More movies: Brewster McCloud & The Day of the Locust

One perk of my job at the library is that I'm able to see many new items well before they enter circulation and, if I want, can place holds on them then and there.

With the recent deaths of Shelley Duvall and Donald Sutherland, the library has been ordering more of the movies they starred it, two of which are ones I had never seen until the last few days: Brewster McCloud (Duvall) and The Day of the Locust (Sutherland).

Brewster McCloud was released in 1970 and is director Robert Altman's next movie after his first true classic, M*A*S*H, which was also released in 1970. Brewster McCloud is an outlandish, somewhat anti-establishment black comedy about a young man named Brewster McCloud (played by Bud Cort, one year before his breakthrough in the classic Harold & Maude). Brewster lives--or rather, squats--in a fallout shelter in the inner bowels of the Houston Astrodome. (In one of the movie's many funny gags, Brewster continually dodges an inept, pith helmet-wearing security guard who unsuccessfully tries to capture him). Brewster, whose fashion sense had to have inspired the look of Waldo in the Where's Waldo? books, dreams of flying like a bird, and is constructing his own wings in the fallout shelter. He is assisted in this endeavor by a literal guardian angel played by Sally Kellerman (fresh off of playing Hot Lips Houlihan in M*A*S*H). 

While pursuing his dream of flight, Brewster gets mixed up in a string of murders, is pursued by a young woman who gets a little too excited watching Brewster do pull-ups (he needs to strengthen his arms to operate his wings), falls for a wide-eyed (with unbelievably intricate eyelashes), eccentric, but adorable Astrodome tour guide (Shelley Duvall in her first-ever film role). Meanwhile, Brewster is, with good reason, the prime suspect in the string of murders. A hot shot detective, Frank Shaft, is called in from San Francisco to lead the investigation. Shaft is a not-so-subtle parody of Steve McQueen in Bullitt. (Another funny joke is how Shaft's arrival in Houston is a hot news item on the radio).

If the whole movie sounds madcap, that's because it is. There is so much delicious wackiness in the movie that would take too long to describe and would ruin the fun for anyone who hasn't seen Brewster McCloud. (I didn't even get around to the wild car chase scene featuring a Plymouth Road Runner, Chevy Camaro Z28, AMC Gremlin, and multiple police cars. It had to have been at least partial inspiration for the huge chase scene in The Blues Brothers).

When The Day of the Locust came across my desk, my eyes lit up. It was a movie I had wanted to see for years--even decades. I was intrigued by its portrayal of 1930s Hollywood and the myriad folks who see their dreams either fulfilled or (more likely) shattered in Tinsel Town.

The characters in The Day of the Locust are all broken to one degree or another. Tod Hackett is a fresh-faced Yale grad who arrives in Hollywood to do art design for films. He is slowly corrupted by all he sees and witnesses. Hackett falls in love with the young ingenue/femme fatale Faye Greener (a brilliant Karen Black) who dreams of being a starlet, but can't make it beyond stints as a film extra. Faye rebuffs Tod's overtures since she prefers a man who can provide fiancial security. Considering her father Harry (Burgess Meredith) is a penniless, failed vaudevillian and equally inept door-to-door salesman, one can hardly blame her.

Donald Sutherland plays the bland, emotionally stunted, religiously pious accountant Homer Simpson (yes, that's really his name!). Homer and Faye enter a completely loveless relationship, but one in which Homer can provide financially. Need I say that none of this ends well? All of the characters have their downfalls. The movie culminates in one of the darkest and most horrifically surreal scenes I"ve watched on screen.

So, on that note, I'll say I'm happy I watched both of these films. They both have excellent performances, and are movies that are so much of their time. The darkness, anti-establishment stances, and cynicism could only have come in the 1970s.

I Finally Watch Eraserhead

 

In my previous post (about R.E.M.'s Reckoning), I mentioned that my college freshman roommate Tim had an Eraserhead poster on the wall when I arrived in our dorm room. I likely projected my somewhat negative--or at best, ambivalent-- view of Tim onto the movie. I assumed it was some hipster bullshit that I didn't want anything to do with. And despite that fact I enjoyed some other David Lynch creations, I never saw Eraserhead. The sight of the video/DVD cover was the same as the poster Tim had on the wall and immediately irritated me.

