rise nonetheless. Of the cases in 2011, over 80% were either unvaccinated or the vaccination status was unknown. 13% of these were for children one and under, and unable to receive the vaccination. So what does common sense tell us? Not vaccinating your child not only puts them at risk, but also endangers the lives of children who are still too young to receive the vaccination. These numbers were not found on some crackpot website but the Centre of Disease Control and Prevention. And to boot, autism cases are on the rise. What the fuck?! How could people not see this coming?

In 2010, Andrew Wakefield had his medical license revoked. He is no longer legally allowed to practice medicine in the UK or the US. He is a disgrace, a fraud, and in my opinion, an evil bastard. To this day, he is a figurehead of the antivaccination campaign. Just last month, he and Jenny McCarthy served as keynote speakers at the Autism One conference is Illinois. They focus on conspiracy theories from big pharma and the government and claim to offer 'the truth' about autism and your child. Dozens of other speakers and presenters also claim to have the answer to treating autism, but not without a price. They sell books and expensive equipment (you think hyperbaric oxygen treatment is cheap?), all in the name of science. My question is: how on earth can people put their faith in a disgraced 'doctor' and a celebrity who has zero medical training whatsoever? Easy. They offer an easy to swallow attractive solution with a lot of media traction, while real scientists and researchers are working tirelessly to find real causes and treatment options.

So who is to blame for this enormous fuckup? Are the doctors who published this fraudulent paper who have since been charged with dishonesty and abuse of delvelopmentally disabled children? The celebrity endorsers of this quackery who lend time and money to forward a cause that only causes harm? Or the people, the ignorant masses, who believe every word of these snake-oil salesmen? Yes to the first two, but resoundingly so to the third. This endemic of ignorance and fear would have been snuffed out like a flame in a hurricane had people done some research and made choices for themselves. People need to educate themselves, to look at all sides of the issue with a skeptical eye, before they make such drastic decisions like eschewing vaccinations for their children. It's incredible how far a little common sense will go.

Something Sad This Way Comes

I hate reading news like this. Ray Bradbury, the seminal science-fiction and fantasy writer, has died. Bradbury was always mentioned with sci-fi literary giants like Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov, but Bradbury often shied away from the sci-fi label, claiming he only wrote one science-fiction book, Fahrenheit 451. The rest of his works were pure fantasy.

Fahrenheit 451 was the first Bradbury book I read, and I would imagine I am not alone in this, as it is often required reading in schools. After devouring it, I picked up The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes. The more you read his work, the clearer it becomes why  he eschewed a strict sci-fi label: his books concern the why much more than the how. Why humans want to travel beyond the stars rather than the mechanics behind it. This point-of-view enriches his novels and stories with unabashed humanism, something rather lacking from science-fiction in my opinion (there are exceptions, of course). Anyways, I may as well let the man speak for himself about death:

Death doesn't exist. It never did, it never will. But we've drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we've got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.

Ray Bradbury   1920-2012

Dusting Off the Rabbit Ears

It is so often the case that you never really know how lucky you are while you are in the midst of something until it is no longer there. Or, as Joni Mitchell far more eloquently put it, don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got til it's gone. Well, I'd hate to apply that lovely, universal maxim to something as trivial as television, but dammit, we are lucky, and I'd like to take some time to wax poetic as to why.

Over the last five years, my interest in TV has been lukewarm to say the least. Reality television shows were seemingly self-replicating to diminishing and increasingly stupid returns, a trend that nowadays seem to only be getting worse (just how many pawn shops and storage lockers need their own damned show anyways?). I have been guilty of indulging in these awful shows in the past, but have since purged my appetite for them and rediscovered some truly great television in the process.

It is unfortunate that movies get more respect than most television shows these days. With a movie, even a great one, you get two, two and a half hours tops to tell an engaging story. Add a sequel, there's five hours. Trilogy? Seven or eight hours. The Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Trilogy is pretty much where this line of thinking maxes out at about thirteen or fourteen hours. Sure that is a long time to get to know characters, have a conflict, show some interesting settings, trade some dialogue, and wrap it up in a meaningful way, but what if there was more time? Like say sixty, seventy, or even a hundred hours where you could expand your characters and really breathe some life into them. That is precisely what shows like Mad Men, The Sopranos, The Wire, and Breaking Bad are doing. These long form shows are make even really good movies feel about as deep as a Where's Waldo book. Their characters are given room to really flesh out and exist in a world that actually feels lived in and real.

Mad Men is a great example of just how lived-in a television show can feel. The series begins in 1960, where misogyny and martini lunches were the norm. Women were considered second-class citizens and only filled secretarial positions. African-Americans were elevator operators and live-in nannies. As the show progresses, however, real life events are being documented (the JFK assassination, for example) and societal change is a tidal wave that is sweeping up every single character. Now in its fifth season and comfortably in 1966, women have more power (as evidenced in Peggy being a major copywriter), the civil rights movement is right at the doorstep (literally) and the younger generation is starting to push back at the "establishment" of advertising, thus exposing its sometimes archaic worldview. The best thing is that these events are practically happening in real time. The characters are aging along with the show, as well as the children. In fact, one of the many joys of Mad Men is watching Don Draper;'s daughter Sally start off as a blonde moppet in season one to a teenager with complex needs on the verge of becoming a flower child in season five, all the while being played by the same actress, the very capable Kiernan Shipka. You can't get that kind of verisimilitude from a film.

