I hope Messr. Teachout pardons my late notice. He is, after all, a man with an inveterate Red Bull addiction (now confirmed through the three investigators I have tailing him).

Average Number of Bloggers TT Has Lunch With Per Day: 2.1
Average Number of Words TT Writes Per Day: 7,500
Number of Books TT Will Publish in 2005: 5
Odds That Commentary Will Be Renamed The Teachout Times: 2 to 1.

And if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Teachout was on Kurt Andersen’s Studio 360 over the weekend. I listened to the show last night. Good stuff. Check it out.

Kingston University has nabbed more than 1,000 books that belonged to Iris Murdoch, along with notes, letters and original manuscripts. The books contain numerous marginalia, and should help future scholars tie in Murdoch’s philosophy with her novels.

If you’re an American army deserter heading for Canada, Heather Mallick has some helpful (and detailed) tips on how to settle down. Her advice even stems into the cultural: “Recycle like you mean it. Read Fire and Ice by pollster Michael Adams about how Canadians are growing ever more different from Americans. Then read Margaret Atwood and Doug Coupland, shop at Roots, stop in at Tim Hortons for a pile of Timbits on your way to your plumbing class. Arrive in a Prius or a Smart Car, which shouts, ‘I care about the environment,’ and you, short Buddhist, are a shoo-in for citizenship.”

John Barth, favored or disfavored, has remained one of my favorite writers. And the press he’s getting for The Book of Ten Nights and a Night is some of the best he’s had in years. The Houston Chronicle says that it’s as good as Lost in the Funhouse. And Lemony Snicket himself rips open a bag of pomo nuts in the Chronicle.

Dan Green has weighed in on the political art argument continued over at Scribbling Woman. I’d like to clarify just what being an aesthete (since the conversation has now shifted towards these nutty dichotomies) really means. An aesthete, whether an artist, a scholar or a dilletante, recognizes certain sensibilities that speak to her. It could be plotting or prose in literature, symbolism or contours in art, mise-en-scene or editing in film, or tempo and timbre in music. Ultimately it’s about trying to understand the immediate visceral impulse, trying to dissect response through theory, or using specific examples to explain why a piece of art works. But it doesn’t preclude political awareness, nor does it suggest that consciousness cannot operate outside the boundaries of artistic understanding.

The purported “disdain” has more to do with being subjected to a plodding novel that isn’t working, that isn’t stirring the juices, and that, frankly, falls flat on its ass — all because the author needs to convey some didactic point or otherwise interfere with the extant mechanisms that allow art to flourish. The immediate example that was tossed around the blogosphere last month was Tim Robbins’ play Embedded, the excerpt of which speaks for itself. Robbins, as I noted, has made some compelling films. But when he adopts a heavy-handed poise with such dialogue as “The message of the new Hitler’s evil has been unrelenting and omnipresent,” it does nothing but preach to the converted. Where’s the nuance in that? It limits the spectrum of communication, and any inveterate aesthete can see that the dialogue’s lack of nuance destroys the intent. Now if Robbins had considered the text in relation to subtext, as he did when turning the 1960s lefty folk singer into an arch conservative in Bob Roberts, it might have worked. If he had predicated his work with additional meaning, such as irony or metaphor (Dr. Strangelove‘s “Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here. This is the war room.” or my previously cited Cat’s Eye example come to mind), then not only would his play be more aesthetically sound, but it could operate as a conduit that allowed each individual to ascertain their own private meaning.

I would suggest that the reader/audience member is guided in some part by her subconsciousness and experience, and that politics is one of many things that influence their response. But it is not entirely contingent upon it. For example, since I grew up poor, I developed a bias against the rich, particularly the avaricious and complacent rich. This in turn shaped my politics and has in turn prevented me from sympathizing with art that explores privilege. Lost in Translation was a good film, but its portrayal of rich WASPs kvetching about their La Dolce Vita existences simply did not speak to me. I’m reading Julia Glass’ Three Junes right now and, while I admire the plotting and the structure, the characters vacationing in Greece and “suffering” in Scotland leave me lukewarm. I’ve tried to respond to this by deliberately reading books or experiencing art outside my paradigm.

