by Edward Champion

Ridley Scott’s “Monopoly”

Hollywood Reporter: “And Ridley Scott, who has been attached as a producer on ‘Monopoly’ and has been mentioned as a possible director, is now officially attached to helm the project, with an eye toward giving it a futuristic sheen along the lines of his iconic ‘Blade Runner.'”


EXT. BOARDWALK – NIGHT

Plumes of gratuitous atmospheric smoke drift across the boardwalk. Lots of blue light. The steely blue that Ridley always likes. Needlessly quick cutting from Pietro.

Two gigantic white dice TUMBLE to us from the distance, VIOLENTLY DEMOLISHING all bright red houses in its path! ATLANTIC CITY RESIDENTS run furiously towards us. Many are destroyed by the enormous dice. Much blood.

A LOUD ENGINE! CAR roars into the Boardwalk.

CAR
Yo bitches! My ass pulled in from Pennsylvania Avenue. I rolled a seven, motherfucker. How you like me now?

Rampant BARKING. A LARGE HAND materializes from above, placing DAWG next to the Car.

CAR
Don’t you dare, Dawg. Just bought this place for four hundred George Washingtons. I do believe you owe me $50. Best you pay me now before I improve this property or the hand flips the board.
DAWG
I own Park Place.

Car whips out his Jericho 941 pistol and points it at Dawg.

CAR
Where’s your deed card, motherfucker? I own Park Place. Now I got no problem with you showin’ up in court tomorrow with your head blown in half.
DAWG
Get in line. I own four railroads, two utilities, and you best believe I be owning Park Place.

Car shoots Dawg four times with his Jericho 941.

CAR
Take that, motherfucker. You won’t be collecting $200 anytime soon.

by Edward Champion

Roundup

  • Michael Dolan offers some helpful hints on how to manage the deranged beast commonly referred to as the email inbox. My own email habits involve going through a mad tear once every two or three days, often sorting by name and subject line, and getting it down to under 10 messages. You’re more inclined to get an answer from me through the edrants address than the Yahoo address; the latter is largely a backup email account. But I also enjoy watching the email accrue over a number of days, marveling at the way in which a triple digit inbox transmogrifies into a single digit through preternatural prolificity. Much of this is quite random and playfully anarchic. And you will sometimes hear back from me in minutes; other times, it may be a few weeks. Email only represents a tyranny to anyone terrified by the bountiful possibilities of communicative life or the deranged verbal manner in which one can connect with other people. If someone has a request, and it isn’t a boilerplate email addressed “Dear Reviewer” or “Dear Ms. Champion,” I will offer a yes or a no within a day or two. I certainly don’t like saying no, or even remaining uncommitted, but if another person has gone to the trouble to ask me about something, I feel that the professional thing to do is to be as honest as I can. If someone has taken the time to write to me personally, I feel that it is my duty to write them back, even if I can only answer with a few sentences. The inbox will indeed mushroom again, but I suppose that the only reason I’m able to keep up is because I type 110 wpm. (via The Book Publicity Blog)
  • I am now on page 18 of 2666.
  • Page numbers for other books I am currently in the middle of reading: 11, 133, 131, and 221. I have attempted to cut back on the number of books I read concurrently. Five books is actually a considerably small number. Only two months ago, I was reading twenty-two books simultaneously. How many books are you in the middle of reading? And what are the page numbers?
  • Hart Williams chronicles how his causal coinage (“Linda syndrome”) made its way into numerous articles.
  • Moby Lives points to what Chip McGrath has misidentified as “a small flare-up in the blogosphere.” The controversy involves whether or not Peter Matthiessen’s Shadow Country, by way of being a mammoth reworking of three previously published novels, is a legitimate National Book Awards nomination. Considering that The Collected Stories of William Faulkner won a Fiction Award in 1951 and Janet Flanner’s Paris Journal, 1944-1965 picked up an Arts and Letters prize in 1966, there was certainly no hue and cry from this blogger. These two previous wins established a clear precedent for recognizing books that contained previous material. But to ensure that Mr. McGrath regrets his error, it must be noted that the controversy was also promulgated by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (October 19: “Does that reworking really constitute an ‘original novel?'”). If anything, it appears that the hemorrhoidal “flare-up” has been instigated by Mr. McGrath himself.
  • A public congratulations to Nam Le for winning the well-deserved Dylan Thomas Prize.
  • It’s more than ten good goddams longer than your shopping list, but the IMPAC longlist is now up.
  • I love how Rush is desperately reframing the current economic crisis as an “Obama recession” when Obama has yet to occupy the Oval Office. The time has come to blame Obama for everything. There is no flying car. Obama’s fault! Bars that use narrow glasses suggesting the appearance of a pint, or that employ bartenders who fill up a glass two-thirds of the way. Obama’s responsible for that too! Every personal inadequacy can be firmly directed towards Obama. You can’t finish 2666 in the next two weeks? Those aren’t your inadequacies, brother. It’s Obama all the way. You feel a tingly sensation in your leg? Obama. You couldn’t get laid last night? Obama Obama Obama. (via Erin O’Brien)
by Edward Champion

Novel 2.0

Reports of the Web’s harmful effects upon reading habits have been greatly overstated. Two recent online projects sufficiently demonstrate that we’re only just beginning to understand what the Web can do. The first is Power Moby Dick, an online depiction of Melville’s classic novel with often very helpful annotations on the side. (The annotations resemble the colored box version of David Foster Wallace’s “Host.”) The second is The Golden Notebook Project (via), in which Doris Lessing’s novel is online and searchable. Over five to six weeks, seven critics are providing side comments for the respective pages: a form somewhere between Power Moby Dick and the many roundtable literary discussions that can be found around the Web. There is also a forum, although it appears that nobody aside from the Magnificent Seven has left comments.

I’m wondering, however, if we can’t see these dynamic experiments go further. I would be very interested in seeing the Golden project provide a place for every published thought on every particular line in that novel. Perhaps there might be a way to track words and references used by earlier writers and carried on by later writers. There could be a better implementation of the forum through a wiki, in which various readers could offer additional questions in a separate accessible area. With RSS feeds, perhaps someone with a Kindle or a Sony Reader might download the latest central version with annotations.

As I observed a few days ago, it’s fantastic that nearly all the books of yesteryear are available in some form online. But I don’t think we’re being ambitious enough. If text is scannable and searchable, then the door needs to be opened for how the reader, both common and academic, can access and annotate the text. Perhaps government funding might be put into place to hire literary experts around the nation to preserve specific literary works, perform research, and annotate them for the public. (I observe that the MacArthur Foundation has provided pivotal funding for The Golden Notebook.) What amazes me in particular about these two online projects is how neither detracts from the author-reader relationship. They respect that exclusive relationship, while accounting for the additional relationships which spring up between other readers. What we have here is an opportunity to reinvigorate the novel, to expand the audience, and to live up to the helpful hypertextual ideas advocated by Robert Coover.

by Edward Champion

2666

It is certainly true that I have tendered a certain suspicion to those who soften themselves before Roberto Bolaño’s sunshine without seeking a critical shade. I have dutifully set aside 2666 as a tome to be entombed with me during Thanksgiving. Some have been overly content to deify Bolaño or suggest that he is the Messiah. (The phrase “more popular than Jesus” comes to mind, although Lorin Stein, quite surprisingly, did not plan for the hype last week.) Some, naturally suspicious of this literary worth, have given voice to softly muttered suspicions.

As for me, I do not have an opinion either way. Not until I’ve read all 900 pages. So you may hear from me on the subject in early December (or before!). Extraordinary proof, however, requires extraordinary evidence.