Thoughts about Christmas: An Op-ed

Somethings about life are unchanging. The seasons, for instance. They change, but the they only change in a cycle. So long as you live in a temperate, northerly neck of woods, you can always count on the cyclical change of atmospheric pressure. The weather gets cold, then it warms-up, then it gets hot, then cools-off again, and finally plummets back into the soul-murdering fridge of January. 

Such is the Christmas season. It comes... it goes... but it always comes back. Black Friday comes and America's shopping hordes flock to the stores where the yearly ritual of blood lust, deals on crap, and man's cruelty towards man is carried-out. We raise our synthetic trees. We festoon our homes with lights. Some are less a display and more of an explosion. We indulge in food and liquor to the limit of diabetic shock, knowing but not caring how much our asses will shake come January. We buy, and spend, and wrap, and stack beneath our trees. We give to and receive from the one's we love. That's if we have one's to love. And finally we reach that New Year, and the grey, cold morning hung-over and pickled. That day of anxious despair before we must face the cold doom of a new year... the future. 

When I was a child, the entire season was one of pleasure and anticipation. But as I grew older and found that most of what I loved most about the holiday was mostly a series of lies, I had to face the reality of Christmas for adults. That absence of magic. That emptiness. I was nine. Now I have only to find pleasure in the chores of the season. Hanging the lights. Putting the tree together. Listening to the sounds of the season. My favorite is the Phil Spector Christmas album. Indulging in the treats made by loved one. That's some mighty find fudge packing, Kim. And finally watching my programs. My two favorite Christmas flicks have to be "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and "A Christmas Story"... and maybe the "A Christmas Carol" starring George C. Scott.

Something about "A Charlie Brown Christmas" has always struck me. Perhaps the five-and-dime animation, or the wry humor, or maybe just the story of poor Charlie Brown trying to find meaning the holiday that every year seems to have less and less. I identify with Charlie Brown. I was the same way as a kid. I was too smart for my age and not particularly good at anything. It robbed me of a lot of happiness. Then again, I'm still that way as an adult. So what the fuck, life? Throw me a bone. Or at least my own Christmas special.

A Christmas Story... I fell in love with it from the time I first saw it. I think Jean Shepherd captured something about life that nobody before and probably since has been able to. I remember what it was like to be a kid... to want something THAT badly and to face the probability of failure at every turn. Poor Ralphie Parker, he could never catch a break. But he did get that gun, and he did almost shoot his eye out. As is life. The man who got what he wanted had it blow-up in his face. But he also got to enjoy Chinese duck. 

Perhaps that's what the season is all about. No matter how shitty your year has been - and as you get older, they usually get shittier - so long as you have warmth, and people, and some chinks on the table, your holiday is everything it needs to be. 

Tom G Reads: Legion

Recently, I read William Peter Blatty's "Legion". Or, maybe not read it... I devoured it; cover-to- cover, every page, in order, word-for-word. That's the sign of love in my reading experience. I don't finish most of the books I start, and rarely do I read them with so much enthusiasm and commitment. Very often, I read them out of order... perhaps it's an un-diagnosed dyslexia?  But Legion was too good. Blatty made it too easy to read this novel and to love every minute of reading this novel.

"Legion" is the sequel to Blatty's 1971 best-seller "The Exorcist". Originally, "Legion" was written as a treatment for a movie sometime in the late-1970's. The movie, however, did not come to fruition then and so Blatty reworked it as a novel. "Legion", the novel, was published in 1983, and I've had to privilege of reading a 1983 print of the book.

Set in the Georgetown area of Washington D.C., Legion centers around Lieutenant William Kinderman, the supercilious, wry homicide detective from "The Exorcist", as he investigates a string of bizarre murders fitting the MO of a long-dead serial killer, explores the nature of evil and divinity, and finds that he is dangerously close to the homicides.

Like almost all of his work, both in film and literature, William Peter Blatty injects a wry wit and dark humor into this work, which, like "The Exorcist" is filled with the most entertaining, enlightening, and engulfing conversations between some very believable characters. One can tell that Blatty knows the setting and content well and he treads them with an abundance of verisimilitude. He manages to make the most far-out plot totally convincing. You can feel the cold of March. You can feel the damp weariness of these characters. You can picture the pale, ambient light of colorless hospital corridors. You can picture shadowy, oak paneled Catholic spaces.

There is, however a very surreal quality to Legion that I enjoyed thoroughly. Like "The Exorcist", Blatty takes the reader to the edge of a dark and bottomless chasm and lets us peer in. The corridors of the book's hospital are stalked by something of a malevolent nature. Like the demon from "The Exorcist", this specters watches... it sees... it prays.  It sees the inner world of those who confront it and uses it like a weapon and a sign. It inhabits the shattered and uses the useless at a weapon. But like The Exorcist, Blatty never confirms or denies or suspicions. He tells us what we wan to hear but plants seeds of doubt in our mind, He lets us look into the abyss and judge for ourselves.