As the years have gone by, though, I have had Eraserhead in my mental "need to watch before I die just to see what the fuss is about" checklist, and now after a few serendipitous--or maybe simply coincidental--events I have finally seen Eraserhead.

A few days ago, I noticed that one of my favorite movie podcasts, Blank Check with Griffin & David, had dropped an episode about Eraserhead. That immediately made me think of the R.E.M. post I wrote last week, so yesterday I checked to see if Eraserhead was streaming on any of the streaming services, fully expecting the answer to be either "NO!" or "YES, BUT YA GOTTA PAY EXTRA!" However, to my amazement, MAX (aka HBO MAX) is currently offering the movie, and I did not have to pay extra!

Late last night, I fired up Eraserhead and you know what? I kinda liked it! I won't say I loved it, but I definitely appreciated it. It is without a doubt a strange movie. A surrealistic fever dream (or nightmare) of a movie full of bizarre imagery, but one has to give David Lynch credit for having the chutzpah to make such a singularly strange vision his first feature.

Eraserhead is only 89 minutes and that is the perfect length. Any more than an hour-and-a-half--of slimy "babies" that look like enormous spermatazoa with eyes, "cooked" chickens that move and gush blood(?), warbling circus freaks, and bewildered, bedraggled, shock-haired Jack Nance--would be out staying its welcome.

I can see why 18 year-old hipsters and hipster wannabes loved this movie in the immediate aftermath of its release. The movie's weirdness certainly would appeal to young people in the late '70s and into the '80s. (I'm not sure if it has any resonance with young folks in the 2020s). As a middle-aged parent, I can see how at least part of the film is a metaphor for the fear of parenthood--albeit taken to a surrealistic and horrific extreme.

So I can finally take Eraserhead off my "need to watch" list. I now wish Tim was here with me so we could talk about it, and he could (secretly?) judge me for taking so long to see it.

1984 album in review: R.E.M.-- Reckoning

In my latest sporadically published posts about 1984 albums, I tackle R.E.M.'s second album, Reckoning.

This is yet another album I discovered after the fact. It was that hallowed autumn of 1986 that I have mentioned at least a few times in this blog. I had already heard "Fall on Me" that summer and quickly went out and bought a cassette of Lifes Rich Pageant at the Camelot Music in Saginaw's Fashion Square Mall. A month or so later, I arrived at Michigan State and quickly learned that, compared to several other kids, I was an R.E.M. newbie. I was "tripled" in my dorm room at MSU, which means I had two  other roommates. (We were assured by the university that as we settled into the school year, the "triple" would revert to a "double." Of course, I couldn't help but worry who would be the odd man out). Anyway, one of my roommates was a guy named Tim F. Tim was cool. Tim was the first to arrive and already had posters of the movie Eraserhead and Brazil on the wall. He had posters of Husker Du and R.E.M. I had no fucking idea what Eraserhead, Brazil, or Husker Du were. I at least knew who R.E.M. were, but only having Lifes Rich Pageant made me feel like a complete dork. Oh great, I was an oddball at high school and now here I am, already an oddball in college. Hopelessly uncool.

If Tim thought I was uncool, he never said anything, but I did feel like I was being judged. Thankfully, our third roommate, John, was a smalltown guy like me and I felt that we were both in the same boat as far as our Hipster Quotient went. 

After a few weeks, our tripling quandary was solved. Tim had a friend (no doubt as cool or even cooler than him) on the other side of the residence hall who needed a roommate, and he moved out. John and I remained together and became fairly good friends and still remain in contact to this day.

Now back to R.E.M. It wasn't Tim who turned me on to the band's back catalog, since he was likely too busy hanging out with his girlfriend or just being a cool dude. It was a girl named Tonya on our "sister floor" who tipped me off to an album called Murmur. Tonya was hipper than me but didn't have an attitude about it. She was open and generous and for that, I will always be grateful. She let me borrow her cassette copy of Murmur, and after I heard that album, I knew I was in love with this band. I don't know exactly what order I bought R.E.M.'s back catalog, but by the end of November 1986, I probably had all of R.E.M.'s albums.

