News
Love this quote from Mystery and Manners, courtesy of the Flannery O'Connor page on Facebook:
When you can state the theme of a story, when you can separate it from the story itself, then you can be sure the story is not a very good one.
I've read every word O'Connor published during her lifetime. I'm not sure how many other authors I can say that about. Jane Austen. Maybe Hemingway.
Daniel Craig on the set of Casino RoyaleIsaac Chotiner has a review in The New Republic of Sinclair McKay's The Man With the Golden Touch How the Bond Films Conquered the World, a history of the James Bond movies from Dr. No (1962) to Quantum of Solace (2008). Chotiner is a longtime Bond fan although not to the extent of McKay, and many of his observations about the series are spot on. If you do watch closely, Connery does seem ill at ease in Dr. No; his performance is erratic, but his animal magnetism is so strong hardly anyone has noticed. And Roger Moore's The Spy Who Love Me is indeed one of the "amazingly assured" entries in the series. I also share Chotiner and McKay's distaste for Pierce Brosnan's approach to the role: his performances are too self-conscious for my liking, although Goldeneye offers considerable entertainment.
Where I principally depart from Chotiner is in his savaging of Quantum of Solace, a flawed film to be sure and a step back from the brilliant reinvention of the series that rebooted with Casino Royale. Quantum's plot is a mess, and Olga Kurylenko (for all her beauty) can't quite fill Eva Green's Gucci heels. But I have watched the film four times now—maybe five—and it has improved with each viewing. Marc Foster's unconventional direction and Matt Chesse and Richard Pearson's staccato editing was initially disparaged as a failed attempt to mimic the quick cuts and nervous handycam effects of the Bourne series. But Quantum of Silence speaks a different dialect from the Bourne Ultimatum—compare the use of music in both films, especially during the action scenes—and the effect is to dramatize the disorientation of Bond himself as he sets out on his quest for revenge.
Chotiner concludes with a sweeping assertion:
Even if this history shows the canniness of the filmmakers’ commercial instincts, the movies themselves—especially of late—live in an unchanging male fantasyland and are completely without artistic merit. A true Bond fan must ruefully concede as much. My greatest fear used to be that the series would end, but now that thought is oddly appealing.
I won't argue that Bond has always appeared to contemporary men's (and not a few women's) fantasies, but to proclaim that From Russia with Love, Goldfinger, or Casino Royale are without artistic merit is bullshit. No less an eminence than Roger Ebert put Royale on his list of 2008's best films.
And I am baffled what masterpieces Chotiner expects to see produced when James Bond rides off into the sunset in his Aston Martin. Would he prefer a steady diet of The Expendables, Salt, and Knight and Day? For my part I'd prefer the Bollinger and beluga caviar, thank you very much.
Dwight Garner has a piece in today's New York Times commemorating the fortieth anniversary of James Dickey's masterpiece, Deliverance. He writes that "the book's anniversary shouldn't slip by unnoticed." I agree.
Like many people, I discovered Dickey's brutal novel after watching John Boorman's even more brutal film version. And like many readers, I suspect that I had a hard time seeing the book clearly. I needed to get past the infamous rape scene before I could appreciate Dickey's artistry and ambition. Garner describes the book's strange power this way:
“Deliverance” is the kind of novel few serious writers attempt any longer, a book about wilderness and survival whose DNA contains shards of both “Heart of Darkness” and “Huckleberry Finn.” It tells the story of four mild, middle-class men from suburban Atlanta who embark on a canoe trip, snaking down a remote Georgia river that will soon disappear beneath a dam. In the woods they find boiling rapids and two sinister mountain men. Before the novel is over, the carnage is nearly complete: three men have been crudely buried, one has been raped, and the survivors have had the bark peeled from their modern sensibilities.
It doesn't surprise me that Dickey has fallen out of literary fashion; as an outsized personality concerned with elemental questions of good and evil, he is easy to dismiss as a stereotype—"a deep-fried Norman Mailer," in Garner's words. But I suspect that most of Dickey's critics are concocting flimsy excuses not to take his novel seriously. "Deliverance" remains a deeply disturbing work and most of us would rather not be disturbed. Which was exactly Dickey's point.