As much as I love this book, and would read it to my kids before bedtime... if I had kids... I must say that I feel that the plot is a little unbalanced. The antagonist of the book is only really revealed to us in the last quarter of novel. He's not even hinted-at before then. There is only an unknown entity that may or may-not be human committing this series of ritualized murders. Blatty just sort-of drops the reveal on us out of nowhere. And while I understand the need to build mystery and suspense behind the reveal, I feel that it doesn't work as well in a book as it might in a short-story or a film.

Given all, I must say that I recommend "Legion" to anybody looking to read a solid, well-written, dark, intelligent novel. As a writer, I highly respect Blatty's use of the medium. He doesn't describe every little thing. He explores the unknown and the unknowable and forces us to face it ourselves. He forces us to turn-on our minds, our imaginations, and our hearts.

Tom G Reviews: Silent Hill 2

Happy Halloween, Peeps and Peepettes. It's that time of the years once again. When the dark crap I immerse myself in all year long is actually seasonable instead of just morbid. This time we're doing something different. This time we're looking at a video game.

Now, I'm by no means ANY kind expert when it come to video games. But I've played them and I enjoy the one's that I enjoy. I also no a thing-or-two about horror and psychology. Not that I'm any kind of expert. Tonight's creeping journey into darkness is a 2001 game that combines the three in what can possibly be considered one of the best horror games thus far. Tonight, we'll be looking at "Silent Hill 2".

Produced by Konami, "Silent Hill 2" follows protagonist, James Sunderland, as he follows the trail of a mysterious letter written by his now deceased wife across and into the heart of Silent Hill, an abandoned, fog-blanketed American Town. You play as James, finding clues, solving puzzles, and surviving the many grizzly manifestations that infest Silent Hill. As you progress and as you go deeper... literally... the story of James and why he had come here unravels.

Silent Hill 2 is the follow-up to 1999's "Silent Hill". And while I've never played the first game, I've seen enough of it to know that the sequel takes what worked about the first game and brought it to another level. And while it lacks action, Silent Hill 2 more than makes-up for it in atmosphere, story, character development, and a sheer psychological plunge. The Silent Hill series is notable for its use of surrealism and psychological manipulation. Silent Hill is very much a reflection of the protagonist in each game. The environments and the ghouls that inhabit them are arguably more figurative than "real".

The Silent Hill of Silent Hill 2 is James Sunderland. Instead of exploring a tangible place, he is exploring himself and his reason for being there. From a vacant apartment building to a blood-splattered hospital and even into the depths of a nightmarish labyrinth... into the maw of hell itself, the darkness you (James) will encounter is the darkest imaginable. James will face an abyss where he'll see nothing but himself.

Silent Hill 2 is also noteworthy because of its antagonists. Creative, grizzly, surreal, and disturbing, Silent Hill 2's cast of ghouls and spunkies ranges from a chubby glutton on a hair-trigger to the most menacing manifestations of sexual frustration, guilt, and violence.

Silent Hill 2 does the same thing that the franchise is renowned for and that very few video games will do or do successfully. Silent Hill 2 obliterates the line between real and unreal. Does James explore a forgotten place or does he explore a dreamscape? Are those he encounter real, or are they just memories of the past? Is the terror he faces a threat, or is it no more than a reflection of himself?

Silent Hill goes to the very core of horror. To the genre's atomic structure. No place is scarier than that place inside the self.

Japanese Happiness Soup

Robin Williams died recently. He committed suicide in his home, alone, he was 63 years old. At least that's the word on the news. Apparently he struggled for years and years with addiction, he also struggled with depression... probably for much longer. One could always picture him doing himself in. He was the type, after-all; a blazingly intelligent, manically comedic, tremendously talented performer who could conjure hilarity and heartbreak in the same role. There was a humanity in his performances that nobody could ever fake, not even himself. A humanity that only comes from within. In interviews with the likes of James Lipton and others, one could tell that Robin Williams struggled to fake a kind of Hollywood superficiality. He was a real person, even when he played a role.

Robin Williams ended his life as so many comedians do, either intentionally or not. It's been speculated that Laughter is mankind's original coping mechanism. So what does that say about comedy? What pain and insecurity can drive comedy, especially when it becomes a person's career? What happens when you can't laugh anymore? Where does the funnyman find solace? Where he find cover from him, or her, self? The late John Belushi probably fell victim to the same. He was a master of laughs but could not cope with himself, so he found shelter in excess that ultimately killed him. Ironically enough, Robin Williams (a close friend of Belushi) was one of the last people see him alive on that day in 1982. John Belushi's death supposedly convinced him to go cold turkey and fight-on, which he did until Monday.

Contrary to popular belief, suicide is not a short-term crisis. Normally the idea sparks many years in advance and as one grows older and rambles on through life it either diminishes or blossoms and grows up the walls of the heart and mind and becomes realer and realer. In short, people seldom commit suicide because of one bout of depression or one major letdown. It's a long build-up of a lot of little things. Little disappointments, little addictions, little things that people say, the sun growing a little dimmer everyday. Most likely, the pain and disillusion that made Robin Williams so brilliantly funny and so humane both on stage and in life is most certainly what he could no longer handle.

