"Maybe when Americans realize that World Cup football is not about football, it's about nationalism, they'll like it better."He's onto something, but he's got it exactly backward. It's the reason America isn't interested in football: they have no need of placebo nationalism when they're too busy practising the real thing. Football is of overwheening importance to nations who've been relegated from world power status (England) or had a shot but blew it (Germany) or are due an upgrade some time soon (Brazil). But if you're actually top dog, as the US is, just, why compete? You have no need for the national catharsis of football.
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 27, 2010
"Good action is harder than it looks. This remains true even as the available technology makes it look a little too easy. And as with 3-D and other fast-evolving visual tricks, the more there is — the bigger the fireballs, the more extensive the make-believe damage to architecture, machinery and virtual human bodies — the less impact it has. And impact is, ultimately what movie action aims to convey, as if sight and sound could combine into a physical experience." — A O ScottI would go further. Action is not just harder than it looks — it's one of the hardest things to do in cinema. The number of director who can shoot an action sequence is a tiny fraction of the directors who make a living shooting action movies. The success rate is roughly the what you might expect if you told every living director to start making musicals, or murder mysteries set in the world of ballet. The difficult thing is not letting the difficult stuff crowd out the simple stuff. It's no good having six cars detonate if the audience doesn't know where they are in relation to the hero: how many steps from disaster he is. It's amazing how few directors remember to convey this basic information — to keep their narrative instincts ticking along within the frame, keep their action threatening. Spielberg does it without thinking; same with Cameron. Walter Hill, John Carpenter — yes, yes, yes. Peter Jackson is okay. Nolan is okay (in the Dark Knight anyway; Batman Begins not so much). John Woo is too busy admiring himself. Sam Raimi is so-so. Tim Burton is straight-out abymsal. Almost everyone else — McG, Michael Bay, both Sctt brothers although Tony is worse than Ridley — is in the obfuscation business. They throw fireballs and flying glass at us in the hope we won't notice how weak their establishing shots are. They crave chaos as a cover. Their action is quite literally bullshit. They give off the flop sweat of a bad liar. And yet here is one of the ironies of Hollywood: these are the very men with reputations as action directors. They are praised for the one thing they cannot do. That's the way of the world: draw attention to your flaws, and then market those flaws as virtues.
"Murray was dining at a restaurant in Brooklyn, where he can often be found blending in with the locals. Josh Hartnett, an actor he couldn’t quite place, approached him. 'This guy shakes my hand and says, 'You worked on Lost in Translation with my [then] girlfriend. Was she as much trouble for you as she was for me?' But Scarlett [Johansson] was 17 when I worked with her, so no, she wasn’t,' he says. 'I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I don’t know who the fuck anyone is. I go through US Weekly, and it’s filled with reality stars I’ve never heard of. I don’t recognize anyone. People? Forget it." — Bill Murray, Blackbook
- The Kids Are All Right (limited)
- Get Low (limited)
- Centurion (limited) Fassbender
- The American Corbijn
- The Adjustment Bureau Dick
- The Town Hall
- You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger
- Buried (limited; wide: Oct. 8)
- Howl (limited) Franco
- Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps
- Never Let Me Go (limited)
- The Social Network Sorkin
- The Company Men Affleck
Morning Glory McAdams, Ford, McKenna
- Love and Other Drugs Zwick, Hathaway
- The King's Speech
- The Tree of Life
- The Fighter Russell
- Everything You've Got Brooks
- Tron Legacy
- Somewhere (NY, LA)
- True Grit Portis
- Another Year (limited) Leigh
- Blue Valentine Williams
- The Green Hornet
Jun 25, 2010
"Yet the so-called rivalry is quite obviously an illusion, existing only in the minds of those wishful to the point of insanity – which is to say, the English." — Marina Hyde, The GaurdianQuite right. It takes two to have a rivalry and the 'rivalry' of England with Germany is a one-sided affair. It's staulker logic. The Germans don't feel it, for the simple reason that they are historically the better team. Nor do the Argentinians, which whom we also have supposed rivalry, also for the simple reason that they are historically the better team. "Rivalry with" here seems to be code for "resentment of", or "extreme wish to beat." Richard Williams insists otherwise — no the Germans really do reciprocate.
Airy suggestions that the significance lies entirely on one side are wide of the mark. Franz Beckenbauer and Philipp Lahm confirmed this week that they and their compatriots also see these as special occasions.Special! The heart leaps like a deer!
Jun 24, 2010
"According to Deadline's Mike Fleming, a soft opening for Knight probably won't mean the cancellation of M:I:4, though it might inspire the studio to "beef up the subplot that introduces a new and younger agent who becomes Ethan Hunt's protege." — VultureHas the whole "young protege" plot spruce-up ever worked, to anyone's knowledge? Someone believes so. They've been at using it from Son of Frankenstein through to Die Hard 4. La Beouf has already been its beneficiary twice, once as Harrison Ford's protege in Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull and then as Michael Douglas's protege in Wall Street 2. Cruise, of course, himself did it in The Color of Money, which just goes to show that what goes around comes around — the once protege been out-proteged. Scorsese's film aside, has it ever really worked, though? Which is to say: has this cunning move ever managed to convince the nation's notoriously fickle yoof that they are not being palmed off with some creaky old geezer's franchise? How many of those little pups went on to have their own movies? The whole thing glistens with the flop-sweat of middle-aged movie executives. From what I can remember of youth, the one thing I can remember not being too charmed by was the sweat of old people.