What can I say about an album I have listened to countless hundreds, maybe even thousands, of times since I first bought it? What can I really add to the many essays about and reviews of this album and this band? I started this blog post yesterday by quickly writing first impressions of the album as I played it in my kitchen. I have to say that after I read over those notes, I liked the stream-of-consciousness composition. It seemed fitting considering Michael Stipe's impressionistic lyrics. I hope this doesn't seem lazy of me, but other than a little bit of editing, I have left these impressions fairly close to how I first wrote them. So, here you go, here is Reckoning...

Let me start with the album sleeve. The folk art of Howard Finster. This was still the "weird Southern gothic" stage of R.E.M.'s career, and the art of Finster--who was beloved by the band--is fitting. It is murky and swirling and unlike most any other album sleeve one would see in the 1980s.

Now to the songs:

Harborcoat. What is a harborcoat? I see references to harbor jackets? I imagine it as looking like a pea coat. The song of course evokes images of a windy wet seaside. Though I have not looked at the lyrics. I don't really look too hard at REM lyric sheets from this era. How accurate are they anyway? "A handshake is worthy if it's all that you've got" is a good aphorism. That is something to live by. We should judge people on their character and not on their material possessions. I wonder if Michael came up with that himself or if it was overheard or read in a book?

And now on to 7 Chinese Bros. The smell of sweet short haired boy? Hmm. Wait, the lyric sheets I see on the web say this is "mellow sweet short haired boy." Have I been singing this line wrong for almost 40 years? I like my lyrics better. 

More 7 Chinese Bros. Who listening to this song doesn't think of the book The Five Chinese Brothers, a book I later discovered many--like me--were freaked out by when the boy is depicted swallowing the ocean and his face expands to a grotesque shape. Though, if I am not mistaken, only one of the Chinese brothers in the book could swallow the ocean and not all seven as seems to be the case in the song, but is my reading of these lyrics far too literal? Possibly.

"She will return." evokes longing. Who will return? Should I actually look at the lyrics this time?

So. Central Rain. One of my favorites, especially the "I'm sorry!" refrain. There do seem many instances of longing and regret on this album. Lost love, broken relationships. "This choice wasn't mine." Bill Berry's drumming adds intensity to the song. It was the video of this song, that I finally saw on the video compilation R.E.M. Succumbs, that made me love this song even more. The band behind screens except for Stipe who is wearing big headphones. Don Dixon said Stipe didn't want to lip sync. He is actually singing live and is incredible.

Pretty Persuasion. I always think of being at a frat party at Alpha Delta Phi and hearing this cranking loudly out of big speakers. (And no, I didn't make a habit of going to frat parties, if you want to know. Had a friend in the frat, who later left the frat, but I digress). This song is another favorite. Peter's big sweeping guitar riffs. I don't know how else to describe them. The song has a forward momentum.

Time After Time. Droning Velvet Underground-like guitar line from Peter is probably the most distinctive aspect of this song. Peter Buck has a guitar break with some Bill Berry (?) percussion that reminds me a bit of Aaron Copeland's "Fanfare for the Common Man."

Second Guessing, a nice little rocker. "Why you trying to second guess me? I am tired of second guessing." At least that is how I heard those lyrics. "Who will be your book this season?" There is some anger in this song. A confrontation. Disagreements. Discord between two people.

Letter Never Sent continues with the theme of regret. "Seven shows are on the air"--the way I have always heard it--is actually "Heaven is yours?" Are we sure about that? Who cares. These songs are mainly about vibes and the feelings they evoke. Maybe a snipped of lyric that grabs you is what is most important.

Then the emotional Camera. "Alone in a crowd" "If I'm to be your camera, then who will be your face" I have read this is about a friend of the band who died. I can't make heads or tails of the the lyrics, quite honestly. Big surprise, eh. But once again, loneliness and regret and longing are the emotions I get from this song. Stipe sings with such sadness and despondency. 

Another digression: "Mope rock", so many people I knew referred to R.E.M. as mope rock in the '80s. They didn't fit in with the Motley Crues, Def Leppards, Whitesnakes, Madonnas that were dominating the pop charts in the 1980s and listening habits of a good portion of my fellow collegians. It did sometimes question whether I was, in fact, a "sad person" listening to allegedly depressing music like R.E.M. But I would take them over the schlock mentioned in this paragraph. (In fairness, both Def Leppard and Madonna had their moments).