According to the latest statistics, Lithuania has the highest rate of suicide in world at 28.6 cases per 100,000 people. South Korea is second at 26.3 cases per 100,000 people. China and India beat-out Japan. Of course Japan is the best known country for suicide. Aokigahara, or "Suicide Forest", is a 30-odd kilometer expanse of forest at the base of Mount Fuji known as a hot spot for suicides. People go in and never come out. It's a problem that the Japanese seldom address, either because they consider suicide a legitimate way out or because it is simply too negative to think about. Japanese thinking strives towards happiness. Suicide isn't happy.

All anyone can do is talk about it. Unlike the advice of certain doctors named Phil, nobody can stop a suicide. There's no jumping into action, family intervention, or breakthrough moments. People will do as they will do, for better or for worse. All we can do is talk about it, and think about it, and talk about it some more. All we can do for those who struggle is to be there and to listen. All we can do is remember the laughs they left us with.

Jimmy Hoffa, the Mafia, and Morbid Curiosity...

It's been 39 years since Teamster Union Leader and folk anti-hero, Jimmy Hoffa, went missing. It was a balmy summer day in 1975 when Jimmy Hoffa told his wife that he was going to meet a friend at a Detroit area restaurant, got into his Pontiac Grand Ville, drove off and was never seen again. It's one of the most famous missing person cases in the history of the world.

Now, he was most definitely murdered by enemies... or possibly friends... among the nefarious and notorious cast of characters whom he had developed ties with over many, many years in the labor movement. There are a million theories as to who killed him, why he was killed, how he was killed, where the body is or isn't, and some speculate that he wasn't killed at all. Some theories make more sense than others, and many make no sense at all. A death scenario was portrayed in Danny DeVito's 1992 film, "Hoffa", in which he is killed in this extremely elaborate plot involving, ironically, a semi truck. Now while it was well shot and interesting to watch, Hoffa's death was most likely FAR less poetic.

Over the many decades, a number of Teamster officials have been murdered and disappeared, but none have gained the attention that Hoffa's death has. There was something about Jimmy Hoffa -- who had gone to federal prison and upon his release found that he had been ousted by his own following -- that fascinated people, and his death tantalizes, even to this day, that dark place in the psyche. This, despite the fact that if we knew how he died, we would probably be repulsed.

Part of Hoffa's legend, aside from the fact that he broke heads on the picket lines and faced-off against Prince Kennedy, is that he played with demons. He had ties to organized crime syndicates. His legend is part of the larger, greater myth. That myth of bootleggers and silk-suit clad urban bandits... the Mafia. There's a morbid place in our psyche that attracts us to the idea of the Mafia, despite that is really is -- if it ever really existed -- less "The Godfather" and more of a twisted urban feudalism. The idea of living beyond normal society and its rules is a turn-on for some. A social order driven by personal relationships and money, and defined by a swift and brutal sense of justice can lure our imaginations and entice our dark side. Hoffa was part of that legend and that world, and I think that ideal even enticed him... despite reality.

People, even flag-waving federalists, are inspired by the legends that form around certain kinds of folks. Just as some countries have their legends of poet warriors and ravishing damsels, America has cowboys and gangsters. It was an idea about Hoffa, just like an idea about Al Capone, or an idea about Billy the Kid that cemented him into the consciousness. The truth about people, especially dashing, daring, fearless people, is often far less romantic and far more heartbreaking than the man of faith can bare. And it is true that we see what we want to see and we hear what we want to hear.

So, the FBI looks and listens for tips as to where Hoffa's body is. They dig holes and file reports and come-up with nothing. Not many personalities could lure the FBI into chasing phantoms. Hoffa's legend endues, even after his body is long gone. Calcium oxide (quicklime) can destroy the flesh, but it can't destroy the idea and the imagination.

Rest In Peace, Rockford

For those of you who haven't heard, James Garner, the actor who played (among MANY roles) Jim Rockford on the TV series, "The Rockford Files" died on July 19th. I could talk about Garner's career widely, but "The Rockford Files" is his performance I know best, as well, I just feel like talking about "The Rockford Files".

For those of you who are too young to remember "The Rockford Files", let me just give a sketch. "The Rockford Files" was a weekly episodic crime/action series that ran on NBC from late 1974 until about January of 1980. The show focused on ex-con, Jim Rockford (James Garner), a private investigator in Los Angeles. Episodes usually involved Jim getting hired by some desperate client who couldn't pay him but because he was a nice guy, he always helped them out. Jim's clients usually needed his help because they were being chased by some drug dealers, Mafiosi, white collar criminals, government spooks, the police, jealous lovers, and sometimes all of the above. Each week, Jim used his street smarts and PI skills to find, elude, confuse, entrap, and ultimately overcome the rogues gallery that troubled his clients.

Tough crime and investigation-oriented shows were  pretty popular in the 1970's. For instance, you had Columbo, McMillan, McCloud, Cannon, Streets of San Fransico, Baretta, and so on. And while all of those were good, solid shows in their own rights, The Rockford Files broke the mold. What all of the previously mentioned shows had in common is that their protagonist(s) was/were always law enforcement. There were always the good guys with the badge, following the television dogma established by shows like The Untouchables and later, Dragnet and Adam 12. Jim Rockford was no law enforcer. He was a wrongfully convicted ex con who often butted heads with the police and the FBI when chasing goons around LA's seedy underbelly. In fact, lawmen were often portrayed as misinformed, incompetent, and even antagonistic (bad) on The Rockford Files.