"The mind-blowing movie event of the summer... Dive in and drive yourself crazy." – Peter Travers, Rolling Stone ***1/2The blogs are abuzz with the first largely positive review of Christopher Nolan's forthcoming Inception, while neglecting to point out that the rave comes from Rolling Stone's Peter Travers the most excitable critic in Cristendom. In 2005, his name appeared below 65 movie poster quotes. He has raved about Shaft ("Right On! Brotherman in Charge!") Gladiator ("Glorious! A Colossus of rousing action and ferocious fun!") Me, Myself and Irene ("A hell-raising piece of comedy heaven!"), Syriana ("this fighting-mad film isn't just hot, it's incendiary") Grindhouse ("this babes-and-bullets tour de force gets you high on movies again.") He thought Mission Impossible III "the movie to beat in the race to push your pulse rate past the danger zone," and Shaun of the Dead "a blast of fright and fun! Keeps the blood and the laughs gushing!" And he gave Inception 3.5 stars. Hmm.
Jun 21, 2010
"A few years ago, at a big club game, a supporter of the losing team unfurled a huge banner that said "You've Let Us Down Again"—right on the final whistle. He made the banner, rolled it up, and carried it into the stadium, all without knowing the outcome. All he had to go on were his dark suspicions. That's the English mind-set: There's no reason we shouldn't do well in the World Cup, maybe even win it, but nobody really believes that it will happen." — Nick Hornby, GQ
"She’s little more svelte in real life than on screen: with wide-set blue eyes, cleft chin and a blithe, gung-ho manner that reminds me of one of those morale-boosting girls John Betjeman used to fall in love with: daughter of doctor from Aldershot, sun-kissed in tennis whites, swiping at the rhodendruns with her racket (“lucky rhododedruns”); and yet alone amongst English actresses, she seems the least dependent on bonnets and corsets, and reels off an American accent with trashy brio." — from my Interview with Emily Blunt in The Sunday Times
Jun 19, 2010
1. Toy Story, Toy Story 2, Toy Story 3Points for: tracking the passage of time; thematic unity; character development; consistency of filmmaking; 'closure'. Obviously, I'd have like to have included the first three Alien films and Indiana Jones movies — they would have slottted in somewhere after Antonioni, but before Bourne, the Alien films just ahead of the Indys— but sensed a whole world of trouble if I made exceptions for just those films. A pox on Crystal Skull and Jean-Pierre Jeunet! The Godfather gets second place because 3 was the weak link, Star Wars third because of Jedi. Back to the Future over Lord of the rings because as time goes on, the LORD films blur into a grey mass of heaving Orc pectorals (same with Bourne and blurry European capitals). Toy Story 3 gets top spot because it is the only trilogy that got better as it went along, with 2 better than 1, and 3 topping 2 — an unparrallelled upward trajectory.
2. The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, The Godfather Part III
3. Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi
4. Three Colors: Blue, Three Colors: White, Three Colors: Red
5. Back to the Future, Back to the Future II, Back to the Future III
6. L’Avventura, La Notte, L'Eclisse
7. The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, The Return of the King
8. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, For a Few Dollars More, A Fistful of Dollars
9. The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum
10. The Naked Gun, The Naked Gun 2 1/2, The Naked Gun 33 1/3: The Final Insult
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 17, 2010
"What draws me in is the sheer artistry of its director. That, and those opening scenes with Janet Leigh, her boss and his millionaire sleazebag who get taken for a ride. All of those great scenes with the cop on the road. I love when she brings her money into the bathroom and peels off enough bills to buy her new used car. The film is still good after that – creepy and thrilling. But it is those first moments that make it what it is: a timeless piece of rich, dense, fulfilling cinema. You really don’t get better." — Sasha Stone, Awards Daily
Nyeaah. You don't get any better than Psycho? How about North by Northwest, Rear Window, Strangers on a Train, Notorious, The Trouble With Harry, or To Catch a Thief? I've always thought Psycho one of Hitchcock's weakest films. As Stone rightly says, it basically has the best opening twenty minutes of any Hitchock movie, but there's a reason for that; everyone always praises the radicalism of Hitchcock killing off his heroine in the first reel without mentioning the consequence: the film literally has to start again, halfway through, with a new hero and heroine. It's literally a do-over. The ungainliness of that has never struck me as particularly winning, especially from so beautiful a formalist as Hitchcock. The big clue is that nobody ever gets over this hump without mentioning the "mastery" of Hitchcock, as if the only way to fully appreciate the drama is to be yanked forcibly yanked out of it. (It's the same problem with virtually every frame of Kubrick, but that's another story). Then there's all those cellars and skulls: I've always liked Hitch best when he lets horror unfold in public, in broad daylight — the murder at the U.N. in North by Northwest, or best of all the murder in The Trouble with Harry, which takes place on a crisp fall day — as if to show us that our worst nightmares are waking dreams, from which there is no escape. He practices a rare species of Gothic blanc. Psycho opts for actual dungeons and darkness, as if all the lace-and-candle Gothic accoutrements from Du Maurier's Rebecca had risen to claim him once more. Psycho turns 50? It seems a lot older.