Don't Go Back to Rockville. Now, my moment of Zen with this song is hearing The Half Smokes cover it in a bar, IN ROCKVILLE, MARYLAND! That was at SuburbsFest '23. This is a song that was written entirely by Mike Mills. The theme of longing and regret continues in this, the most straightforward song on the album. This is Americana before there was a name for it.

The album concludes with Little America. A song that is ostensibly about a band on tour, specifically R.E.M. touring in the South. "Jefferson, I think we're lost." Jefferson being the band's manager, Jefferson Holt. The swirl of references is the musical/lyrical equivalent of looking out the window of a tour bus or van as the shopping strips, highways, street signs, farms, houses, and multiple businesses zip by one's eyes. Peter Buck's opening guitar riff is like a clarion call. It's anthemic, and the song careens like a rusty old van barreling down the highway from Greenville, South Carolina to Athens, Georgia with who knows how many stops along the way.

"It's really a fantasia about university" (The Secret History by Donna Tartt)

The above quote, and title for this post, is a direct quote from Donna Tartt, lifted from The Borris House Festival of Writing & Idea's podcast episode "Donna Tartt and Rick Stroud." The episode was posted on April 3, 2020 but I just listened to it today. Upon finally finishing The Secret History last night, I spent the entire day seeking out and listening to every podcast episode I could find devoted to the book.

The second I heard Donna Tartt describe The Secret History as being "...really a fantasia about university," I thought it the most succinct and perfect description of the book. I've heard reviewers and commentators describe the book as either magical realism, a figment of the narrator's imagination, the product of an unreliable narrator (but mostly true), or on the rare occasion a story to be taken at face value. One definition of the word "fantasia" is "a work of art or literature that expresses the author's imagination freely and creatively." That is what The Secret History seems to be, a free and imaginative work of art that can be whatever the reader wants it to be. So maybe however one interprets the book, that interpretation is valid.

Allow me to backtrack a bit. Here is my history with The Secret History:

When The Secret History was published in 1992, I was working at Schuler Books. I remember what a literary sensation it was, which I'm sure is why I resisted it then. I wasn't much interested in contemporary fiction in 1992 and even less interested in a book that was receiving loads of media attention. Chalk it up to being a contrarian twenty-something. (Not to compare myself to Donna Tartt, but it turns out that she was also not particularly interested in contemporary fiction during the time she was writing The Secret History).

Fast forward to 2008, when I read with delight to book The Fortress of Solitude by former Bennington student Jonathan Lethem. Then I became a fan of the podcast of another former Bennington student, Bret Easton Ellis. Inspired by the podcast, I finally read Ellis' book Less Than Zero. (My Facebook memories tell me I finished reading the book on February 7, 2015. My impression was that I should have read the book when I was younger because I found the characters to be self-centered and obnoxious--which was probably the point). So those books were my first dips into the world of the illustrious Bennington College literary alumni.

Six years later I was directed to the podcast Once Upon a Time...at Bennington College. I only listened to about half the series because it just became too dishy amd soapy (but not soap dishy). (My podcast listening also coincided with my first trip to Germany. When I returned from Germany, I became completely obsessed with German history for several months and Bennington was jettisoned. It's probably quite clear that I am one prone to obsessions).

Donna Tartt and The Secret History were the most fascinating subjects of the Bennington podcast, and that book remained on my mental front burner until finally, while on vacation in Ithaca, New York in September 2022, I saw The Secret History at Barnes & Noble and bought it. (I still bristle a little bit at paying $19 for a paperback and hoped to find it used, but it was there, so what the hell? Why not!).

I don't think I finally got around to starting The Secret History until about December 2022, and though I made it to about page 100 by early 2023, it was a struggle and I lost interest. The pace seemed glacier-like and the story didn't seem to be going anywhere. I almost tossed the book permanently into the "I give up" pile. Instead, it was relegated to the "try again later' pile.

I didn't remove the book from the "try again later" pile until June, and this time it clicked. At about page 150-ish, when main characters Henry Winter, Francis Abernathy, and twins Camilla and Charles Macauley have their classic Greek-inspired bacchanal and [spoiler alert] kill the Vermont farmer (or did they kill him?), I was hooked from that point on. A bit later [not a spoiler alert], when the "Hampden Five" (I made up that term) kill fellow student Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran, I was fully in.