The Rockford Files wasn't a procedural. It was "Noir". Think of those movies from the 30's and 40's but in double-knit polyester. Every week, Jim was in the middle. He took-on cases not knowing if he would get paid, laid, arrested, or killed. And as much as Jim complained about the money, he did what was right. And I think that was James Garner's real gift to the character. Rockford was a sly, cynical smart-ass, but he was above all human and decent. And really, that's the greatest challenge ANY actor faces, especially in television. How to make this fiction seem real? Garner somehow did it. Week-after-week, that hackneyed gumshoe didn't seem so hackneyed. He was often neurotic, frustrated, cheap, and regularly got the shit-kicked-out of him. Rockford wasn't Sam Spade... he was the guy next door.

Willa Cather, Teenagers, and Jungle Juice

Writer Willa Cather is quoted as once saying, "You know everything that you need to write a book when you are fifteen-years-old."

To which, I respond so eloquently, "Bullshit and Shenanigans!!" One thing about fifteen-year-old's, including the smart ones, is that they all have a SHIT LOAD to learn about life... especially their own. They have no introspection, and rightfully so. Early adolescence shouldn't be complicated enough to warrant introspection. Of course, Willa Cather wrote about blue-eyed stoics carving-out lives on the wide-open prairie. She left the ugly, interesting stuff to cynics and misanthropes like yours truly.

The teenagers today freak me-out. Perhaps because I'm of that age now when you begin to see distance between now and then. I was never a normal teenager, and in fact, I've really never felt comfortable around teenagers, even when I was one. Probably because I was one of those unfortunate teenager's cursed with introspection. Have you met a teenager who wants to buy a Town Car and retire? All those care-free, blissfully ignorant teenagers got to enjoy an adolescence of dances and parties, dates and awkward crushes, Jagermeister and silly clothes. As for moi, it was a beige suit, Merlot, and a whole lot of contemplation. Some of us try to be something that we just aren't, to fill a role, to become something, to wear a pair of someone else's shoes.

It really wasn't until my junior year of high school that I started being honest with myself. Of course, it was no easy task. Let me just gives kudos to the movies and a lot of rock'n'roll. And honestly, I know a lot of people twice my age who have never had a moment of introspection whatsoever.

I once took an opportunity to try "Jungle Juice", a cocktail of Cool Aid and a nearly lethal libation called "Everclear". I was surprised by its tolerable taste, especially when considering that Everclear is 190-proof. However, I was not surprised enough to explicitly offer Tom G's seal of approval. I'll stick to my Porters and Ales, thank you. Despite Jungle Juice's failure to wow me, I suppose its a quick and easy way to get banged-up if you're a teenager burnt-out by introspection, Willa Cather, and life in your sleazy little town.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the hits of 80's await me.

Old Stuff

As the years pile on, so do memories of things one USED to own. Old things, once irreplaceable accouterments of the daily minutia, now lost to the blurry gloom of time. An old pair of shoes that took us miles, an old video cassette (remember them; the thick, heavy black things that nobody EVER rewound) that entertained us, an old videogame that occupied so many hours. So many things bought and used. So many dollars spent on things we can barely remember having.

The boxes those things could fill. Long hours spent looking for them. Rummaging through old closets and niches, exploring darkened corners and remembering moments in time that you thought you would forget. But you never do. You know the one's, those scenes of the past that replay. You can feel the emotion, picture all the little details, and hear all the voices as though it happened only yesterday... even after twelve or fifteen years. Some things you would like to forget, but never will. Some moments that you wish you could reach-back to change. But you can't.

An odd thing, that. The abstraction of time, so loose and so unreal, becomes something like stone once the moment drifts by. There! See it. Now that moment is gone, and you cannot unread what you have just read, nor retract that mumbled "what-the-fuck?" you just uttered in response to this rambling, rolling diatribe.

Screw the memories, WHAT ABOUT THE STUFF!! All that stuff. All the shit that was bought. All those chochkies that they no longer make. Some of it has to have at least SOME collector value. As time rolls-on there's less and less of it still around, what's left out there must get more valuable. What's an old videotape worth? Nobody uses them, but surely someone must want them.

Christ, if only you had saved half-of-it... if only.

Tom G Reviews: American Hustle

"American Hustle"... what can I say about "American Hustle". Everybody just loves it. Rave reviews, a smash at the box office, praise and honors from all over. Director David O. Russell's love letter to the 1970's has certainly made a lot of people very happy and lot of hipsters very horny. Well, let's cut the bullshit and get to it, yes.