Jun 16, 2010
"The British media are mightily offended over what they see as anti-British rhetoric in the administration's attacks on BP. My feeling is that the specifically anti-UK element in the U.S. reaction to the oil spill has so far been impressively slight--and far smaller than would be the anti-US reaction in Britain if the case were reversed. Americans seem no angrier with BP than they would be with one of their own oil companies. I don't think they care one way or the other that the firm is British." — Clive CrookIt's truly bizarre, as a Brit living in the US, to witness the British press whining so. As I've said on this blog, I'm absolutely amazed there wasn't a more nationalist flavor to the debate earlier, and I'm still amazed at how mild it is, if it's even existent at all. There doesn't seem to be any anti-Brit feeling coming out of the Gulf. Imagine the uproar if an American company had fouled the coast of Normandy, or the white cliffs of Dover. I suspect a large part of this is residual anger left over from the Bush administration and the way Blair caved over Iraq. The British press are saying to Cameron: here's your chance. Don't do a Blair. They're fighting the last war, as people always do.
“Like a lady who has lost weight and she’s just getting to that point where she can fit into that favourite dress, you get the film down to just about the right cut. You can feel it when it happens.” — Thelma Schoonmaker on editing a Martin Scorsese film
Jun 15, 2010
"Alienation. The sweet sound of excess. A generation caught checking out their reflections in each other’s mirror shades. Such have been the themes if Ellis’s career, going back to his 1985 debut, Less Than Zero, which turned him into a literary star at the age of 22. His new book, Imperial Bedrooms, a sequel to that work, catches up with his cast of jaded Los Angelinos some 30 years later to find them still a little sore at their depiction as inarticulate zombies: “[the writer] floated through our lives, and didn’t seem to care how flatly he perceived everyone... showcasing the youthful indifference, the gleaming nihilism, glamorising the horror of it all.” The book has it’s share of horror, not least a series of gangland slayings, but then dead bodies are to a Bret Easton Ellis novel what Aspidistras are to a George Orwell novel: part of the scenery. More noticeable is the misting of melancholy that enshrouds LA’s billboards and boulevards, and the mysterious crying jags that steal over its hero. “Doesn’t sound like you,” says someone going over his emails. “I mean you could be a cold dude sometimes, but these are actually rather heartfelt and sad.” Feelings? In a novel by Bret Easton Ellis? Whatever will his fans say." — from my interview with Bret Easton Ellis in the Sunday Times
"The Killer Inside Me is a particular distillation of male hate, as practised by repulsive and inadequate individuals who have been encouraged to see themselves as essentially decent by virtue of the trappings of authority in which they have wrapped themselves. And Winterbottom is tearing off the mask; like Michael Haneke, he is confronting the audience with the reality of sexual violence and abusive power relations between the sexes that cinema so often glamourises. Here, the movie is saying, here is the denied reality behind every seamy cop show, every sexed-up horror flick, every picturesque Jack the Ripper tourist attraction, every swooning film studies seminar on the Psycho shower scene." — Peter Bradshaw, The GuardianI've never found the Art card really alters my experience of the movie that much. I get that it alters what you can say the movie is 'saying', but then that's always the least interesting bit of the moviegoing experience. And the experience in this case sounds viscerally unpleasant, whichever way you cut it. It's unpleasant to see a woman getting beaten to death. It's unpleasant when it's shot by a b-movie hack and it's unpleasant when it's shot by an Oscar winning auteur. It's unpleasant when the film is exploitative dreck and it's unpleasant when its artistic credentials are impeccable. I don't care.
*An occasional series devoted to those movies which make me pleased not to be trudging the critical treadmill any more; designed to illustrate the idea that we are all of us reviewing movies, all the time, even the ones we do not see.
— Inception (July 16th). Di Caprio, Nolan. The only big movie of 2010 that could conceivably fail and therefore due respect.
— Salt (July 23rd). Jolie, Phillip Noyce. Noyce was responsible for the bazooka ambush in Clear and Present Danger.
— Get Low (July 30). Murray, Duvall, Spacek. The Bill Murray Oscar, like the England World Cup win, continues to pull us in.
— The American (Sept 1). Clooney, Corbjin. Maybe a little to moody and magnificent from the trailer.
— The Town (Sept 17), Ben Affleck lightens up with Rebecca Hall
— The Social Network (Oct 1). Fincher, Sorkin. The Misanthrope meets Plays-Well-With-Others. I'm all ears.
— Hereafter (Oct 22). Clint's potentially daft metaphysical thriller w/ Matt Damon. Curious.
— Love and Other Drugs (Nov 24). Hathaway, Gyllenhaal, and Zwick carry my Oscar hopes.