Once again, allow me to backtrack. My initial negative reaction to the book also had to do with this question in my mind: "Why do I give a fuck about these narcissistic, materialistic, pretentious East Coast elite college students?" If I had stuck with the book on my first attempt, I would have learned that their narcissism, materialism, and pretentions were largely what led them to make the questionable decisions they make. Their intellectual pretentions were the whole point of the book.

Now I will move on to my instant reactions to the book. I am writing this now so I don't forget but will try to write this in a manner that will make it at least somewhat interesting to my dear readers--all three or four of you. 

First, a brief plot synopsis: The Secret History takes place at the fictional Hampden College in Vermont--inspired by Bennington College--and follows a close-knit group of Classical Greek majors who study under the tutelage of the charismatic and mysterious professor Julian Morrow. One of these six students, Richard Papen, is the book's narrator. Richard is the outsider among the group. He's a transfer student originally from California, from modest means, and joins the course a few weeks(?), several weeks(?) after Henry, Francis, Camilla, Charles, and Bunny. Anyway, these six young people become a little too emotionally and intellectually wrapped up in their Classical Greek studies, and it leads them to do some terrible things that have dire consequences.

So here are my notes:

Far be it for me to criticize Donna Tartt, who at a young age was already an accomplished writer, but the book could have used some pruning. There were a few cul-de-sacs that lasted a bit too long. I am thinking specifically of Richard's winter break freezing his ass off and starving in Hampden, as well as the 70+ pages at the Corcoran home during Bunny's wake and funeral. 

While I am dishing out nitpicky criticisms, I didn't buy that there was any romantic connection between Richard and Camille, nor Henry and Camille for that matter. Then again, we are dealing with an unreliable narrator in Richard. When Richard declares his love for Camilla and asks her to marry him, I expected her reaction to be, "What? Are you nuts? Of course I don't want to marry you. There is nothing between us!" Instead, her reaction was much calmer and more measured than I expected or seemed appropriate.

Though I have seen the horrible acts in the book compared to Crime and Punishment, which makes sense, I have not seen the murder of Bunny compared to Leopold and Loeb. (Leopold and Loeb, the two highly educated young men who attempted to use their "superior intellect" to commit a "perfect murder" in 1920s Chicago). The Hampden Five share a foppish arrogance with Leopold and Loeb. The book does an exemplary job in showing how lives can unravel after horrible decision(s) have been made.

At this point, I should avoid too many spoilers, so let me just say that Henry's, er. rash decision near the end of the book took me by surprise. I did not see that coming.

Before I make the book sound overly serious, I should point out that there is plenty of humor sprinkled within. I enjoyed the description of the Hampden students flushing all their drugs down the toilet when the FBI arrived on campus to investigate Bunny's murder. There is another scene in which the group is outside the Corcoran's house getting high before Bunny's funeral. Bunny's bizarre low rent Kennedy-like family is also amusing.

And then there is Judy Poovey. Richard's hard-partying, aerobics-obsessed dorm neighbor Judy has to be the best minor character in the book. Judy provides some comic relief with her exuberant personality, but she is also caring and generous. Once again, Richard is an unreliable narrator and allows his obsession with Camilla to color his perception of the other female characters, most notably Judy. Richard could have and probably should have been kinder to Judy. Judy will be fine, though. She doesn't need Richard or anybody else, for that matter.

On the subject of partying, there is so much drinking, drug consumption, and smoking that I practically got a hangover myself. I could almost feel my own liver and lungs turning diseased, misshapen, and blackened. The sheer amount of substance abuse definitely pinpointed the 1980s as The Secret History's setting.

The book made me ponder my own college experiences in the 1980s. I didn't go to a small elite private liberal arts college on the East Coast, but an enormous middle-class public university in the Midwest. I definitely knew way more Judy Poovey's and Cloke Rayburn's (Hampden student and small-time drug dealer) than Camilla Macauley's and Henry Winter's. That said, I can relate to Richard and his desire to fit in with the cool crowd, or should I say the arty and literary crowd, which did exist to a certain extent at my alma mater, Enormous State University, though I'm not sure any of them dressed as extravagantly or anachronistically as Henry, Bunny, Charles, Camilla, Frances, and to a certain degree, Richard, who spends most of the book playing catch-up. Our [anti-] heroes wear suits, ties, and pince nez glasses as if they'd stepped out of one of Jay Gatsby's parties in West Egg.