"American Hustle" weaves a tale of Long Island dry cleaner and con artist, Irving Rosenfeld (played by Christian Bale) and his mistress Sydney Prosser (played by Amy Adams) who, with little choice, become instrumental in an FBI investigation headed by nefarious agent, Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper). All the while they must cope with conflicted emotions for those they are helping to arrest, Rosenfeld's passive aggressive wife (played without breaks by Jennifer Lawrence), and DiMaso's increasing obsessiveness as he leads them down a rabbit hole of cons and entrapment in which they must hustle for their very survival.

"American Hustle" is an exaggerated telling of the "ABSCAM" investigation of 1978 to 1981-or-so in which the FBI used a con artist to bribe and in many cases entrap various congressmen, mayors, and senators - mostly infamously the mayor of Camden, New Jersey played in the film by a pompadour wearing Jeremy Renner. One thing the film does very well in this sense is to capture the malevolent nature of the case in which the FBI used any method to tempt those in its cross-sight. DiMaso is in charge of the case, it's his. He wants to make BIG cases against BIG figures which will attract BIG headlines. He wants to be Elliot Ness in bell bottoms. And much to Rosenfeld's dismay, it brings them dangerously close to some very sinister people. Agent DiMaso, like Captain Ahab, turns-out to be a user of those who need him and an abuser of those who disagree with him.

There are moments in this film that I love. There are moments of humorous arguments and lines that left me reeling and choking on my smoker's cough. There are moments of characterization... streams of consciousness - mainly by Rosenfeld - in which this cast of polyester-clad miscreants are given depth and dimension and we are allowed the illusion of reality. There moments between characters that disgust, warm, amuse, and break your heart. And then there are moments that you regret seeing so much that you could just punch the director, the editor, and the cinematographer for showing you.  "American Hustle" has many moments.

Well shot and well designed, the mise-en-scene of American Hustle is an impressive and tasteless mix of 1970's nostalgia kitsch and an impressive visual realization. "American Hustle" has a schizophrenia about it. On one hand, the cheap grotesqueness of the characters both in dress and behavior lend credibility to the film. It's a verisimilitude that can be scene in similar costume pieces like "Boogie Nights" (1997) or "Lymelife" (2008). But where there is one hand, there is always another.

"American Hustle" brutally kills its initial verisimilitude by doing something that is far too common in films today. It becomes too self aware. There are many, many slow motion shots set to your typical 1970's soundtrack. Many instances of actors doing 1970's stuff but in a very aware way as one might find at a 70's themed party. And yes, the film is supposed to be funny. But it also needs to be taken seriously enough to make us care. All of that dimension I talked about before ends-up getting lost when Jennifer Lawrence is jamming-out like a college girl wearing a wig or when we are subjected to a disco scene that feels like a commercial for the Palms in Las Vegas. Like any art or craft, storytelling is made in its subtlety. Too little, you fail to impact. Too much, you overwhelm.

The characters in this film are generally unlikable. Which I can get on board with. The only character that I imagine anybody sympathizing with is Irving, and not just because I do. Christian Bale really went all-out for this role, including disfiguring his own hair and gaining weight. Almost like a living homage to Robert DeNiro's method acting (look-out for DeNiro in a cameo), Bale transforms himself into a balding, insecure, rotund New York Jew caught between a disingenuous mistress, a bad marriage to a complete bitch, and an FBI Agent's machinations that will force him to betray a new found friend. Of all the character's who inhabit with film, Irving has the most dimension, the most complexity, the most understandable motivations, the greatest conflict... and yet not nearly enough story line.

Instead of focusing on its strongest point, Irving and his conflict, American Hustle is steered into a Bermuda Triangle of plot and trying to be 70's. It becomes bogged-down in jumping from one plot point to another, one case to another, one moment of Amy Adam's cleavage to another. Much like this blog. It really is unfortunate because there are few things in film sadder than when a filmmaker squanders his most valuable asset. More focus on Irving really could have given this film more substance.

"American Hustle" is about becoming something. Irving with his Coup DeVille and his comb over is trying to become something. Sydney with her sensuality and her faux British accent is trying to become something. DiMaso with his Caligula perm and his Lucchesi boots is trying to become something. While they play their chosen roles and make-up lines as they go along, it become obvious to we the audience as well as themselves that it is all a game of pretend.

In so many ways, that is "American Hustle". It is a film that leads us to believe it to be something that we expect it to be. Then it violates those expectations by revealing itself to be something else. Ultimately, though, it turns-out to be something confusing that complicates our feelings about it. Like a lover who steals your money and runs-off with your best friend, I entered warily into "American Hustle". Ultimately there are things about the film that I love, and yet the film sabotages itself by neglecting those things, and often even working against them. I want so much to love this film and yet I cannot. "American Hustle" broke my heart and cleaned-out my savings after a short and stormy romance.

Tom G Reads: American Pastoral

All right, here we go...

Philip Roth's 1997 tome, "American Pastoral", was an interesting trip for sure. Leading into the dark under croft of the American soul, Roth weaves a tale of humanity in all its beauty and horror as his protagonist must explore the heart wrenching depths of fatherhood, tragedy, and reflection.