— How Do You Know? (Dec 17th). James L Brooks, Nicholson, Witherspoon.
— Somewhere (Dec 22). Coppola, Dorff, Faning. Retread of Lost in Translation still looks lovely.
— True Grit (Dec 25th). Charles Portis's original novel given new life by the Coens w/ Bridges, Brolin, Damon. Hard to miss.
— Blue Valentine (Dec 25), Gosling, Williams, though it looks a little heavy with great acting
Jun 13, 2010
‘I have this nightmare where I push a super-market wagon across River street — macaroni and cold cuts — and am either run down by Roth in his Daimler or buzzed by Updike in a new flying machine,’ confided John Cheever once. When he died of kidney cancer, in 1982, he seemed to have put such fears to rest. Falconer was a bestseller; his Collected Stories had won him a Pulitzer; his obituary garnered front pages everywhere. At his funeral Updike called him the ‘leading fabulist of his generation’, while William Styron giddily proclaimed, ‘John Cheevers’s position in literary history is as immovably fixed as one of those huge granite outcroppings which loom over the green and sunlit terraces in the land of his own magic devising’. These days, the granite is looking a little chipped. Falconer and The Wapshot Chronicle struggle to stay in print, and the Collected Stories sell only 5,000 copies a year — not macaroni and cold cuts and no Daimler either. The writer who once eulogised the Sunday-night blues would seem to be suffering from the canonical equivalent of a hangover.
Blake Bailey’s 770-page John Cheever: A Life is both post-mortem and pick-me-up supper: after all the guests have gone home, a clear-eyed sift through the wreckage, to see what still stands. Bailey has a soft spot for suburban-agoniste writer-alcoholics; his last book was a biography of Richard Yates that helped spearhead a small revival of the Revolutionary Road author and drag him back into print. With his mantlepiece of trophies, Cheever would seem a far less deserving recipient of Bailey’s ministrations, although both writers, bizarrely, lived in the same house in Westchester at different points in their lives and both also provided the punchline to a joke on Seinfeld. In 1990, Yates was the inspiration for the character of Alton Benes, a great but neglected writer who sits stony-jawed through Jerry and George’s antics at dinner (‘Which one is the funny guy?’). A couple of years later, it was Cheever’s turn, for an episode entitled ‘The Cheever Letters’, in which George accidentally uncovers a trove of letters from Cheever to his new girlfriend’s father. (‘Dear Henry, Last night with you was bliss. I fear my orgasm has left me a cripple. I don’t know how I shall ever get back to work. I love you madly, John.’) Whatever else this tells us — that the spectacle of writer-drunks no longer commands the same awe it once did, that Seinfeld’s place in the canon is, at the time of writing, a little more assured than Cheever’s — it testifies to the length and breadth of the shock waves that greeted the publication of Cheever’s Journals. ‘I seem to be one of those singular old men who appear in summery reminiscences,’ he wrote. ‘Kind to dogs and children, jolly mostly, sometimes witty wearing old fashioned clothes with a moth hole here and there. That he hankers for the uncircumcised cock of the 14-year-old farmhand seems to be part of the picture.’ Except that it wasn’t part of the picture, not really, and it split Cheever’s readership neatly into two: those who welcomed this new candor and those who preferred his earlier, more charming stuff about cocktails and croquet mallets. Clearly, Bailey has no need to dish the dirt; what remains is to pull the old clod back together.
He does a magnificent job with the life, but then it would hard to bodge that. Whether ducking into the toilets of the Kremlin to down gin (‘Glug. Glug. Glug’), boasting of a new conquest at the dinner table (‘I suppose it is possible to love two women at once....’) or diving naked into the nearest pool, Cheever barrels through the pages of this book with ferocious, porcine energy. He was always his own greatest character, a glorious self-minted fake whose country squire image and plummy accent (‘Cheevah’) served to obliterate any inadequacy he felt about his humble background. The unwanted second child of a family brought low by the great depression Cheever’s father was a show salesman who went from golf-playing burgher to ‘a bronchitic and routed old man’ in the space of a few years, his mother running her bric-a-brac shop in Quincy Masachussetts with ‘maniacal élan’, in Bailey’s phrase. Like the rest of his family, Cheever was smitten with his athletic older brother, Fred, who would in later life was to develop a disastrous alcohol problem, and an abiding fascination with the Nazis. ‘While [Cheever] and Hitler fell out over the second world war and the holocaust,’ writes Bailey, in a footnote, with beautiful tartness, ‘Fred continued to find a certain validity to the man’s racial theories’.
As his biography of Yates made clear, Bailey is a very fine writer himself, as good as it gets when it comes to literary biography — sympathetic to the creative temperament without being overly-indulgent, keenly critical without being overbearing, and possessed of a sense of irony as delicate as smoke. I particularly liked his description of the origins of Yaddo, the artists’ colony where Cheever found intermittent sustenance over the years, founded by one Katrina Trask:
One day, walking with her husband, the woman had a vision: ‘Here will be a perpetual series of house parties — of literary men, literary women and other artists... look, Spencer, they are walking in the woods, wandering in the garden, sitting under the pine trees — men and women — creating, creating!’ The man saw her point and set up a nonprofit organisation to maintain the estate as a retreat for people usefully engaged in ??‘artistic and creative work’ but before the dream was realised, a freight train ran a red signal near Croton and smashed into Spencer Trask’s private car.