Speaking of verisimilitude, I don't think there's been a more in depth, realistic, or honest look at the police procedural than that of The Wire. You encounter characters and situations as you would in real life, without backstory or explanation. The pilot episode simply plunks you in the middle of a court case, leaving you to parse out what is going on as events unfold. Needless to say, The Wire is not for those who wish to be spoon-fed important details. For the viewer who puts in the time, however, the rewards are rich. Imagine any episode of Law & Order stretched out to a season's worth of detective work: collecting clues, planning strategies, making busts, fixing mistakes, and a whole lot of the ground-level bureaucracy that goes on in police work. This may sound boring, but on screen it unfolds like a classic novel, full of fascinating details and asides that are woven into a striking arc of five seasons worth of amazing television.

I came late to the Breaking Bad party, admittedly. I'd heard about it from coworkers urging me to watch, but shrugged it off for some awful, ridiculous reason. A year later and I have atoned for my sins, if only I could say the same for Walter White, the, ahem, hero of Breaking Bad. Through four seasons, a mild-mannered, cancer-ridden chemistry teacher has become a blood-spilling Michelangelo of meth. Show creator Vince Gilligan and his team of writers have added such depth, nuance, and tragedy into a show that is essentially about a good man turning into a monster. No small feat.

All of the aforementioned shows have been intense, moody dramas, but quality television does not stop at abortions, methamphetamines, and wire-taps. Comedy greatness is easy to find, which is mind-blowing since it is much more difficult to achieve than dramatic greatness. Louie, the show written, directed, edited and starring Louis C.K., is probably the most daring, original and hilarious show of the last couple of decades.  Eschewing format altogether, C.K. offers skits and scenes revolving around his usual stand-up tropes: sexual inadequacy, failed marriages, how awful children can be. These scenes are Gestaltan in their overall effect, mirroring what most of us so often fail to realize: life can be really fucked-up, but sometimes the best way to deal with a beheaded hobo is to laugh at him.

The next time someone tells you there's nothing good on TV, or that television shows peaked after The Honeymooners, Cheers, or (Lord help me) Two and a Half Men, know that you are most likely speaking to an ignorant moron (likely) or someone whose taste is absolutely dreadful (likelier, sadly) and shuns quality like most people shun root canals. To counter their stupidity, calmly remind them that the golden age of television is now, that most movie blockbusters are insufferably terrible, and that you can show them the way to redemption. After all, it's only a remote click away.

Back in the Saddle

Here I have been waiting for a return to normalcy with bated breath. Maybe normalcy is the wrong word, since normal has some very untoward synonym cousins like average, run-of-the-mill, common, typical, and conventional...all words I doubt very many people would be scrambling to affix to their lives. So if not normalcy, then what? Routine? Structure?

Its been three months since I've written or even glanced at my blog. At first it was nothing more than a minor neglect, like not feeding your goldfish for a day. You feel guilty, but its not the end of the world. Even if you forget the next day, your goldfish won't die. And then its been a week, then two weeks, then close to three months. If your goldfish is alive, which he probably isn't, he's super pissed and ready to settle the score. Its easy to forget about him, floating in his little bowl, not a care in his average life, and then when you least expect it, you get home from your dinner and a movie date and he's upside down. You think Jesus, all I needed to do was sprinkle a little of that weird smelling flaky fish food in there but two or three times a week, and this all could have been prevented. 


Well, I logged back into my blogger account, and lo and behold, Interrobang still exists. Zero page views in months (obviously), a little dusty, but by no means floating upside down, so its time to sprinkle some food into its bowl.

As I mentioned, life has been a series of peaks and valleys, none of which resemble normalcy. My wife and I had our first child together on April 22nd; the little guy decided to come seven weeks early. Three blurry weeks in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, leaving my job to go on parental leave early, having very short-notice sinus surgery, and dealing with relatives, gifts, cards, questions, concerns, nurses, doctors, hospital staff all have contributed to the last three or so months being focused on something other than myself (good thing I'm not a narcissist!). All of this brouhaha has offered some extremely valuable perspective, though. Things tend to snap into focus a little bit easier when there is more on the line than mere ego (but that is still there too, in spades). So now that my son is home and working his way into an established routine, my surgery is over and quite successful (I can breathe, taste, and smell again! Maybe all of thats not so overrated after all), and my job is safety tucked away for the next eight or so months, I can finally dust off my literary hat and work on something again. Speaking of which....

