- OGIC on Aguirre: The Wrath of God.
- The Australian‘s book coverage ain’t bad these days. Recently, they enlisted a number of writers to mention what they’re currently reading.
- Book critics are rated at Time Out. I’ll go further than my colleague Scott Esposito and suggest that any list which seriously considers Michiko Kakutani’s venomous tirades and Janet Maslin’s “Well, good golly, I read a book this summer!” reviews is worthless. And where, pray tell, is James Wood?
- It appears Malcolm Gladwell has follicle competition from
Chris EatonGeorges Perec. Aside from this pedantic and wholly unnecessary observation, Eaton appears to be a writer to check out. - Jack Shafer and Amardeep Singh offer contrarian views on the McEwan/Andrews flap.
Is there any real reason to revisit Home Alone? Bad enough that this treacly nonsense launched the career of Macaulay Culkin and gave that sentimental hack Chris Columbus a second wind, steering him into the wholesale corruption of Harry Potter. But Home Alone also signified screenwriter John Hughes’ total capitulation into commercial family film fare of the lowest common denominator. Look at the list of films Hughes wrote after Home Alone: Beethoven (under a pseudonym), Dennis the Menace, Baby’s Day Out, and remakes of Miracle on 34th Street, 101 Dalmatians and Flubber. All of these scripts came from a man who desired a summer retreat at Nassau more than a desire to entertain. Imagine a parallel universe in which John Hughes continued writing comedies along the lines of Planes, Trains & Automobiles and the underrated She’s Having a Baby, not letting the lackluster reception of She’s Having a Baby get in the way. Hughes, dare I say it, could have been a fiercely independent populist. But he opted out. And it’s no surprise that Kevin Smith filled in the gap.- The year’s most notable newspaper corrections.
- Editor & Publisher compares the NYT and Post responses to Pinochet’s death.
- Sacha Baron Cohen as Best Actor? The critics in my town are often a bit batty, but this choice is a bit silly in a year that featured Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson.
- Who knew that Mary Todd Lincoln’s cake holds all the answers for historical novelists?
- In a perfect universe, Jonathan Ames, George Saunders, and Lydia Millet would be writing episodes for a groundbreaking Comedy Central series, drawing larger audiences to their often hilarious bodies of work. But since we live in a cruel and unfair universe where the spoils often go to no-talent, misogynist thugs, it is, of course, Tucker Max who yields the glory. (via Slushpile)
- Michael Moorcock on Against the Day. (via The Dizzies)
- Overrated and underrated books of the year. Which brings up another point. There was considerable excitement about David Mitchell’s Black Swan Green early this year, but it appears that the end-of-the-year listmakers have forgotten about it. What happened? Or are the critics’ memories too fickle? The only lists I’ve seen BSG on are Mr. Sarvas’ and Mr. Orthofer’s.
- Aw man. Peter Boyle has died.
- Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. But I’m a big fan of the brass balls cultural declaration. Spencer Somers believes that “Sufjan Stevens is the closest thing this generation has to a Brian Wilson.” (via LHB)
The “It’s Getting Close to Xmas and My Corpus Wanes” Roundup
– December 13, 2006Posted in: Roundup
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Does that mean Somers thinks Stevens is a brilliant songwriter? Or just batshit loony?
That’s Georges Perec you’re looking at, not Chris Eaton.
The most recent incarnation (White Bread Black Beer 2006) of Scritti Politti (Green Gartside) is the closest thing this generation has to Brian Wilson.
The George Perec mix-up was my fault. I have this mysterious inability to label pictures on my site. Hyperlinking laziness, more than anything.
have you seen george saunder’s great column in the new yorker?
hilarious…
http://www.newyorker.com/shouts/content/articles/061218sh_shouts