‘The man saw her point’ is the sort of thing to cheer you up on a rainy day, and that pay-off is worthy of Cheever, who for all his dying falls, never shied from the opportunity to bring things to a crisp conclusion (‘She shot him dead’).
An obnoxious, precious student, he dropped out of prep school, wrote up the experience in a story that was published in the New Republic, then pursued his fortunes East to New York, where he was soon winning over the New Yorker with his charcoal sketches of the city’s distaff middle-class, going about their business beneath a series of sooty twilights and the reproachful eyes of doormen. Their air of wan fatigue feels a little secondhand now, a throwback to the pre-Salinger age when writers sought to establish themselves, not as the pre-eminent voice of their generation, but rather by sounding even more fagged out than the previous generation. The stories ushered Cheever into the select band of authors who are called ‘the American Chekhov’ on a biannual basis, but they bear scant relation to the young man then running around lower Manhattan, availing himself of all the city had to offer: ‘I was ravening. I came all over the sheets, the Le Corbusier chair, the Matisse Lithograph and hit him under the chin.’ That’s Walker Evans, receiving a Cheeveresque induction into the twentieth-century hall of fame. Here, though, we encounter the knottiest of plot twists, for Cheever did not want to be a homosexual. He wanted to be a New England Gentleman who knew his way around a scythe and who exhorted his sons to realise they were Cheevahs. Such people were not, so far as he knew, homos; and so, one day, en route to going over some galleys in his agent’s office, he ran into a young woman in the elevator: pretty, about the right size. ‘That’s more or less what I would like,’ he thought. At which point the Cheever story crosses over from the sunny side of the street and trundles, headlong, into a fathomless pit of pain.
In his review of Bailey’s book in the New Yorker, John Updike called the Cheever marriage ‘criminal’. If so, it is hard to tell perp and victim apart, with both sides digging in for a war of attrition that lasted 41 years — less a marriage than an endlessly deferred divorce, with Cheever clinging to Mary as a drowning man clings to a life raft. ‘If I followed my instincts, I would be strangled by some hairy sailor I a public urinal,’ he wrote in his journal. ‘Every comely man, every bank clerk and delivery boy was aimed at my life like a loaded pistol.’ Such subterfuge may have been agony (‘wincing at every mention of homos’, he wrote after one drinks party) but Cheever’s ability to soak up pain is simply astonishing. Throw in the alcoholism and you have a man who, on any given day, gamely withstood the psychic equivalent of two impacted molars. There’s one moment when he tears the ligaments in his leg, and mere physical pain comes as a relief. Similarly, outbreaks of violence in the Cheever household had a strangely calming effect on him — a soothing recalibration of pressure, like an ear pop in a climbing plane. At one point, he drops his trousers to chase one of his daughter’s college friends around the sitting room, only to be apprehended by one of his sons. ‘When did you start wearing a red necktie?’ splutters Cheever. It tells you a lot that his son’s first thought was: ‘Why am I wearing a red necktie?’
In 1951, the family moved to Westchester, just outside New York, a land of rolling manorial lawns, swimming pools and mock-tudor mansions. ‘My God, the suburbs,’ he wrote, ‘They encircled the city’s boundaries like enemy territory and we thought of them as a loss of privacy, a cesspool of conformity and a life of indescribable dreariness in some split level village where the place name appeared in The New York Times when some bored housewife blew off her head with a shotgun.’ He initially planned a thorough ‘excoriation’ of the suburbs à la Sloan Wilson. And the moment he forgot that aim, everything fell into place. Here is the first sentence of his short story ‘O Youth and Beauty’:
At the tag end of nearly every long, large Saturday night party in the suburb of Shady Hill, when almost everybody who was going to play golf or tennis in the morning had gone hours ago and the ten or twelve people remaining seemed powerless to bring the evening to an end although the gin and whiskey were running low, and here and there a woman who was sitting with her husband would have begun to drink milk; when everybody had lost track of time, and the babysitters who were waiting at home for these diehards would have long stretched out on the sofa into a deep sleep, to dream about cooking-contest prizes, ocean voyages, and romance; when the bellicose drunk, the crapshooter, the pianist, and the woman faced with the expiration of her hopes had all expressed themselves; when every proposal — to go to the Farquarsons for breakfast, to go swimming, to go and wake up the Townsends, to go here and go there — died as soon as it was made, then Tracy Bearden would begin to chide Cash Bentley about his age and thinning hair.’