Earlier this year, I decided that I really need to pull up my bootstraps and get out into the great beyond to seek out, well, for lack of a better word, kinship. No man is an island, after all. Some quick googling brought me to Meetup.com, which took me to the Victoria Creative Writing Group, which then led me to my first of several meetups amid the towering emptiness of the Atrium building downtown. Initially I was skeptical of meetup consisting of writers talking about writing, dropping bon mots and quoting Flaubert. Well, thank Christ, I was wrong. The dozen or so regulars at each meeting are eclectic, witty (though not insufferably so), interesting, and most importantly, passionate. And passion is like a disease to me, you have to have it around before you can catch it. I haven't been to a meetup in a couple of months, but returning to them is an important part of my striving for some focus in my writing.

I have been chipping away at my book here and there for the past couple of months, but my dearth of inspiration is not due to the metaphorical well drying up, which was a major fear of mine, but merely my lens being pointed at other objects, which is just fine at the moment. I am bristling with excitement to get back to writing and all that it entails. With everything happening at once in my life, it is calming to see the dust settle and to see my life, forever altered (for the better, I might add), and be able to accommodate my old passions with some new ones.

My new parent resolution is to continue to write for my blog as well as try as hard as I can to write my novel. We shall see how it goes...

Reimagining Perfection?

I have a question for you, dear readers. How does one follow up a massively successful, unequivocally influential, groundbreaking, self-contained piece of fiction that many cite as the Citizen Kane of graphic novels?

Well, my answer is, you don't. Plain and simple.

Sadly there are those who disagree. Not just disagree, but with gusto.

For those unfamiliar with Watchmen, it is an Alan Moore written, Dave Gibbons illustrated graphic novel that came out in 1986. It deals with heroes and villains, but through a refracted lens of alternate history where the US wins the Vietnam war by a landslide aided by the accidental "Superman" Dr. Manhattan, and the line between right and wrong, so clear in most other comic book stories, is blurred to the point where you may as well take both words out of the dictionary for lack of a clear definition. If you haven't read Watchmen, please do so, right now. If you scoff at comic books, do yourself a favor and get off your high horse and pick up a copy. It is well worth your time and effort.

Anyways, I am not writing to simply pontificate on the merits of Watchmen. That would be far too easy and more than a little redundant. I am, however, using this little soapbox to rage slightly against the impending series Before Watchmen, a seven issue run of backstories for each of the main characters from the original Watchmen universe. Here's what DC officially says about the project:

“It’s our responsibility as publishers to find new ways to keep all of our characters relevant,” said DC Entertainment Co-Publishers Dan DiDio and Jim Lee. “After twenty five years, the Watchmen are classic characters whose time has come for new stories to be told. We sought out the best writers and artists in the industry to build on the complex mythology of the original.”

This begs the question of just how appropriate and necessary it is to build on the complex mythology of the original in the first place. The original Watchmen gave each character a sufficient backstory, providing a past that links the present day characters firmly to their choices and actions. Every story strand is laced together so tightly that the end result resembles a Gordian knot compared to other comic book plots' loose shoelaces. I can understand the desire of wanting to explore the characters in Watchmen more; they are fascinating, interesting, and undeniably human (most, anyways) who are subject to successes and failures; to performing acts of valor and also unspeakable evil. The plot of the original is pitch-perfect in its balance of complexity and ambiguity, offering no more exposition than necessary, than to pile on more backstory becomes akin to an act of blasphemy, like spray painting a dick onto Michaelangelo's David's mouth.

What happens though, when one widens the lens and plays the devil's advocate? After all, reimagining, remaking, revisiting, and reinterpreting characters and stories has happened long before Watchmen, and sometimes to very good effect. One example: Kurt Neumann's 1958 movie The Fly, cult B-movie of no great consequence. David Cronenberg's 1986 version, however, is dark, intense, genuinely scary, and a touchstone for the directors trademark body-horror obsessions. Cronenberg infused the story with his own indelible style, transforming and elevating the source material into something justifiably revered (in the right circles) as a bonafide classic. But what of those who said the original must remain untouched? Not that I've ever ran into anyone who is such a fan of the 1958 film that they've claimed it is an unimpeachable masterpiece, but still, the question remains.

vs

 

Another example more in line to the Watchmen conundrum: Margaret Mitchell's 1936 novel Gone With the Wind. This tale of civil war romance is, according to a 2008 Harris Poll, the second most beloved book of American readers, behind only the bible. Upon publication, the book won the Pulitzer prize and the National Book Award and sold more than 30 million copies. In 2005, the novel was awarded a spot on Time Magazine's Best 100 books since 1923 (coincidentally Watchmen also resides on this list). Margaret Mitchell refused to write a sequel, but as the rights were passed down after her death, as well as her husbands' and brothers', her estate eventually granted permission to pen a follow up. Thus, Scarlett was born. The 1991 sequel was panned across the board and is generally considered an embarrassment by Mitchell's estate. Sure, it's star wasn't dull enough to bring down the reputation of its predecessor, but nonetheless it's existence can't be undone, and it will forever remain a punchline, a Scarlett-headed stepchild next to an American classic.

Much like Maragret Mitchell, Alan Moore has gone on record saying that he wants his seminal masterpiece to remain untouched. Unfortunately DC Comics, owner of the Watchmen property, disagrees. “I tend to take this latest development as a kind of eager confirmation that they are still apparently dependent on ideas that I had 25 years ago" says Moore, who won't take legal action, correctly assuming that he would be met with a battalion of lawyers. For the record, Moore has never endorsed any spinoff or adaptations of any of his work, which are, let's face it, piss poor (does anyone even remember The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen movie?)