To go back to Dan, he suggests that the aesthetic stance is a pragmatic one. And speaking for myself, I would agree, if only because my desire to understand art has left me groping beyond emotional response and into cause-effect, specific examples, sometimes placing a work within the purview of current theory. It is the natural progression for anyone to take. And if moving beyond a febrile formalist trying to find every known political quality within a piece of work, a pursuit that strikes me as a dull, tedious and incomplete way of understanding, well then you can throw my ass into the aesthete ghetto too.

The Nebula Award winners are up, complete with a photo in which everyone’s looking remarkably glum and a porky Harlan Ellison is talking with Robert Silverberg. (My goodness. Was the moment really that bad?)

NOVEL: The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon
NOVELLA: Coraline by Neil Gaiman
NOVELETTE: “The Empire of Ice Cream” by Jeffrey Ford
SHORT STORY: “What I Didn’t See” by Karen Jay Fowler
GRAND MASTER: Robert Silverberg

Next Up: the Hugos.

The second volume of Kill Bill is a marked improvement upon its predecessor, in that the viewer, rather than being bombarded with the first volume’s THC-inspired stylistic excess, is invited to pick the finest toy from a Cracker Jack box. Alas, a toy is still a toy. Like the first film, Tarantino tries to have it both ways. He wants you to sympathize with his paper-thin characters, here serviced by repeated moments of Uma Thurman sobbing in anguish. But he also wants you to buy into the comic book absurdity of Gordon Liu balancing his entire weight on the edge of a sword. Sure, the latter image is fun (though not as enjoyable as a later swordfight in a trailer mobile home). But with Liu repeatedly fingering his wispy, spirit gummed beard and throwing it off to one side, I had to wonder if I was supposed to enjoy this juvenile joke, or the whole film was an inside joke, or I’ve simply grown tired of movies that aren’t cemented in anything even remotely real. Do the repeated shots of Thurman’s feet represent Tarantino’s camera as fetish? And what’s with all the flabby ass jokes? Awareness of physical deterioration?

Kill Bill Volume 2 is a mess. It’s an enjoyable mess. But it’s also the mark of a filmmaker throwing in the towel, perhaps to fight again another day with his promised World War II movie. The usual Tarantinoisms are here. We have a Mexican standoff. We have a lecture on Superman. We have an eyeball kicked around on the floor. And if you close your eyes while David Carradine is speaking and change the modulation, you can just see Tarantino delivering his own dialogue with the same intonations. None of it is real.

There is one great seedy moment at an unpopulated bar where Michael Madsen is trying to explain to his employer why he’s twenty minutes late, and the bar owner, doing lines of coke and ordering some scantily clad cosnort to sit, begins crossing off days of the week that Madsen is supposed to work. The moment doesn’t add anything at all to the story, except perhaps to explain some of the circumstances which have turned Madsen into a margarita-swilling, rocksalt shotgun-firing, sad sack ex-assassin. But didn’t the scene before this with David Carradine already establish this? Is Tarantino cognizant of the maturity he displayed in Jackie Brown and does he miss it?

The disorganization here, which caused Tarantino to split Kill Bill into two movies, left me wondering if Tarantino was trying a grindhouse take on Leone, if only through length alone. But as goofy as Once Upon a Time in the West is, the film was still about something. Henry Fonda may have been the American West’s cinematic face inverted into a ruthless villain, but the film’s story was strong enough to transcend homage. There were dreams and plans and characters learning to live with loss (whether through Charles Bronson’s vengeance or Claudia Cardinale carrying out her late husband’s plans for a railroad post). By contrast, “real life” in the Kill Bill universe involves snuggling up with your daughter and “popping in a video,” almost indistinguishable from a Lifetime TV movie. Hardly the place where grand plans are forged. In fact, the film comes across as black and white as its wedding rehearsal prologue.