A little background. I first became acquainted with this novel while delving perversely into the urban decay of Newark, New Jersey. I ran across mention of American Pastoral as it references Newark not only as a setting but as well a backdrop and embodiment of its themes of American optimism, pride, sin, self-destruction and eternal purgatory. A paradise lost. I was intrigued, to say the least, I knew I had to get hold of this book, but was simply too cheap to buy it. Enter the college library, and the opportunity to read it for free. An opportunity I did not hesitate to embrace. I found the book sitting alone of a shelf, sadly waiting to be rediscovered after a long neglect.

The story is told by "Nathan Zuckerman" a regular narrator in many of Philip Roth's works, and probably a literary persona for the writer himself. Zuckerman tells the story of Seymour "Swede" Levov, that rarity of blond, Jewish athlete whose story haunts Zuckerman after a high school reunion in his Newark neighborhood. In a series of long, often disorienting flashbacks, the narrator (Zuckerman) describes Swede Levov's arc in three parts. Part One, Swede's charmed life as a high school star athlete, war hero, inheritor of his family's successful glove factory, husband of a New Jersey beauty queen, and father of his daughter, Merry. In Part Two we learn of Merry's deep-seeded troubles, her turn to the radicalism of the late 1960's and the the tragic results. Swede, heartbroken and desperate to find his murderous daughter delves into a dark and hellish world of secret meeting, sexual temptation and the morose abyss of accepting what his daughter has done. In Part Three, Swede finally finds his terrifyingly disturbed daughter, alone in the dark, Dante-esque landscape of post-industrial Newark. His marriage crumbled, and unable to save his daughter, Swede is left to accept the loss of the past and to face the uncertain future.

American Pastoral is told in an interesting way. It is told through the narration of a character who was not there. Who barely knows Swede. It is almost pieced together from the knowledge and imagination of a less-than-reliable source. At one point it transitions to Swede's point-of-view, but even here I felt as if I was still listening to Zuckerman attempt to reconstruct the events and thoughts that surround Swede. Why is Zuckerman so fascinated by this? What does Swede Levov and his story, if it's even true, represent to Zuckerman. Is it an allegory for Newark's fall-from-grace? Is it an allegory for America's fall-from-grace. Could this life of achievement and hope, brought-down by desperation and self-destruction be the story of America in the 20th century? Or does that all even matter to Zuckerman? Perhaps Zuckerman is Virgil, showing us the netherworld. A guide and voice to help us find meaning in all of it.

Philip Roth's writing was that of an old pro. He knows how to tell a story. The language of American Pastoral paints a vivid and even surreal set of pictures in our mind. Reading this, I could see the people, the place, the time. I could feel the story's emotion, I could feel the heart of its characters. Its pathos, palpable and real.

There was one glaring problem I found with the novel. There was a lot of unnecessary writing here. A lot of what seems like padding and over-extensions just to reach eighty-thousand words. For instance, paragraph-after-paragraph, and sometimes across multiple pages describing the manufacturing of ladies gloves. At times is was so tedious that I had not choice but to sacrifice my weak and wounded and march-on. It's not a good thing when the read has to skim and skip just to stay on board.

Overall, American Pastoral was rewarding read, even if padded. At its core is a story that one can grasp and feel. It is a meal with many parts and many flavors. There is a lot here. The rise and decline of a family mirrors that of its home city and of the United States as a whole. The parable of a hero, loved and admired, who is brought to his knees and broken by what he has made and yet unable to understand. A force of destruction greater than any: his own child. Swede Levov, like Newark and America, is torn-apart by his own offspring.

Tom G Reads: The Road

Oh, the road. Some are made of yellow bricks and some are highways to hell. And some wind through the hellishness of a post-apocalyptic world. This is Cormac McCarthy's 2006 novel, "The Road".

 The worst has happened. What is was, we'll never know. McCarthy never says what has happened. All we know is that it was BAD. Bad enough, in fact, to bring civilization as we know it to an end. Ruinous cities and ramshackle ghost towns are inhabited by the last shambles of the America that once was. Appropriately enough, they are predatory cannibals who stalk the roads for prey to rape and kill. Hell, they even devour their own dead. Waste not, want not... yes?

From the rubble of some northern city emerges a man and his son whose names we do not know. Whose names we do not really need to know. The man, broken in health and spirit is the last veteran of the old world. He was there for the transition, he saw day become eternal night. His wife, the mother of his only son, is dead. Now he alone cares for the boy. The sun becomes dimmer, and the skies darken, he and the boy must venture south in search of something... anything more hospitable than this. They do not know what they'll find, if anything, or what they'll face along the way. But they must go. To go means possible death. To stay means certain death. If worse comes to worse, they have two bullets in the chamber.

"The Road" strikes me as a book about more than the end of the world. It is more than its post apocalyptic nightmare. The man, ragged and forlorn, must protect his son and instill in him what little of the old ways as he can conjure. With what little they have and with what little they can find, they manage to survive and carry-on. When there is absence, Man makes. In the absence of light, Man makes light. In the absence of warmth, Man kindles fire. In the absence of faith, Man makes it. It is man against a world of absence.