But what's this? Alan Moore is responsible for reinterpreting DC Comics' Swamp Thing, completely revamping the character's backstory and writing brand new storylines that diverge wildly from the comic's origins. Does this make him a hypocrite? Yeah, at least a little bit, but one can say at least Moore did a really great job reinterpreting the character, elevating Swamp Thing and making new stories more in touch with modern readers, much like what Cronenberg achieved with his version of The Fly.

Now that we've arrived back where we started, I feel inclined to say that most of these sequels, reimaginings, and reinterpretations floating around are pretty tiring and mostly terrible. They are bastardizations created by lazy think tanks looking to make some money off someone else's ideas (Scarlett is still in publication and has sold millions of copies, natch). Once in awhile, however, there comes a genuine artist who wishes to infuse an old idea with new energy. There are no hard and fast rules pertaining to whether the outcome will be good or bad, or worse, inconsequential. Even great artists can fall flat on their well-intentioned faces (did Gus VanSant really think he could build on Psycho?), so it is up to the individual reader or viewer to judge for themselves whether there's any room for improvement in the original work to merit another layer.

 

 

Need I Say More?

Well, I suppose a congratulations are in order for Gary Oldman and Jonah Hill, who both received their first Academy Award nomination last Tuesday.

Leon

Bram Stoker's Dracula

The Dark Knight

The Contender

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Sid and Nancy

Prick Up Your Ears

Portrait of the Cartographer as an Artist

I am sure everyone realizes that cartography is not exactly the world's sexiest or exciting field of study. A map is a map is a map, right? We all remember the musty pull down map of the world in our elementary school classrooms: the bright purple, green and orange continents, the lack of any truly useful information beyond a few rivers, capital cities, and major mountain ranges, the artless and utilitarian nature of it all. But it did the job. Where on earth is there room for subtlety and nuance when it comes to cartography? If someone asked me this question, and I assure you no one has, I would respond with a blank look and an insouciant shrug.

David Imus did not respond this way. Not at all.

David Imus, you see, is the head of Imus Geographics, based in Eugene, Oregon. Actually, David Imus is Imus Geographics. He works out of his farmhouse making maps of the United States. In 2010, he won Best in Show, the top award from the Cartography and Geographic Information Society. Considering this prize usually goes to National Geographic or the C.I.A Cartography Centre, I would say that is quite a triumph for one man with an obvious passion for mapmaking.

What makes Imus' U.S map so special? What sets it above the rest? And ultimately, is it art?

To answer the first two questions, the attention to detail from Imus is beyond reproach. Usually, U.S maps from the big mapmakers use typography software and designate space for place names using algorithms. The unfinished map is then outsourced to workers (not cartographers) to fix errors and space out the type properly, subsequently resulting in place names being deleted for more important ones (or highway shields). Imus, still aided by a computer, does all the typography himself, outsourcing his work to no one but his own critical eye. The cost of this minute attention to detail is 6000 hours of work, amounting to two years spent on one map.

But what a map! Yes, I actually just typed that.

From a distance, it appears to be just an ordinary map, much like the Mona Lisa appears to be just a painting from behind the bulletproof casing and hundreds of tourists. Upon closer examination, the full effect of Imus' meticulous eye blooms, especially in comparison to the standard mass produced maps. On the left is Imus' map showing the city of Cincinnati, on the right is the same detail from the National Geographic map. Notice Imus' map features green shading representing relative forestation, highlighting the terrain without necessarily drawing the eye away from other pertinent information, while the Natioinal Geographic map is merely printed over a white background. A minor detail, perhaps, when viewed up close, but as a whole it makes for a more natural, appealing map viewing experience. Smaller details such as the inclusion of three-letter airport codes and points-of-interest further solidify that this map stands head and shoulders above the rest. 

 

But is it art? Can something we so often take for granted, and seemingly does not leave room for many artistic flourishes, rise above the humdrum ordinariness of simply "being a map" and become an objet d'art? My god, yes it can. I see art as passion suffused with intense dedication and creativity, of taking something familiar and giving us a different take, a fresh angle. That is exactly what David Imus has done with his Essential Geography of the United States of America. To quote the irascible critic Anton Ego, not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is people like David Imus, who has committed thousands of hours to bring to fruition the absolute perfect manifestation of his vision, who truly make a difference in this world. They unswervingly follow their passion regardless of obstacles or ridicule, thereby creating something that adheres to their vision and theirs alone. 

 

I doff my cap to you, Mr. Imus. 

 

 

 

Words to Live By #10

 Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.

                                                                                                      -- Mark Twain

 

Current Obsessions

Here are a few things that are currently leasing some prime real estate in my brain:

The Watson Table

A gorgeous piece of furniture I am supremely determined to have in my home come hell or high water. Named after Dr. James Watson, the nobel laureate who, alongside Dr. Francis Crick, discovered the molecular structure of the DNA strand, this table is a stunning feat of design. Its designer, Paul Loebach, uses composite wood and carbon fibre to achieve the unique look. It is one of those pieces that simply stopped me in my tracks as soon as I lay eyes on it. Gorgeous.