The subject is ennui, but the sentence could not to be more sprightly, winding its way through all those beached house guests before alighting, like a Hitchcock crane shot, on that flash of bared fang. Cheever compared good prose to ‘a walking figure, preferably young’, in which case he had found his feet. His move to the suburbs gave him more than just a subject, a world to explore and make his own, it gave him a tone — ebullient, wry, charming, blunt — like one of those dinner guests that arrive with a bunch of flowers and leaves a few hours later under a light nimbus of disgrace. At first glance, Cheever’s charm can be quite a shock. Few authors are served by their reputations, of course, but in Cheever’s case the disconnect is profound. People have him pegged as a suburban malcontent, sending up anguished howls against the stifling conventions of bourgeois conformity. They did the same thing to Yates, too, even though the harangues against the suburbs in Revolutionary Road were written as examples of Frank Wheeler’s lazy attitudinising. It seems to be one of the great unwritten assumptions of our age that any writer who writes about the suburbs must be against them, on some level, in much the same way that Miss World Contestants are against any meanies in the audience who stand in the way of world peace. You know who you are.
Here, though, is the biggest revelation of Bailey’s biography, not Cheever’s guiltiest secret by a long stretch, but the most interesting one: he was crazy about the suburbs, loved the natural beauty of the Hudson valley, and even — gasp – liked his neighbours. Is there no end to this man’s filth? If you really want to wreck the man’s reputation of course, you can do worse than The Wapshott Chronicle, the kind of book you’d leave out for a grandmother, as long as she doesn’t mind the odd ‘fuck’. Cheever’s first and best novel, a beautiful unicorn of a book, it bears zero resemblance to any book written by an American, within a 50-year radius. It was published in 1957, the same year as Norman Mailer’s The White Negro, although the two men might as well have been on different planets, Mailer swinging his way through the urban jungle, Cheever snugly ensconced in the fictional parish of St Butolph’s, a seeming paradise where the main activities appear to be fishing, sailing, and inhaling deeply of the ‘lemons, woodsmoke, roses and dust’ in the evening air. A few years earlier, Salinger’s Holden Caulfield had thumbed his nose at ‘all that David Copperfield kind of crap’, yet here was Cheever giving us a full rundown of the Wapshott family tree. In a few years time, Updike and Roth would be strapping on their masks and flippers and diving beneath the bed sheets; and here was crusty old Leander Wapshott, soldiering briskly through his journal: ‘Voided bladder so many times, brushed teeth so many times; visited Chardon street fancy house so many times. Who cares? Much modern fiction distasteful to writer because of above.’
Soon to be ejected from this Eden are two brothers: Moses, a strapping lad ‘with the gift of judicious and tranquil self-admiration’, and his more effeminate brother, Coverley, ‘one of those men who labor under a preternaturally large sense of guilt that, like some enormous bruise, could be carried painlessly until it was touched’. A version of Cheever’s own fond, fractious fraternal jousting, then, with the two brothers in a race to fulfill the terms of their aunt Honora’s will and produce a male heir. It sounds like the sort of thing that put lead in Fielding’s pencil — indeed, we get skinny-dipping, a shipwreck, a bare-assed flight across the ramparts of a castle at night — but it’s Fielding rewritten in the age of Freud, with the sense of fecklessness gone, and in its place all manner of furtive lusts and fleshy regrets: ‘He watched this gleaming Susanna, shamefaced, his dream of simple pleasure replaced by some sadness, some heaviness that seemed to make his mouth taste of blood and his teeth ache.’ And there you have The Wapshott Chronicle, the world’s first guilt-ridden picaresque. The book’s tone is a thing of wonder, catching this earthly paradise at the precise moment it starts to deliquesce, like over-ripe fruit. Two hundred pages later and you’re still not sure if you’ve read one of those chronicles of fondly-forgiven family foible, or been dunked in the Wapshott’s septic tank.
Cheever held that balance for only one full-length work. The sequel, The Wapshott Scandal, published in 1964, would find Aunt Honora hounded by the IRS, while the rest of the family sink into alcoholism, promiscuity and suicide, and the loutish neighbours pick fights over garbage cans. The amber glow that enveloped Cheever’s earlier work had turned radioactive, as missiles launch in the distance. The derangement continued with 1968’s Bullet Park, in which Cheever returned to suburbia to find the garbage spilling onto lawns, the septic tanks backed up, and a plot that is out to lunch: a man named Hammer decides to murder his neighbour, a mouthwash salesman named Nailles. I know, I know: hammer and nails. Things really are that simple, I’m afraid. Hammer is a seething malcontent with a bitch of a wife, who stalks the neighbourhood under his own personal stormcloud (‘Damn their hypocrisy, damn their cant, damn their credit cards’). Nailles, on the other hand, is a happy moron, happy in his work advertising a mouthwash called Spang, and blissfully devoted to his wife: ‘Nailles loved Nellie. If he had a manifest destiny it was to love Nellie. Should Nellie die he might immolate himself on her pyre, although the thought that Nellie might die had never occurred to him.’ This is ugly stuff: the work of a man snarling at sunlight. Other people’s happiness was always as baffling to Cheever as a piece of moonrock to a monkey, of course. There’s an early short story of his, ‘The Worm in the Apple’, about a family so outwardly perfect that the narrator, their neighbour, is forced into ever greater contortions of speculation — is he impotent? Is she frigid? — but no, they remain stubbornly happy and content: ‘they got richer and richer and lived happily, happily happily.’