This leads me to the "Dark Academia" subgenre, which I did not even knew existed until less than a week ago. Apparently, Dark Academia has plenty of fans--many of whom are Gen Z--and there are several bookshelves worth of books classified as Dark Academia. Dark Academia has also spawned a fashion style that seems at least partly inspired by the Hampden Five. I have worked in libraries for almost 21 years and was completely unaware of this. Of course, I'm also a 50-something Gen Xer, so of course I'm not up to speed with what's trending among Gen Z or TikTokers.

I have also learned that there is fan art inspired by The Secret History. A keyword search of "Secret History fan art" reveals a plethora of drawings and paintings, many of which are quite creative and stunning. I will include some here...okay, I tried to include some here, but my computer is not cooperating. Just type in the keywords I mentioned into Google Images to see this fan art.

Reddit has an extremely active Secret History group, and I have hovered over it recently and made a few comments. Two nights ago, I had a vivid dream that I created a t-shirt with the caption, "I PARTIED WITH JUDY POOVEY." This dream seamed too good to waste, so I posted on the Reddit page and the positive response I received was stunning.

After all this verbal vomit about The Secret History, I can probably put it to bed now. If I can get either this laptop or another computer to cooperate, I'll post some of the best Secret History fan art. If you've made it this far, you're either a big Donna Tartt/Secret History fan or a glutton for punishment.

Redd Kross concert, part II

Picking up where I left off...

Dale Crover took the stage, but I don't think I even noticed he was up there until he began strumming his acoustic guitar. I was shocked at how few punters (I'm just gonna borrow that Britishism) were in the performance area, so I wasted no time in moving to the front.

Crover is an unassuming guy. He could easily be mistaken for one's friendly neighborhood record store clerk or oil change technician, but as soon as he starts performing, it's clear he is an intense and talented musician. That said, he has an easy rapport with the audience, asking us if we enjoyed his Detroit/Michigan music-centric pre-show DJ set (which featured the disparate likes of Ted Nugent and Question Mark & the Mysterians to name a few). The crowd approved enthusiastically. He played about a half dozen songs, reminding us that he had a solo album coming out in October, and at about 2/3 of the way through his set, assuring us that he'd play a few more songs and then bring the boys out for a rock show. (I'm paraphrasing).

Crover finished at about 8:45 and Redd Kross (with Dale) hit the stage at 9:00 on the dot, all dressed in white pants and white collarless shirts with colorful psychedlic patterns on the front. "The boys" launched into "Switchblade Sister" and the joyous rock show took flight. Younger brother Steven McDonald, on bass, is the comic ringleader. He clearly enjoys mugging for the audience and ironically goofing in stereotypical "rock star" poses. Older brother Jeff is, compared to Steven, a bit more subdued, but not above dancing, making faces, or placing a scarf over his head during one song. (Sorry, I can't remember which one). Lead guitarist Jason Shapiro seems content to remain on the side and rip the occasional searing solo, but when prodded by Jeff or Steven, he will mug and pose. The bottom line is all four guys seem to have a blast on stage, and their enthusiasm is infectious.

I remained about ten feet from the stage, but years of concert attendance has taught me to wear ear plugs. I want to preserve as much hearing as possible. My concert buddies J. and F. seemed content to hang in back, and I wanted to give them their space anyway.

Redd Kross played a set that covered their entire career and made me want to obtain ALL of their albums. There is so much stuff still out there for me to discover and absorb. I also think I should finally increase my Melvins and Dale Crover knowledge.

The band concluded the night by playing some nuggets from their early days and a rousing cover of "Crazy Horses," the wildest, heaviest song the Osmonds ever recorded. (A song that Ozzy Osbourne declared a personal favorite). If any readers out there have never heard "Crazy Horses," go to YouTube immediately--and then return to this post.

When the band left the stage and the house lights came on, we all walked away satisfied with the exhilarating rock show we'd witnessed.

[P.S., I wanted to include photos in this post, but I seem to be experiencing technical difficulties].