The Dark Knight Rises

Months, even years, of speculation (at least in some circles....my circles) have lead up to the full trailer being released for Christopher Nolan's final entry in his Batman trilogy, The Dark Knight Rises. I have faith Nolan will make this instalment suitably epic, with a showdown between Bane and Batman being inevitable. I am trying my hardest to stay in the dark with the finer points of the plot, something that paid off before watching The Dark Knight in theatres almost four years ago and being incredibly surprised by how deep and dark the movie gets. It was a genuine surprise, as I expect this to be as well.

Only six more months until its release.....I can do it. I hope.







The Restoration Hardware Mayfair Steamer Secretary Trunk

The perfect place to write a new novel. This is another piece I simply must have. I was in Restoration Hardware not too long ago and sidled up to this incredible workspace, sat myself down on the Antique Chestnut Buckle chair and everything just seemed so....right. I could spend hours just sitting there admiring the handcrafted elegance, the vintage cigar leather, the 3000 individual hand-hammered brass nailheads, nevermind tapping out my latest literary masterpiece. 

Retrospecticus 2011

How will 2011 be remembered in decades to come? Will it be the year that twitter and Facebook overthrew governments? That the verb occupy took on a whole new meaning? Or maybe it was when ignorant, drunk assholes watched a city burn at their own hands because of a sports team? How about when massive debt on a global scale spread like a flu virus throughout Europe? All are large scale, highly impactful events that have made ripples that will fan out into 2012 and beyond. All of these events will be recapped over the next few days in annual retrospects on every news site and blog. But what about on an individual level? What happened this year that impacted me? What wandered into my orbit that made me think that this year was worth living? What made me happy? Lots, actually. Sure, I'm dealing on a small scale, but it's the little things in life that make it worth living, n'est pas?

Watching Hugo in 3D with my family. 

See, told you it was small scale. But this movie made me so incredibly happy. I normally treat 3D as an angry leper crawling toward me with outstretched limbs, but I realized that all it took was the greatest living director with over 40 years of moviemaking experience working with a seemingly unlimited budget on a movie that seems closer to his heart that anything he's ever done to make a 3D movie worth watching. The fact that it concerns the twilight of cinematic legend George Méliès and a plea to keep silent cinema alive and breathing, all in the guise of a children's movie makes it great; beyond just a movie, Hugo is an experience for anyone who loves film to savor and enjoy. 

Conquering my writing demons

Maybe the single most difficult thing I've done all year. Banishing my doubts and trepidations with one fell swoop, I signed up for a short fiction writing workshop where it would be impossible to crumple up whatever I write to keep it from prying eyes. Quite the opposite, in fact, since I had to not only write for others to read but also read my works aloud. Kind of reminds me of how Seinfeld said that death was the #2 fear behind public speaking, meaning that most people would rather be in the casket than delivering the eulogy. I may not have conquered death quite yet, but I read my short stories out loud to perfect strangers and lived to tell the tale. Turns out, it wasn't so bad. And since starting this blog and concurrently working on a novel, turns out I'm not such a bad writer after all. 

Reading 1Q84

I had been waiting for this novel to come out for almost 2 years, actively avoiding reading anything about it leading up to its publication in October, then spending almost 2 months savoring every one of its 944 pages. The reviews haven't all been kind, pointing out that Murakami appears to be resting on his laurels and revisiting plots and themes that have been covered in his other books that are half the length of 1Q84, but I didn't mind these so-called faults one bit. In fact, the length and familiarity made the book more enjoyable, knowing I am in the hands of a master storyteller at the top of his game and pulling out all the stops, no doubt eschewing the advice of more than one editor telling him to pare down his prose. It tickles me to think that such a massive tome by a Japanese author can still elicit midnight book store openings and lineups usually reserved for boy wizards. 

Turning 30

Oy vay. Starting my fourth (fourth!) decade on this planet was something I told myself wasn't a big deal. I'm most likely only a third of the way through my life, I thought generously. I've got milestones ahead of me that will hopefully count as the most memorable of my life....hopefully. But even the most optimistic thought cannot banish the fact that memories that seem fresh in my mind  (graduating high school, getting my driver's license) happened over a decade ago, which leads to me to think if I have really changed all that much in the ensuing years. Which then causes me to think that I have become what I never thought would happen: out of touch with whatever is considered "cool". Most of pop culture is a confusing mess to me nowadays. I've even caught myself saying 'back in my day....' And yet I'm told by people that I'm still just a young pup with his whole life ahead of him. That may be true, but my aching knees and increasingly crotchety behaviour say otherwise. We shall see where I am in the next 30 years. 