That note of cosmic facetiousness, is sounded relentlessly in ‘Bullet Park’, which ends ‘Everything was as wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful as it had been’. The self-parody was predictive, as it always is with writer drunks. No one versed in the later output of Hemingway or Faulkner can fail to track the precipitous drop of Cheever’s novels, or read the shorter fiction he produced in the 60s, with its frets, fevers, and liverish sense of doom, and not feel the effects of the two pints of gin Cheever was downing every day. Even Frederick Exley was impressed with Cheever’s intake, which is a bit like The Grim Reaper complimenting you on your scything skills. The two writers were both teaching at Iowa University when one morning, Cheever awoke to find himself suffocating. He tried quaffing scotch and smoking a few cigarettes for relief, and was then rushed to the emergency room where the doctors found his lungs filling with blood — one more drink or cigarette and he would probably have died.
Naturally, he still had another three years of drinking to go. Finally admitted to the Smithers Institute on Manhattan’s upper east side in the summer of 1974, he shared a room with a sailor, a delicatessen owner and a male ballerina, and spent much of his time giggling to himself and correcting everyone’s grammar. His counsellors saw right through the little Lord Fauntleroy act. ‘He dislikes seeing self negatively and seems to have internalized many rather imperious upper class Boston attitudes which he ridicules and embraces at the same time’, they noted, in one of the more damning piecess of literary criticism he ever received. ‘Press him to deal with his own humanity.’
And that is what happened, at least according to one version of events. Cheever got sober, finished his prison-and-addiction novel, Falconer at a gallop, saw it become a surprise bestseller, repaired much of the damage he had done to his family, and lived out his remaining years in relative contentment, watching Poldark, swimming and scything. But he was also chronically lonely and his last book, Oh What A Paradise It Seems, was a wispy, low-wattage affair, soon blown out of the water by the posthumous publication of the Journals, with their portrait of the Artist as Ageing Reptile. The damage done to Cheever was two-fold: for the Book-of-the-month club it was the admissions about his homosexuality. For everyone else, it was the fact that he had so miserably hidden it. American literary reputations can soak up pretty much anything— alcoholism, addiction, barfights, shooting your wife — but furtive, agonised sexual repression is another matter. For one thing, it’s un-American. The one book the Cheever oeuvre most notably lacks, in fact, is one of those big, balls-out, ‘I-am-An-American-Chicago-born’ novels that swings into orbit around a single authorial alter ego — a Rabbit, a Herzog, a Zuckerman, a Holden Caulfield — while the secondary characters run for cover. ‘I lack for only two things,’ Cheever once said, ‘A necktie and a sense of self’. His fiction is probably the least autobiographical of any writer of his generation, his adolescence taking twenty-odd years to show up in The Wapshott Chronicle, and even then with a thick shellac of nostalgia that now cries out to be cracked, like a code. Many of Cheever’s characters are hounded by secrets or nurse guilt over some nameless crime; now that we can put a name to it, the air of velvet intrigue evaporates, like mist. What are we to make, for instance, of the chapter which begins, ‘And now we come to the unsavory or homosexual part of our tale and any disinterested reader is encouraged to skip’? What are we to make of any of the cruel, frigid wives in Cheever’s work, none of whom make the slightest sense until we come across the sight of Mary Cheever, the sheets clamped tight under her armpits in Bailey’s biography.
Cheever has become an author hemmed in by his rosebuds, in other words, his journals more read than his novels, his novels the hunting ground for literary sleuths — an object of our pity, the most poisonous emotion for any author. I’m not sure Bailey does much to change this. He certainly understands him far better than his previous biographer, Scott Donaldson, and certainly better than Cheever himself, although that wouldn’t be hard. ‘He simply never faced himself or when he did he didn’t like what he saw,’ one friend tells Bailey. ‘And nothing relieved him.’ The portrait that emerges is of a man in constant flight from himself, trailing big beautiful vapor clouds of evasion. Little wonder, perhaps, that Bailey is able to make a convincing case for Cheever as more fabulist than realist, ‘disseassembling and reassembling American naturalist fiction, thereby paving the way for the experimentation of the late 60s and 70s’ in the words of Rick Moody. Certainly, its hard to read ‘The Enormous Radio’ (in which a married couple find their radio tuning into the sounds of their neighbours’ apartments) and not realise that Cheever was a far stranger writer than is commonly understood, much preoccupied with obsessive, altered states, and perpendicular plots, like that of The Country Husband, in which a man survives a plane crash, only to find his family too preoccupied to pay attention (“Daddy was in a plane crash this afternoon, Toby. Don’t you want to hear about it?”). Your best bet is still the stories he wrote in the 1950s — ‘Goodbye, My Brother’, ‘O Youth and Beauty!’ ‘The Day the Pig Fell Into the Well’, ‘The House Breaker of Shady Hill’, ‘The Swimmer’ — written in the first flush of his move to Westchester, when he was just beginning to let his imagination out after dark, prowling the neighbourhood like a cat-burglar, or a drunken husband finding his way home. I hate to say it but posterity would seem to have him about right. Cheever’s novels are flighty affairs, filmy and opaque, which leave his solipsism cruelly exposed, but turn back to the short stories and you find him merrily lapping himself, like a champ.