Tarantino, at 41, is too old for these adolescent hijinks. In fact, it’s rather interesting to me that the Kill Bill films have come while another major Miramax king, Kevin Smith, was recently derided for his segue into “adult” territory with Jersey Girl. But at least Smith tried something different. Is it possible that Tarantino is too frightened to evolve? Women are presented as one-dimensional objects and repeatedly misunderstood by Tarantino (to the point where women cannot understand easy-to-comprehend pregnancy test instructions) — all this while Tarantino remains too prudish to expose his candid and potentially creepy feelings for them on screen, much like his hero Brian De Palma. (And is Thurman’s inability to understand Cantonese a slam on former Tarantino girlfriend Mira Sorvino, who is fluent in the language?)

Perhaps I should be relieved that Kill Bill Volume 2 offers a return to long takes, dialogue-centered scenes and snappy repartee. But it’s doubtful that Tarantino can spend an entire career riffing on the same theme and be regarded with any staying power. Then again, when the bar’s as low as it is in Hollywood and accounts are regularly fattened, ingenuity is the first commodity to go. In Tarantino’s case, it’s a grand shame.

[UPDATE: It would appear that Tarantino’s content to keep the formula. In a Newsweek interview last year, Tarantino noted, “If I were to just keep expanding on that ‘Jackie Brown’ thing, you know, in 15 years’ time I would be making some really geriatric movies. The thing is, I don’t need to prove that I can do that with each new movie—because I’ve already proven I can do that. This time I wanted to grow as a filmmaker by what I consider exciting filmmaking.” What’s worse? “Geriatric” movies or infantile ones?]

Laura Miller rails against the first person plural. Of course, I did too back in January, which may make the NYTBR officially three months behind blogs. Then again, if they’re going to refer to cyberpunk as “the bratty offspring of science fiction,” while failing to mention The Diamond Age‘s influence (particularly with its thoughts on nanotechnology, storytelling and advertising) or give credence to fruitloop Richard Pipes, then perhaps they’re not as sui generis as they think. Then again, they do have Choire again this week.

audio post powered by audblog

audio post powered by audblog

Posting will be light over the next couple of days. I won’t go into the details, but it’s been the kind of week that drags you through a deep residue of pigshit, kicks you repeatedly in the gut, and presents conditions that challenge you to rise with grace, faith in humanity, and your dignity intact. (And it makes generous shoutouts like this that much more special.) Plus, I have serious rewriting to do.

In the meantime, check out Laila’s interview with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, watch Sam’s space for upcoming musings on literary theory, and hope that guest blogger Kevin Wignall doesn’t fall prey to dial-up noise over at Sarah’s grand pasture.

CONDITIONS: Each participant has five seconds to talk to a member of the opposite sex before the buzzer sounds. The participant is then hied away to another table with another participant and another conversation. This procedure ensures that all participants dwell upon that pivotal first impression, which is, as unspecified studies show, the most telling indicator in finding a long-term mate or at least a good lay.

CANDIDATE 1: “So tell me about yourself.”
ME: “Well, I’m…”

BUZZ.

ME: “What’s your name?”
CANDIDATE 2: “Rachel. What’s yours?”
ME: “E….”

BUZZ.

ME: “We don’t have much time.”
CANDIDATE 3: “I know.”
ME: “You…”

BUZZ.

ME: “High maintenance?”
CANDIDATE 4: “No, low.”
ME: “Sweet.”

BUZZ. Short break. Coffee and bagels with lowfat cream cheese are served.

ME: “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Continue.

CANDIDATE 5: “Do you like it standing up?”
ME: “Depends. I…”

BUZZ.

ME: “First impression?”
CANDIDATE 6: “You stink.”
ME: “You don’t.”
CANDIDATE 6: “Good.”

BUZZ.

ME: “This is silly.”
CANDIDATE 7: “Got a phone number?”
ME: “Sure. 415…”

BUZZ.

ME: “Quick. Tell me your favorite color!”
CANDIDATE 8: “Bl…”

BUZZ.

The organizer then asked me if I hit it off with any of the candidates. I mention that there was an ineluctable plus with Candidate 5, but I was more interested in learning Candidate 8’s favorite color. Candidate 5, however, had found someone who could articulate his sexual proclivities quicker and the two had disappeared from the rented room. Strangely enough, Candidate 6 thought that we had a connection, but that was only because I was the only man who hadn’t shivered shortly after talking with her.

I went home and watched Jeopardy alone. Somehow, I was able to fire off answers faster than the contestants.

