Category / Obits

by DrMabuse

RIP Christopher Reeve

superman.jpgSuperman was the first movie I saw in a theatre. I was four years old, but I remember being taken by my mother to one of the Century domes (long since demolished) in Corte Madera. I remember the lines and the sense of excitement that the audience would, as the advertisements promised, believe that a man could fly. But most importantly, I remember Christopher Reeve’s commanding presence in the movie poster and as he flew over Metropolis, his steel blue eyes shooting an impenetrable look to any who would dare return his gaze. (There was of course Reeve’s wink to the audience during the final moment above the earth in any Superman film, but I present this in hindsight to what my four year old eyes remembered.)

The film and its sequels made an impression upon me that still resonates with me today. There are moments in my life when I find myself functioning in Reeve’s bumbling Cary Grant mode as Clark Kent, befuddled but often processing the info around me, and there are other moments where I quietly commit some noble deed while maintaining my secret identity. (I was a kid who wore Superman Underoos, for crying out loud. These things make an impression.)

So Christopher Reeve’s death (particularly after Dangerfield’s) came as a blow to me, particularly since Reeve was determined to find hope within a life confined to a wheelchair. He gazed clearly and confidently into the future and envisioned the inevitable moment where he would rise from his chair. And now, sadly, that moment won’t arrive.

In an age where tyros walking on ethical ground as shaky as Krypton just before its inevitable destruction would deny pivotal research funds to those who might need them, in an age where real heroes are at a premium, Reeve demonstrated to everyone that courage and sunny effrontery mattered most. Superman, it turned out, wasn’t a role, but the man he was all along. We are all the lesser for his loss.

by DrMabuse

R.I.P. Helmut

helmut.jpg

[1/25/06 UPDATE: Two years after Helmut Newton’s death, it occurs to me that there is nobody who can really replace him. There is nobody daring enough to make people sexy in a skewered yet genuine way. It is all artifice. Like Russ Meyer, Helmut Newton, along with the other strangely respectful deviants, have expired.]

by DrMabuse

Olivia Goldsmith — Gone

Olivia Goldsmith has passed away. And I’m angry. This did not have to happen. Goldsmith was only 54. Fifty-four. One of the first female partners at Booz Allen Hamilton. And then a not-too-shabby fiction career. But the circumstances of her death were this: she was about to undergo plastic surgery. But she felt (or was it her editors or her agent?) that she had to live up to some pinnacle of perfection. She needed a flawless face, a mug devoid of wrinkles for the photographers, an image devoid of any signs that, hey, she was 54. The great irony was that she had skewered this kind of thinking in her novel, The First Wives Club. But to hell with the merits of her writing, to hell with the fact that she had no problem savaging mid-lifers in her books. No, the important thing was the plastic surgery. There was the real world and the world within her fiction. And for Goldsmith, the real world was far crueler.

Just as she was about to go under, she had a violent reaction to the anesthesia, which incapacitated her. And now she’s dead.

All because of an image, all because of a stinkin’ author photo, all because we still judge books by their back covers rather than their innards, and all because civilization cannot stop pestering, whether deliberately or subconsiously, the older, the fatter, the more wrinkled, the more infirm, the non-Caucasian, and anybody else who doesn’t fall into the harsh physical virtues dictated by Vanity Fair and People. Olivia Goldsmith’s death isn’t just a terribly premature end for a writer who was fun. It also shows that ideals have spiraled completely out of control. Or perhaps it just confirms them.

Goldsmith’s death did not have to happen. And yet it did. And the publishing industry, with concerns of gloss and glamour, won’t stop perpetuating these shameful conditions. It will continue defaulting to the purty lil gals (Nell Freudenberger) or the hot young things (Zoe Trope), rather than the magic of the offerings. This is nothing less than a goddam tragedy. Because we lose authors like Goldsmith in the process.

[UPDATE: There’s been some speculation on this entry. And I feel it’s important to clarify the following: (1) Lest the reader waltz into grassy knoll territory, I didn’t intend to suggest that the publishing industry was the smoking gun, but that there may be extant environmental factors within that contributed to Goldsmith’s decision — a decision, it should be noted, that she alone made. Goldsmith was an author who sold well. And, as such, she had a profile to maintain. Said factors can be seen on book covers that dwell upon anatomical merits over ability, responded to in high kitsch by Susan Orlean on the cover of The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup. These elements, which pressure women to look and remain young and beautiful, can be observed during a casual stroll in the Western world. (2) No one knows enough about Goldsmith’s motivations to make a final judgment call as to cause. This was idle speculation, but I’ll let it stand unmodified for the record.]

by DrMabuse

Tough Talking

Move over, Madonna. James Carville’s entered the kid lit business. The tough-as-nails politico is co-authoring a picture book inspired by his mother Lucille. Early reports indicate that several children have fainted while reading the book. Editors are quietly encouraging Mr. Carville to tone down his prose.

Ursula K. Le Guin’s just nabbed a lifetime achievement award from the ALA. This is actually her fourth lifetime achievement award in the past three years, suggesting that either Le Guin has achieved enough for four lifetimes, or that there are four Ursula K. Le Guins running about.

Randy VanWarmer, singer of the Bread-like ballad “Just When I Needed You Most,” has passed away at 48.

Matthew Pearl lists ten books that have kept the spirit of Dante alive. Notably absent is the 1970s New Age bestseller, Getting in Touch with Your Inner Dante: Avoiding Infernos with Smiles and Sideburns.

Salon has an excerpt from Chalmers Johnson’s The Sorrows of Empire.

The Christian Science Monitor interviews Edith Grossman on the new Quixote translation: “The differences: modern technology, especially in communications, has changed the world drastically; in the industrialized world at least, the majority of people are literate. As a consequence, the oral tradition at Sancho’s disposal is becoming — or already may be — extinct.”

Elmore Leonard’s Rules of Writing (via Good Reports) And, in fact, here’s the complete “Writers on Writing” series (now compiled in a book), which includes Donald E. Westlake on psuedonyms, E.L. Doctorow on the effects of film upon lit, Louise Erdrich on language, Richard Ford on not writing, Ed McBain on mystery archetypes, and Kurt Vonnegut on writing classes (among many more).

Helen Oyeyemi signed a two-book deal for ?400,000 and didn’t tell her parents. She also forgot to take out the garbage. (via Maud)

The Handmaid’s Tale is being turned into an opera! (via Elegant Variation)

To Check Out Later: The Orange Word has an impressive of writer and screenwriter interviews archive up. (via Crooked Timber)

Pop Matters asks: Does South Africa have it in for Coetzee?

Sean Penn writes about his Iraq trip.

And Braun’s out.