I've been reading the Maine Sportsman for years and depend on it to keep me up to date with Maine outdoor news. I've also learned a ton about becoming a better fly fisher, hunter, and guide (Ken Allen's "Fly Box" has never steered me wrong). So it's a genuine honor to be reviewed in its pages by George Smith, the outgoing director of the Sportsman Alliance of Maine no less. Scroll down to the bottom of the "September Almanac" and you'll read:
The Poacher’s Son, an exceptional read, includes great characters and a terrific plot. It’s a page turner for sure....
There’s been a transition in the mystery fiction world from the day when plot was king, to today when characterization is the most important ingredient in a successful mystery novel.
Doiron has one foot in each camp. His primary character, a Maine game warden, is carefully and accurately drawn. As an observer of the Maine Warden Service for the past 18 years in my capacity as executive director of the Sportsman’s Alliance of Maine, I find Doiron’s presentation of his game warden, Mike Bowditch, spot on, from Bowditch’s frightening encounter with a wounded bear to the complaint against him from a disgruntled boater who received a citation for not having a life jacket on his kid.
I purchased the book because the main character was a game warden. I read it quickly, over a 48-hour period, because the plot grabbed me from the opening chapter....
Although Doiron agrees he’s lucky to get his first novel published, you’ll be the lucky one if you buy it and read it.
I think my lucky steak is unbroken.
There's a widely read article in today's New York Times about people who are getting themselves into dangerous situations because they're venturing without preparation into wild places and then counting on their cell phones, GPS units, and personal satellite messaging devices to bail them out of trouble. The anecdotes are, frankly, jaw-dropping:
People with cellphones call rangers from mountaintops to request refreshments or a guide; in Jackson Hole, Wyo., one lost hiker even asked for hot chocolate.
A French teenager was injured after plunging 75 feet this month from the South Rim of the Grand Canyon when he backed up while taking pictures. And last fall, a group of hikers in the canyon called in rescue helicopters three times by pressing the emergency button on their satellite location device. When rangers arrived the second time, the hikers explained that their water supply “tasted salty.”
“Because of having that electronic device, people have an expectation that they can do something stupid and be rescued,” said Jackie Skaggs, spokeswoman for Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming.
“Every once in a while we get a call from someone who has gone to the top of a peak, the weather has turned and they are confused about how to get down and they want someone to personally escort them,” Ms. Skaggs said. “The answer is that you are up there for the night.”
Talk to any Registered Maine Guide and you'll hear similar anecdotes about clueless urbanites lighting campfires with kerosene and approaching skittish moose to get close-up snapshots. Tenderfeet have always been with us and always will be. One of my favorite short stories, Jack London's harrowing "To Build a Fire," is the tale of a newcomer to the Yukon who simply has no idea what a fool he is until he's literally freezing to death. John Krakauer's Into the Wild offers a contemporary take on this same old story.
The larger issue is our society's increasing detachment from nature. When you are unfamiliar with a thing—a river, an animal, a storm—it's easy to misjudge it. You bring preconceptions based on televised fantasies to matters of life and death (the news that two young people died mimicking the fraud that is "Man vs. Wild" is heartbreaking). It's yet another reason why I urge parents to read Richard Louv's Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder.
By way of a postscript there's this from the New Yorker's Book Bench:
On Tuesday, the Associated Press reported that a twenty-nine-year-old Swiss woman named Claire Jane Ackermann drowned on Saturday while attempting to cross the Teklanika River, near Denali National Park in central Alaska.
This tragic story might not have been picked up outside of Alaska, except for the A.P.’s report that Ackermann, along with a male companion who survived, was trying to reach the abandoned bus where Christopher McCandless, the young wanderer made famous by Jon Krakauer’s nonfiction book “Into the Wild,” died in 1992. It seems that the bus has become an attraction for adventurous tourists, following the success of Krakauer’s book and the 2007 film adaptation directed by Sean Penn and starring Emile Hirsch....
McCandless’s is a powerful story, one that some may see as glamorous—especially if they have only seen the movie. But Krakauer’s book never wavers from its stern tone of warning, offering constant reminders of the deadly and unforgiving power of nature, and of the limits of human agency. This week, we’ve been reminded again.