In a world of darkness, man must carry the light. The boy is the light. He is the only hope. His father, like almost any father since the beginning of time, will do anything to protect him and to save him and to teach him. "The Road" in its simple style, gritty as the highway it wanders, is an ode to mankind's ability. The same ability that has driven it since the dawn, now drives it on the edge of night.

The Fallen Knight

In a dry patch of earth... the only dry earth in this field of rain, blood and urine soaked mud and misery, lies a gentleman. As the sky breaks into the fading light of dusk, the softly dying light shines against his plate. What plate that hasn't been soiled in the sopping foulness of battle. He is still, as they all are at that stage. His hammered metal shell does not move, neither does the the dark, bloody cloth of his padded garments beneath. He is still, so completely still that he is most certainly dead. His cratered helm and the cracked skull beneath are most certainly what fell him.

Death, or at least life in its very final stages, is a strange thing. He lays there, as they all lay there, on that fouled ground totally still. Still as stones in night's blackness. He makes no sound. His chest does not expand with breath. His mouth, choked with the blood that leaks from the orifices of his inner head does not tremble or close. It just hangs open in a sad, soundless cry. And yet, as you pass him slowly and even admire his armor, you notice that his eyes - shrouded in the shadow of his visor and the blackish brown of dried blood - watch you. They lock with yours as you move slowly above him.

You cannot see the color of those eyes, nor make their shape. But you can see the fading light in them... the fading flame of his life in them. He was young, and strong, and intense. His now still legs were strong and quick, and his shoulders hardy enough to control his war horse. He was not a wealthy man, nor a poor one. He is the son of a landed family. His fate, and his fortunes, and his understanding of himself was tied to the land. The rolling piedmont and forests of the pastoral north country. He was probably married, to a right fair lady of a quiet temper and a Christian heart. He loved, as even a pauper or prince would. You can see it in his face. His heart was not an evil one, and for as much blood as he could shed, he would not have otherwise. If he could have had if any other way, his life would have carried on. The quite life of a shire Knight; tending the estate, hunting boar and buck, siring as many children as his goodly wife could bare, filling his belly with wine, receiving communion, growing old with the seasons.

But here is where his song will end. He lies broken beneath his plate, unable to speak, or to pray. His hand is locked around his sword, though the stench of excrement is sure sign that he has no feeling his body. A grim and saddened priest performs one final blessing on him. He is sure to die, if not now then later, probably at the hands of a merciful archer who will put him out... and then take what he carry. He may last the night in his silence. Waiting to finally fade away. To be taken by the divinity and finality of God's plan.

As you move away, you wonder who he was, and what his life had truly been. To whom his heart had truly belonged. You wonder when he will finally pass into death. You swallow the bitter tragedy of knowing that his time had not ended by God's plan... it had ended by misfortune. The misfortune of his time, of his birth and of his station.

...You feel his eyes turn from you to gaze into heaven and ponder the same things.

Making Lists: Disappointing Movies with So Much Potential

Some films, like "Mean Streets" or "Dawn of the Dead" or "Chimes at Midnight" have that special alchemical mix that leaves little to be desired. They live up to their hype. They meet all your hopes for them. At least, that's the case for moi. There are some films, however, that simply don't deliver of their promises and one is left with the feeling of really wanting to love them, but simply cannot do so honestly.

I have carefully and painstakingly compiled a list of such films. And because I am NOT a chooch who makes claims that he can't back-up, I will also explain my reasons for why they disappoint.

1.) The Keep (1983)

If there was one filmmaker who defined the 1980's, it was Michael Mann. "Thief" (1981), "Manhunter" (1986), "Miami Vice" (1984-1990) and "Crime Story" (1986-1988) painted a neon and black, pulp underworld of lurid affairs, blood money and obsession driven to electronic toccatas and vivid images.

His second feature film, "The Keep" takes that world and drops it onto World War II. The film centers around a German regiment discovering a great evil in a Romanian castle. An SS Officer (played by Gabriel Byrne) denies it. A persecuted scholar (played by Ian McKellan) seeks to harness it. And a stranger (played by Scott Glenn) seeks to destroy it.

The film looks very good. The visuals are pure Michael Mann, and the ambient soundtrack by Tangerine Dream puts us into the surreal and dark mood of the picture. The sets are surreal and immense, going beyond the realm of any WWII genre film and into the realm of fantasy. Mann's film is a world of parallel angles, grim colors and ethical inversion. The film often feels almost like a journey into the mind of a Nazi. Often it seems like a film that you must feel more than watch to understand. You crawl into it and get lost in its depths.

There are, however, glaring and profound faults with the film. Originally, the film was roughly three-hours-long, the most widely seen version of the film, the video version, was ninety minutes. There are no DVD versions of the film that I know of, and Mann has long since disowned "The Keep". You can omit it from your resume, but IMDb is an all seeing eye. The version I saw, on Netflix, was the shorter version. The plot and the film's theme are nearly impossible to understand as almost all of the exposition beyond whispered conversation between characters is lost to video editing. One gets the feeling that Mann had intended for "The Keep" to explore deeper, more profound themes about power, ideology and faith, but the extensive editing has left us with a run-of-the-mill horror/war/action film. The film's cast, despite being consummate actors, give hammy performances more at home in a Roger Corman film, rather than an A-List film by an A-List director.