Jun 12, 2010
"Being Anglo-American is not like being, say, Anglo-German or Russian-American. It's not overtly divisive. Wars between my two nations come along very rarely; there is a probably unhealthy degree of agreement over foreign policy; and sporting events (a proxy for war) are rarely significant enough to cause major trauma. Each country dwells in a sphere of sporting influence (baseball and gridiron; football and cricket) that never really overlaps with the other...I'd like to think I can support both teams, enjoying the spectacle without regressing to the binary thinking that evolutionary biologists have identified as one of the triggers of genocide. I'll be serene and Corinthian about it, like the Queen watching the Commonwealth games. Except I know I won't be. In my heart, I'm 90% certain that I'll end up supporting the losing side, whoever that is. It's going to be hard to love a triumphant Eng-er-lund, and equally hard to feel that the world's last remaining superpower needs success in yet another field.' — Marcel Theroux, The GaurdianMy friend Marcel in the Gaurdian the other day. I don't feel quite as torn. It would be interesting and chastening to see the US beat England — a fulfillment of morbid expectations — but there's no question in my mind that I don't want it to happen. I've become more patriotic since moving here, at least when it comes to sporting events, and have grown surprisingly fond of Europe: the differences between the French and the Germans and Greeks and the Turks, from this distance, seems like mere Lilliputian squabbling. America has shrunk my distances, highlighted submarine affinities with fellow Euros: I am just as delighted to meet an Italian or a Frenchman in New York as I am a Brit, if not more so; and when it comes to the World Cup, I find it easy to switch sides once England have taken their bow from the tournament, in traditional fashion — on penalties after half an hour of extra time against a technically superior Latin side they have somehow managed to hold to a draw. Holland and Sweden are perennially popular in my house, and I will be happy to cheer on the Italians and the Spanish. I'm not sold, though, on the latest ads they're hoping to beguile American viewers: “It only takes 90 minutes for your world to change". I'd never thought about it before but football does have brevity on its side, being certainly shorter than your average baseball or American football game. Still, that sales pitch can't but sound a little forlorn to me: it'll be over soon.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 3, 2010
"I hate to see movies flop, even bad movies, like "Sex and the City 2" and "Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time," which both had deservedly awful openings over the Memorial Day weekend." — L.A.TimesI guess that makes the L.A.Times an industry newspaper, but I find that sentiment anathema: I love it when bad movies fail, and not just because I am a Big Blue Meanie. It doesn't happen nearly enough. Few developments in Hollywoood have been more chilling than the near disappearance of the box-office flop. The Golden Compass? It made $372 million. Godzilla? $243 million. Waterworld? It made $264 million. Last Action Hero? $137 million. Hollywood's flops these days tend to be resolutely unheroic, anonymous specimens. Anyone remember, let alone see, The Alamo, Speed Racer, Stealth, The Majestic? Maybe only Gigli and Battlefield Earth have anything like the negative charisma, the true inverted stature, of a bona fide turkey, and no studio has had its existence threatened by a flop, Heaven's-Gate-fashion since, well, Heaven's Gate. It's one of the reasons there are so many bad movies out there: Hollywood's one vital pipeline of reliable information about what movies we like has been corrupted. In the old days it was simple: it was the movies the most people went to see in the theatre. That was the way we voted. That was the way we got our voices heard. These days, our vote is fragmented, our approval atomised. Not all approval registers are equal: the effort required to go the cinema and shell out money for a movie ticket is incrementally greater than the effort required not to turn off that movie when it comes on TV. But 'not turning off the movie when it comes on TV', when multiplied a millionfold, and repeated in enough countries, adds up to a healthy revenue source to make money back from even the lowest dreck. To take this year's "disappointment": Prince of Persia may have been a dud at the American box office, but by the time it's completed it's lap of the globe, sold to cable, released on DVD, turned back into a videogame, and been otherwise synergised up the kazoo, it will almost certainly make a profit. (Persia is already doing just fine overseas, thank you very much). Think about that. In the old days, it would have sunk without trace. Modern Hollywood has managed to almost eliminate a certain strata of failure. And the result? A dimming of the top register of success. It pays to muddle about in the middle. A world in which movies like Prince of Persia make money lacks the economic and creative spur for filmmakers to makes movies that are any better than Prince of Persia. Nobody makes bad movies deliberately; they make bad movies because their information about what the audience wants is bad. And that information has never been as bad as it is right now.
“I’ve been led to believe by someone I won’t name that they will ask me and I will consider it. I always assumed they'd go with a young actor. What I remember is there were 18 locations, including New Zealand, and for me, it isn't so much the acting as it is the travel and the waiting. I started in movies in 1963 and the first big one was Rosemary's Baby in 1967. While you don't notice it right away, it finally dawns on you that 80% of the time, you're doing nothing. Where I am right now, trying to get people out of prison and get laws changed, it is a funny twist that Bob De Niro’s once again trying to put an innocent man in prison, while I am trying to get them out." — Charles Grodin on the news that he may return to the screen in Midnight Run 2