Watching my friends get on with their lives

This is an offshoot of the last entry, but it warrants it's own rant. Not so much rant, maybe, since there isn't much anger involved, more just melancholic realization. This is the year that good friends moved away, entering new chapters in their lives that, shockingly enough, don't include me as much as I would like. I will eventually pick up and move on too, but it's always hard when you're not the first to do so. Such a mixture of emotions, most of which were unexpected. Familiar blue sadness painted the canvas of my consciousness, but also red anger and green envy with splatters of ochre nostalgic reminiscences and the occasional trickle of bright white anticipation. A true emotional Pollock canvas, this saying goodbye to your best friends is. 

Listening to the album House of Balloons by The Weeknd

Out of nowhere, The Weeknd dropped a free mixtape called House of Balloons in March, and turned R&B on its head, at least for me. Abel Tesfaye, the man behind The Weeknd, sings songs about sex and drugs, but without all the posturing in a desperate attempt in glorification. Instead, the listener is bombarded with skin crawling hooks like bring your love baby, I can bring my shame/bring your drugs baby, I can bring my pain. Yeah, real uplifting, I know, but Tesfaye sells it so well, embracing debauchery in all it's discomfort, making insanely good music around it, and then giving it away for free. 

Seeing tUnE-YaRdS live 

What. A. Show. Seriously, I had heard that tUnE-YaRdS live was amazing from articles in The Village Voice and Pitchfork, but nothing could truly prepare me for such energy, crowd engagement, and sheer musicianship that tUnE-YaRdS brought to the small stage at Sugar Nightclub. It was an electrifying concert with zero filler, and listening to all the songs from my favorite album of the year live in such an intimate venue ranks as one of the highlights of the year, hands down.




These are just a few off the cuff experiences from the past 12 months of my life. By no means do they sum up the year for me tidily, not by any stretch of the imagination. But they all serve as signposts in my life as I, with the rest of you, hurtle into the unknown territory that is the next year. 2012 looms just on the horizon, almost in our grasp. Who knows, if the Mayans were correct this will be Interrobang's inaugural and sole Retrospecticus, unless I fervently tap an entry out on December 20th.

Only time will tell.

An Otherwise Dreary Day Punctuated by the Surreal

I have just finished Murakami's 1Q84, where the themes of death and rebirth (among many, many others) are explored in the haze of a dreamlike work only Murakami could create. So these topics are at the forefront of my mind whether I like it or not. So after finishing 1Q84, what do I choose for my next book? Hitch 22, a memoir of the British essayist, atheist, journalist, and wit Christopher Hitchens. I started it last night, December 15th. In the first chapter, Hitchens describes what it is like to read your own obituary, since he himself has experienced this. I'll explain: one day in 2008 he was featured in a photograph in an article for the New Statesman, and the caption referred to him as the late Christopher Hitchens. It turned out to be an error, of course, but seeing himself so matter-of-factly announced as having shuffled off this mortal coil rattled him. 

So what do I read the very next morning, December 16th? That Christopher Hitchens has indeed passed away and his obituary has been published, rightfully so this time around. This is a very sad day, for Hitchens is a dying breed among, well, that's hard to say. Among journalists. Among authors. Among outspoken critics and people with bon mots for pretty much any occasion. So raise a glass (or two, or three) of the finest brandy and light a Cuban cigar in honour of Christopher Hitchens. 

"The only position that leaves me with no cognitive dissonance is atheism. It is not a creed. Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more.”
                                                                                                                                                                            -- Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011)

Kindred Spirits

Last week I pondered how the genre of postmodern literature just may be too big for its britches. The books that fall under that category are too tricky, too wild, too unpredictable, and far too unlike each other to really belong in the same company. That also holds true for one of my favorite authors, Philip K. Dick. His novels and stories often fall under the same genre. You know, the genre that sits at the back of the class that no one really wants to talk to because it hasn't learned to wear deodorant yet. Yes, science fiction. 

Ask 100 people what genre of books or movies they generally shy away from. I'm sure you'll get a few serious dramas, some British comedies, and one or two "old classics" but I guarantee the majority will say science fiction. Why? Well, for starters, most people base their opinion on two things: Star Wars and Star Trek. These, sadly, are the ambassadors of sci-fi to the general public, but along with them come the creepy fans, the annual conventions, the costumes, and of course, the intense obsession about every last minute detail of both the Wars and Trek universes. Yes, these stereotypes for sci-fi fans exist for a reason, but they represent the absolute nadir. Unfortunately, the entire genre of sci-fi gets the brush off from just about everyone because of a few bad eggs, but if you look just a tad deeper, you can see just how fascinating and thought provoking sci-fi novels can be. And no other author has done more to expand sci-fi to its very limits than Philip K. Dick. 

You know Philip K. Dick even if you haven't heard of him. Many of his novels have been adapted into films, but Blade Runner (adapted from Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep) and Minority Report (adapted from his short story The Minority Report) are the two most famous and well known examples. Both films were very good, as was Richard Linklater's A Scanner Darkly, but I don't believe what makes Dick's books and stories so special can be necessarily translated into film. The movies themselves are pretty great in their own right, and are head and shoulders above some of the less memorable Dick adaptations (Next, Paycheck) but even the best can't capture the twisty, labyrinthine, poetic worlds Dick creates in his novels, often exchanging artfulness and subtlety for special effects.  Essentially, if you judge Philip K Dick solely on his contribution to cinema, then you really don't know Philip K Dick.