Despite what I enjoyed about the film, I was left with the conclusion that "The Keep" was ultimately style with no substance. A strange and unbalanced mix of "Force 10 from Navarone", "Dracula", "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "The Wall".

2.) The Good Son (1993)

20th Century Fox loves a box office film. The two big films of the time were "Home Alone" and "The Silence of the Lambs". Their idea: let's combine the two. The end result is 1993's "The Good Son".

11-year-old, Mark Evans (played by future hobbit, Elijah Wood) has lost his mother to cancer. When his father must go away on a business trip, Mark is left with his Uncle and Aunt in a picturesque Maine town. At first, Mark enjoys his temporary home and the company of his cousin, Henry (played by then box office draw, Macaulay Culkin). Soon, however, Mark discovers that his cousin has a VERY dark side.

"The Good Son" is not a bad movie. Not by any means. It is a very watchable movie, at least in my opinion. The film was well shot and well edited, not breaking any new round, but certainly a clean audio and visual experience. Elijah Wood's performance as a boy haunted by his experiences was very good (especially for a kid) and Macaulay Culkin's performance as the psychopathic cousin was sufficiently dark. The film really worked well in its depiction of childhood... or, at least childhood before the internet. The kids are not lily white little scamps that break a window by accident and then feel bad about it. No, they break windows because it's fun and kids like to have fun and get into trouble. Why, because kids don't understand the consequences. They are, after-all, children. And "The Good Son" depicts that convincingly. There is a light side and a dark side to childhood.

Initially, "The Good Son" had a deeper and more complex script (according the IMDb). And there are definitely signs of that throughout the film. It starts to explore concepts of loss, grief, parent-child relationships, and the nature of evil only to leave them too quickly and dive back into suspense. The end result is a superficial exploration full of exposition and very well crafted writing that seems incomplete. One reason for this may have been Macaulay Culkin's domineering father whose political power in Hollywood (thanks in no small part to his son), meant that he was often able to dictate the direction of projects starring his son. If a writer or director resisted or protested (as was the case of this picture) they would be replaced. The end result, a very non-mainstream concept trying to be mainstream.

"The Good Son" was a film that, at least to me, had a lot going for it. Yes, the concept of a child psychopath is hard territory to explore, but it could have been worth it. This picture seemed to have more things to say and more depths to explore. Unfortunately, what we're left with is mainstream fare. A potentially important movie, hobbled by a studio into an unimportant one.

3.) The Departed (2006)

If you've read my post about "Mean Streets" (if you haven't, you should), you'll know that I am a fan of Martin Scorsese's work, particularly from the earlier leg of his career. But I am no fanboy. As much as I loved "Mean Streets", "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore", "The Last Temptation of Christ" and "Casino", I am seasoned enough to know when a master just isn't delivering. As such is the case with "The Departed".

"The Departed" is a remake of a Hong Kong film about two cops; one, a good-guy undercover as a bad guy, and the other, a bad guy undercover as a good guy. In the case of this film, it is Leonardo DiCaprio as Billy Costigan (Good Guy), and Matt Damon as Collin Sullivan (Bad Guy), entangled in the web of Boston crime boss, Frank Costello (played by Jack Nicholson). Also rounding-out the all star cast is Mark Wahlberg, Alec Baldwin and Vera Farmiga.

I preface with this (probably going to be unpopular) critique by conceding that "The Departed", like ALL Scorsese films, no matter how poorly realized, is a well made film. It is energetic, it is visceral, it is funny, it is dark and it is extremely watchable, again and again. Scorsese and his team are such storytellers and such craftsmen, that even their mediocre work outshines that of most others.

The explicit themes of the film explore deceit, crime, and loyalty. Some implicit themes explore the father-and-son relationship, absence of belief, and the idea of getting in so deep, that you become the thing you are sworn to defeat. In short, typical undercover cop fare,( e.g. "Donnie Brasco", "Rush", "Prince of the City"). Now, there's nothing wrong with typical cop fare. I enjoy typical cop fare... when it's done right. But this movie should have been more than that. Watching this movie, I feel as if Scorsese sacrificed substance for speed and exploration for energy. And though it was not a bad movie, I feel as though it took cheap and easy routes towards it final point. It took what should have been a world of grey, and turned-up the contrast to black-and-white. The good guys are definitely good, and the bad guys are definitely bad. It ultimately reduces down to an opera of rock music, blood lust and dichotomy (this is/that isn't).

The film is based, very heavily on the true case of "Whitey" Bulger. A Boston area crime boss who was able to infiltrate the FBI, acting as a mole while simultaneously gaining a blood-soaked grip of the area's underworld. I honestly feel as if this is the film Scorsese SHOULD have made. The story he should have told, with all of its complexities and murky depths. The story of an FBI agent who is corrupted, the man who corrupted him, and the agents who brought them both down.

For all of its good, bad, and ugly, "The Departed" (a film that won Scorsese an award), ultimately boils down to a perverted version of "Infernal Affairs" with a Southie accent.