A few days ago, I feared that Tanenhaus was turning the Times into a book form of TV Guide Insider. Today, the ongoing trend of cerebral profiles of pop authors with the aw-shucks human interest angle continued. Today’s profiles are an interview with Intimacies author Eric Brown and another with Tom McNulty, concerning his book Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them. Intimacies is a novel composed of emails, IMs and websites, which, as Sarah suggested this morning, is akin to partying like it’s 1999. And it’s safe to say that years from now, Clean Like a Man won’t be remembered with the same enthusiasm as, oh say, Gulag or even Final Exit. So why give it credence?

When you apply NYT highbrow syntax to everyday situations, it comes off as damn absurd:

“The challenge is summed up neatly in a piece of advice on changing sheets.”

“Mr. McNulty is careful not to disturb the dust on men’s attitudes and habits involving housekeeping, and he has an innate respect for their haplessness toward cleaning chores and their particular pride of place.”

“The stain removal chapter is a litmus for the presence of men at home.”

“He works with what he calls his M.C.U., or mobile cleaning unit, which is a double bucket with cleaning agents like Pledge and Windex that operates as his basic handyman’s kit in each room.”

“Mr. McNulty is not perfect yet, as a white glove test revealed.”

“Although they have attracted a lot of attention, digital epistolary and message fiction like ‘Intimacies’ are not the only electronic forms of literature vying for attention on the Web.”

“Still, Mr. Brown’s digital novel has drawn praise from some scholars interested in new media, especially those who hope to take e-literature mainstream.”

It would be one thing if the content had something to do with the latest from Stephen Elliott or David Mitchell. Under the aegis of an actual idea, we might buy sentences like this. But as I read these offerings, I felt as if I was being bathed in a lukewarm light blinking in a dark, fetid room. Each sentence represents an effort to suffuse flash on a surface of nothingness.

If this is the way it’s going to be, I fear that Tanenhaus’s early efforts are tarnishing the Times. Where’s Eurotrash on this?

[UPDATE: It suddenly occurs to me that the two profiles came, respectively, from the Circuits and Garden sections, and that Tanenhaus isn’t necessarily responsible. Even so, the articles were placed in prominent slots on the online Books section as of this afternoon. Why would anybody serious about books be interested in this thing? I suspect Bill Keller’s hand has been caught in the cookie jar.]

Sir Walter Scott’s last novel will be published. The novel, Reliquiae Trotcosienses: The Gabions of the Late Jonathan Oldbuck Esq of Monkbarns, is an unfinished 100-page manuscript that he was working on shortly before his death. The book hadn’t published up until now because nobody could spell or remember the title correctly.

Chancellor Schroeder has obtained a court ban against a novel that involves a shopkeeper assassinating a chancellor. The titular and dying charater in Reinhard Liebermann’s The End of the Chancellor: Shooting in Self-Defence apparently bore close resemblance to Schroeder.

By contrast, here in the States, Stephen Coonts’ Under Seige had no problems including an explicit assassination attempt on President Bush I (with the truly terrifying result of Dan Quayle taking over the nation). And in Loren Singer’s novel, The Parallax View, there was a presidential assassination (unlike the A-1 Alan Pakula movie, which took a few liberties with the text).

Correction: “A front-page article on April 2 about television shows that have recently incorporated criticism of President Bush into their scripts included one erroneously. While an episode of ‘Whoopi’ critical of the president was broadcast recently, it was a rerun; the show originally appeared last fall.”

Integrity! Integrity!

The Observer corrals several tidbits suggesting that the legendary Jimmy Breslin falsified an interview with a minister. The Post talks to Breslin himself. And Newsday notes that the column in question didn’t meet their standards.

Plum Sykes: “When I did the photos for Vogue, Anna Wintour joked ‘Can’t you go blonde for the day?’ And I said ‘no!'”

Defiant to the last.

Recently, President Bush addressed the nation in a press conference. He offered many answers to questions on Iraq. In an effort to understand the Bush administration’s motivations, I’ve tried applying some of Bush’s answers to everyday situations.