Okay, so where do you start? Dick has published 44 novels and over 120 short stories, so there's not exactly a dearth of material. He was, however,  never content to be confined in the genre trappings of science fiction, making his oeuvre notoriously difficult to penetrate. I would recommend Ubik as a perfect starting point. This 1969 novel encapsulates many of Dick's obsessions, namely paranoia, the questioning of reality, paranormal powers, and ultimately, faith, but wraps them in a cracking good story rich with humour and pathos. The plot is just the right amount of twisty for the novice reader, and is easy enough to follow right to its emotionally satisfying end. 


For those willing to venture further down the rabbit hole after finishing Ubik, there are many paths to take. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch is a horrifying acid trip of religious imagery and futuristic paranoia, The Man in the High Castle is an alternative history novel (some say the first) where President Roosevelt is assassinated and after America loses WWII, it is divided between the Germans and Japanese.  VALIS finds Dick at his most unhinged and autobiographical, diving headfirst into gnosticism, Christianity, Jungian psychoanalysis, and his own personal experiences as narrated by his doppleganger, Horselover Fat. 



As you can probably guess, Philp K. Dick was no ordinary sci-fi author. He abused amphetamines (often attributed to his seemingly non-stop publishing habits) and claimed he had visions; visions of Ancient Rome where he lived as "Thomas," a persecuted Christian. He also claimed that a pink laser beamed to him wisdom and clairvoyance, a plot point he made pivotal in VALIS. Dick's idiosyncrasies and paranoia were perfectly wed to his subject matter, elevating him to a cult figure with an intensely rabid fan base who pore over his works like, quite appropriately, religious texts. But Dick deserves a fate better than being a minor footnote in a genre held in such contempt. Philip K. Dick was a humanist above all else; no matter how hallucinogenic his stories became, they always have a human interest. There is sadness, curiosity, regret, confusion, joy, and longing suffused in his prose. It stands as a testament to this that the K. in Philip K. Dick stands for Kindred. 

Current Obsessions

Here some things that are currently taking up far too much time in my life:

Silent films

 Ever since seeing Scorsese's masterful and completely enchanting Hugo, I want to seek out and watch all the old silent classics. Les Vampires, The Kid, City Lights, Sherlock Jr, The General, Sunrise, Safety Last. The list goes on. Hugo reminded me why I love movies in the first place: their complete and unparalleled ability to transport me to another place. There's something special about silent movies, something so incredibly pure and trustworthy about the images. Hugo also made me feel slightly guilty aI haven't had the urge in awhile to do a Keaton or Chaplin or Lloyd marathon, but that shall be remedied very soon. I also want to be primed for the release of The Artist, a movie I am very enthusiastically awaiting.

FlÜd Watches


I have their Big Ben in oak, and there are so many more I would love to have in my collection. They are unique yet fashionable watches that won't break the bank. The only thing to watch out for is that ridiculous $40.00 shipping charge to Canada. Ugh.

Theorizing how Breaking Bad will turn out


So will Jesse find out that Walter used Lily of the Valley to poison Brock? And what repercussions will Walt suffer from the murder of Gus Fring? Will Jesse turn out to be the Southern US meth kingpin while Walt continues to make awful choices about his family and career, ultimately leading to his (no doubt) bloody end? How will the showdown of Hank and Walter look? I shudder to think of all the meaty possibilities and glorious directions this show could follow. How does one end the best television program of the last decade? I can't even wait until next summer.

Stay tuned for more obsessions as they envelop me....

Postmodernism: or, How I Learned to Stop Categorizing and Love Contextual Definitions

Reading tastes vary wildly by individual. One person's classic is another's airport paperback. Thats fine with me, I have no want to argue the merits of the so called classics and where they stand in the pantheon of "great literature" or any such nonsense. To do so is an exercise in foolhardy blowhardism to which I haven't sunk in days. It just so happens, though, that many of my favorite authors and books fall into a certain broad, nebulous non-genre known as postmodernism.

What images are conjured when one rolls the word postmodern around their brain as if sucking on a lozenge? To me, the worst part of art and writing, ironically, come to mind. I picture gigantic pencil sculptures, nonsensical prose, and art installations meant to fulfill the onanistic desire of the artist and no one else. These images are not without merit, sadly, but to dismiss postmodernism entirely based on preconceived notions is to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I will address postmodern literature solely and not pretend to know enough about art to justifiably fill an entire blog post worth of ramblings based solely my own ignorance.

So, where and with whom do we start? Great question, I am wondering that myself.

Well, definitions are fun! 

 post·mod·ern·ism   [pohst-mod-er-niz-uhm] noun( sometimes initial capital letter ) any of a number of trends or movements in the arts and literature developing in the 1970s in reaction to or rejection of the dogma, principles, or practices of established modernism, especially a movement in architecture and the decorative arts running counter to the practice and influence of the International Style and encouraging the use of elements from historical vernacular styles and often playful illusion, decoration, and complexity.