BUSH: “It’s not a civil war; it’s not a popular uprising.”
ME (to Peet’s employee): “It’s not a cup of coffee; it’s not a popular uprising.”
PEET’S EMPLOYEE: “No, sir. It’s a cup of coffee. Revolution has nothing to do with it. Please leave.”

BUSH: “The nation of Iraq is moving toward self-rule, and Iraqis and Americans will see evidence in the months to come.”
ME (to IRS): “The nation of America is moving toward self-rule, and America and the IRS will see evidence in the months to come.”
IRS: “Actually, sir, if you don’t pay your taxes on April 15, you will face severe penalties and arrest.”

BUSH: “Iraqi’s neighbors also have responsibilities to make their region more stable.”
ME (to landlord): “My neighbors also have responsibilities to make their apartments more stable.”
LANDLORD: “If you have a legitimate gripe, fill out this grievance form.”

BUSH: “Over the last several decades, we’ve seen that any concession or retreat on our part will only embolden this enemy and invite more bloodshed.”
ME (to sibling): “Over the last several decades, we’ve seen that any concession or retreat on our part will only embolden our family and invite more internecine disputes.”
SIBLING: “Ed, do you need a hug?”

BUSH: “And as to whether or not I make decisions based upon polls, I don’t. I just don’t make decisions that way. I fully understand the consequences of what we’re doing. We’re changing the world. And the world will be better off and America will be more secure as a result of the actions we’re taking.
ME (to co-host of party): “And as to whether or not I organize parties based upon other people’s opinions, I don’t. I just don’t make decisions that way. I fully understand the consequences of what we’re doing. We’re changing the party. And the party will be better off and the apartment will be more secure as a result of the plans we’re making.”
CO-HOST: “All right. But don’t count on any future invitations.”

BUSH: “I hope I — I don’t want to sound like I’ve made no mistakes. I’m confident I have. I just haven’t — you just put me under the spot here, and maybe I’m not as quick on my feet as I should be in coming up with one.”
ME (to lover trying to reconcile relationship): “I hope I — I don’t want to sound like I’ve made no mistakes. I’m confident I have. I just haven’t — you just put me under the spot here, and maybe I’m not as quick on my feet as I should be in coming up with one.”
LOVER: “Jesus, can’t you take any kind of initiative?”

BUSH: “And my message to the loved ones who are worried about their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, is: You’re loved one is performing a noble service for the cause of freedom and peace.”
ME (downsizing employee): “And my message to your loved ones who are worried about how you will support your family is: Your loved one has performed a noble service for the cause of capitalism and profit.”
EMPLOYEE: “Oh, just give me my severance pay and shut up.”

Terry Jones responds to Tony Blair’s essay: “His essay, of course, is written with his usual passion and conviction, but, in the real world, passion and conviction do not count for many marks.”

A9, Amazon’s search engine, has gone live in primitive form. John Battelle has the scoop. The search engine corrals Google results and Amazon book results in one go. A toolbar allowing the user to annotate is also planned. (via Kottke)

Recently, Orson Scott Card wrote an inflammatory essay that’s about as vile a screed as one can write. However, he is also the author of Ender’s Game (a good book) and a solid writer. Maud writes that she won’t be reading him. Jessa notes that a novel and a political essay are separate conduits. I’m inclined to agree with Jessa. If politics was a factor in my own fictional choices, then I’d have to discount Action Francaise member Andre Gide, Nazi Knut Hamsun, right-wing isolationist Robert A. Heinlein, and fascist Ezra Pound (or, for that matter, anti-feminist Dave Sim’s strong early Cerebus work), to name just a few. And that would, in my view at least, be a tragedy.

While I can understand it when someone is bothered by the poltical motivations of an author (name a single person who really wants to read another bloated Barbara Kingsolver essay), I’m troubled by the idea that an author’s political viewpoint spreads like a vicious cancer into his work. This morning, Mark posed a question about whether politics makes for great art. The only immediate examples that came to my head were Elizabeth Gaskell, Arthur Miller, and Margaret Atwood. But even in these offerings, the politics is relatively subdued, more subject to a reader’s individual impressions. It’s a far more subtle thing for Atwood to point out the politics of gender in Cat’s Eye by showing us how girls are reluctant to touch bugs in a university building, implying that 1940s society carried an unspoken stigma that an entomologist’s line was verboeten to women. The great thing about Willie Loman is how both the lower-class can identify with Loman’s struggles for success, while the successful businessman can relate to Loman’s sense of failure. It is human behavior which guides art. Sometimes, the behavior is politically charged, but more often or not, it is the reader’s own political sensibilities that make the connections.

As amusing as David Kipen’s Tanenhaus column is, there’s the deeper question of why Tanenhaus’s politics matter so much — at least, in relation to the fiction coverage. (And full confession: I still have concerns that “liberal” nonfiction books won’t be covered as abundantly as they were under Chip McGrath’s tenure.) In all the top ten lists listed at Barnhardt’s, is there a single political one on the list? Although a case can be made for Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men, there’s the question of whether it’s a politically charged novel with echoes of Huey Long or a novel about seduction and selling out. Again, personal sensibilities determine the individual reader’s distinction.

So add me to the list of curious bystanders. Can anyone take up Mark’s challenge and name a Great Political Novel and explain why it succeeded?

[UPDATE: Maud and Rasputin respond.]

Christopher Hampton is adapting Ian McEwan’s Atonement for the big screen (among other things).

Dave Eggers writes about his musical tastes (and the Kings of Leon) for Spin. There are numerous digressions. Some of them are tolerable and got me to smile. Others, such as the candy analogy, are unpardonable. Come on, Dave! Make me love you!

For those following the exorbitant textbook issue, there’s some interesting reform going on up in Oregon. Oregon Congressman David Wu has proposed a bill that would require the U.S. General Accounting Office to report on the circumstances that lead a textbook publisher to set prices. The legislation was sparked by students in Oregon and California complaining about being fleeced. However, Pat Schroeder, president of the Association of American Publishers, noted in the CNN article that the student report was flawed.

So what do you do when you’re a financial site looking to garner some Wall Streetcred? You, uh, interview Kinky Friedman about money. Fortunately, Friedman keeps up a goofy poker face:

Bankrate: What would you have done if you hadn’t sold that book?

Kinky Friedman: I was going to commit suicide by jumping through a ceiling fan.

James Marcus: “Already there are turf wars, low-level spats. No doubt a pecking order will gradually materialize, since even cyberspace operates according to the familiar logic of Animal Farm: All bloggers are created equal, but some are more equal than others. There will be stars, contract players, boffo traffic numbers. There will be a proliferation of advertising on the most visible sites — there is already, in fact — and a defiant tug-of-war between the early bloggers and their entrepreneurial successors.”

NEW YORK (AP): Lit blogger Edward Champion was announced as Maud Newton’s bitch last night. Mr. Champion, who lost his right to blog about literature shortly after being beaten to a pulp by Ron Hogan in a backalley brawl last April, had long been targeted by the Final Three: Sarah Weinman, Jessa Crispin and Newton.

Mr. Champion’s hair has been shaven off and his limbs have been replaced by QWERTY keyboards connected to Google News. Newton and her gang plan to use Mr. Champion as either a modular bookshelf or a footstool.

Hogan, however, has not declared any firm loyalties to Newton. Independent sources report that Hogan has been conspiring with Mark Sarvas and the disgraced Terry Teachout (fired from his Wall Street Journal and Commentary gigs shortly after OGIC defected over to the Weinman camp).

Crispin remains a formidable force. Shortly after having TFMTML’s liver for dinner last week, she announced that Sam Jones would be her World Domination Consultant.

Despite Ms. Weinman’s clear lead among the Final Three, there are rumors that
Laila Lalami is planning a coup with Nathalie Chica and the Old Hag.

Robert Birnbaum remains missing. Newton’s camp has claimed responsibility.

(via Rake)

The reign of Tanenhaus has begun, and it looks like we’re off to a juicy start. Dinitra Smith has a fun little profile-cum-review up about author humiliations. Carlo Gebler was trying to read in front of a bunch of drunken students. Carl Hiaasen arrived at a reading, only to find he was scheduled at the same time as a chili-cooking class and a football game. Rick Moody’s mother gave reviewed one of his books for Amazon and gave it only three stars. More in the article.