 Well there you have it. Postmodern refers to anything that isn't established modernism. Need a definition of that? We could go on and on, falling down a rabbit hole of OED definitions in a Sisyphean task of defining something that simply cannot be defined. How very postmodern. Some claim that the playfulness of modernism as a means to an end yields to the playfulness in postmodernism as an end unto itself. Certainly a fuzzy boundary, as ones attempts to parse out T.S Eliot's The Wasteland and Laurence Sterne's Tristram Shandy and put them on opposite sides of a malleable spectrum. 

In order to gain purchase on such a spectral idea, we must look to examples of what is commonly referred to as postmodern literature and attempt to form a skeleton on which to hang our ad hoc definition. Which brings us back to the question, where do we begin? 

Thomas Ruggles Pynchon. That's where I will begin, since it's damn near impossible to have a conversation about postmodern lit without his inclusion. The notoriously camera shy author is the poster boy for many of the most popular facets of postmodernism. The combining of genres. The historical touchstones. The impenetrable narratives. The mixture of high and low art. The random asides. Even Pynchon's most linear works like The Crying of Lot 49 and Inherent Vice are ripe with postmodern flourishes, but if you want to dive in head first, tackle his magnum opus, Gravity's Rainbow. 

Seeing as entire books have been written attempting to elucidate to the reader what exactly Gravity's Rainbow is about, this blog will focus not on plot machinations (and if you've read it you'll know why) but on certain aspects that make it "postmodern". Gravity's Rainbow is funny. It's hilarious, really. It's full of moments of great physical comedy (the book centers around erections, after all) and endlessly quotable dialogue:

Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says try to tickle me.

Black humor and irony are touchstones of postmodern lit. Other works that come to mind that embrace jet black humor are Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five and Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint (don't read either while sitting in a coffee shop, people will begin to question your sanity since you'll be cackling like the Joker). Both Gravity's Rainbow and Slaughterhouse Five also view historical events (in both books, WWII) through a lens of science fiction and fantastical occurrences. Time travel is treated as an common occurrence, and a single, sentient lightbulb named Byron is given a complete life story. Flourishes such as these don't really stick out in a postmodern novel, though. They simply are woven into the dense fabric of the prose. 

Density is often cited as another postmodern touchstone. This is not referring to the size of the book (although postmodern works can be very, very long) but rather to the knotty, often impenetrable plots and seemingly random characters that populate the story. Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 is a relatively slim novel, but is so packed with asides, frayed plot threads, paranoid rumblings, and random songs that it takes a lot of concentration to wade through it all. One Hundred Years of Solitude is another relatively small novel (at least in comparison to tomes like Against the Day and 2666) often cited as postmodern (and the figurehead of a subsection of postmodernism called magic realism) that reads like it was twice as long since it blends so much together (an entire family tree from roots to canopy). 

This post could continue picking out aspects of postmodernism and highlighting the novels that exemplify the genre, but Jesus my eyes are getting sore staring at this screen. Honestly, it is exhausting just thinking about postmodern lit, since most of the books I enjoy are folded into it for so many different reasons. Murakami.  Vonnegut. Pynchon. DeLillo. McCarthy. Roth. Irony. Black humor. Intertextuality. Pastiche. Satire. Is this a testament to the breadth of postmodern qualities, or to my narrow reading list? Who knows for sure, but I suspect the former rather than the latter. 

When it really comes down to it, if a book that was published post 1941 (the year both James Joyce and Virginia Woolf died, which to some signifies the end of modernism and by definition the beginning of postmodernism) contains any element that makes it odd, unique, or individual, you can wrap it up in a nice postmodern packaging and slot it neatly away. And this nonsense about postmodern novels using "playfulness" as an end rather than a means, as if the author was writing it solely to puzzle readers and be dissected by scholars, well that's a load of tripe. Vonnegut wrote about his experiences during WWII the only way he could, and Slaughterhouse Five is filled with as much melancholy, heartbreaking emotion as any Brontë or Dickens novel. And the density of some novels, specifically those by Pynchon, should be embraced. Who says everything has to be neatly laid out, from point A to point Z, in a digestible, linear fashion? It's tremendous fun to be lost in a labyrinth; adrift in literary puzzle where structure is eschewed in favor of flights of imagination, regardless to whatever locked doors or dead ends they may lead to. 

I suppose my gripe with the word postmodern is that it describes so many genres and styles that it describes nothing at all. Besides, what comes after postmodern? Post postmodern? Yes, actually. This type of naval gazing can go on and on ad infinitum, becoming an unwieldy ouroboros bent on making a mockery of the entire literary classification system as a whole! Sigh. It's time to wrap this post up. 

Take home message? Read books. A lot of them. By lots of different authors, alive or dead. If you like a book by a certain author read more by them. If you don't like a book by a certain author, seek other authors out. If you don't like Gravity's Rainbow, don't assume you won't like any other postmodern work by any other author. They vary so wildly in terms of plot, writing style, and character that it's moot to clump them together at all. 

Oh, and read lots and lots of Philip K. Dick. His books will make you a better person. I know they did that for me. 

That is all.