The Film I Didn’t Watch: I Spit On Your Grave

My wife being a fan of (preferably bad) horror movies, she is working her way, this holiday season, though lists of scary movies; first the list from our local paper, then random movies (I guess) that she’s stumbled over on the web.

So she ended up streaming “I Spit On Your Grave.”  This was the original 1978 film, not the 2010 remake.

I don’t share her tastes so I’m not watching any of these films.

But I do stick my head into the room from time to time.  Every time I looked in on “I Spit On Your Grave,” the young blonde protagonist was being raped by a different man in the gang that had been following her.  Much later, the protagonist was finishing off one of the men by tying him to the outboard motor on her motor boat, and turning on the engine.

I now discover this film has a history.  Graphically violent, it has been attacked for being misogynist and praised for being a feminist revenge film.  I just thought it was (in the scenes I saw) disgusting.

Curiously, though, I once held the idea that art should be graphic.  If you are dealing with a disgusting topic, “show, don’t tell.”  Show them how disgusting it is!

I’ve grown more subtle (and compassionate?) over the years.  I no longer feel the need to nauseate.

NaNoWriMo Did Me In?

I attempted National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) for the first time this year.  Last year, I just did random writing every day I could manage, but this year I actually wrote the draft of a novel—50,000 words plus.  And I started from scratch (I had previously written about 400 words on the idea, but I didn’t use them) – I had an idea, that’s all.
 

Three weeks in, I had to stop to work on some financial reports I do as treasurer of our writing group—lost four or five days of writing; but I made that up.

Still, the month rather “did me in.”  I have not been here.  I missed you, blog!  And I missed the sense of sharing something with my friends.  But I’m back, with new ideas—just in time for the holidays!

Meanwhile, I have been reading:  Finished Felice Picano’s book Ambidextrous.  Now I’m rereading The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath; and a biography of Plath to learn more about her.

Both books quite interesting—and I’ll be saying more about them!  Also watched the film A Good Year, with Russell Crowe, Marion Cotillard, and Albert Finney.

Also saw Kill Your Darlings, in the theater.  This experience was reminiscent of a year ago when I saw (finally!) the film of On The Road.  But more of these later.

Listening to music, as always; mostly, the four-CD collection “Bebop Spoken Here.”  But then, for some reason, I decided it was time to catch up on Rock—so grabbed “Bon Jovi’s Greatest Hits” at the Sunnyvale library.  Not to abandon Jazz, though—I picked up “Tommy Dorsey’s Greatest Hits” at the same time.  Now I’m back on Bach’s Christmas Oratorio.  It’s been an incredibly busy December—nine meetings/events in eighteen days! 

But now, some peace and quiet, hopefully:  I’m taking time off work.  Today is my last work day until Monday, January 6, 2014!

Anticipating “Kill Your Darlings”

(Yes, I've been doing NaNoWriMo -- but I had to post this!)

Perhaps this week, or next weekend, I shall get to see the new film “Kill Your Darlings,” starring Daniel Radcliffe as the young Allen Ginsberg.  This film is based on an incident that shook up New York City in 1944, involving the young college student who had brought together Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and William Burroughs—the three writers who would become known fifteen years later as the core writers of the Beat movement.  Kerouac and Burroughs wrote a novel about it, which was never published and remained hidden away until after their deaths.  The young college student, Lucien Carr, spent some time in prison but eventually became a well-respected editor for the UPI news service—and fervently avoided any further notoriety during his remaining decades of life.

The basic story:  Kerouac had dropped out of Colombia University; Ginsberg was or would soon be expelled.  Burroughs, about ten years older and related to the founder of Burroughs Corporation, had come to lead a fairly seamy existence, the dark-horse of the family.

A friend of Burroughs, also in his thirties, had become infatuated with Lucien Carr when Carr was still in elementary school.  David Kammerer pursued Carr for seven or eight years.  Finally one night, in a park in upper Manhattan…

But that would be a “spoiler.”

In any case, the story provided material for a number of would-be literary works.  Carr worked very hard to persuade his friends not to publish their own works relating to it.  But everyone connected with it, including Carr, is dead—and the story has reached the screen.

I’ve seen mixed reviews—but I’m looking forward to seeing the film myself.  It’s playing now at selected theaters.  I hope to see it before Thanksgiving.

A Little on "Doctor Sax"

So what is Doctor Sax?

It’s a book by Jack Kerouac, about himself at age eleven or thereabouts; about him and his family and his boyhood friends; and the flood that ruined his father’s printing business; and his boyhood fantasy world of good and evil.  It is quite different from Picano’s book about himself at the same age.

Kerouac wrote it while visiting William Burroughs in Mexico City in the early 1950s.  He allegedly wrote much of it while locked in the bathroom smoking marijuana.  He was influenced by the indigenous Mexican mythology he was learning about from Burroughs.

The background is Kerouac’s French-Canadian Catholic Massachusetts childhood.  In his outer life, Kerouac plays with his street friends and comes home to his parents and his sister.  But in his inner life, he envisions a world of demons, angels, and guardians.

The mythology is this:  Satan, in the form of a gigantic snake, was hurled into the center of the earth following The Fall.  Since then the snake has been burrowing upwards towards the surface. Now (roughly 1933) he is threatening to break through the earth’s surface at the site of an old castle-like building in Kerouac’s hometown, Lowell Massachusetts.  In anticipation of this, a huge “convention of world evil” is being held in the castle, attended by demons, vampires, and other evil creatures.  A heretical sect, the Dovists, claim that the Snake is an illusion—“merely a husk of doves.”  On the Last Day, the Dovists believe the doves will bring tidings of peace to the world.

Meanwhile a saint named Doctor Sax has spent generations seeking the potion that will destroy the snake.  On the day of the flood, he takes young Kerouac (called Dulouz in the book) under his care as he goes to destroy the snake.  Unfortunately, the powders and potions that Doctor Sax has spent generations perfecting have absolutely no effect on the snake.  All seems lost.  The universe doesn’t seem to care.  Evil seems triumphant.

Then a gigantic bird appears in the sky, accompanied by battalions of doves.  The bird grabs the snake and disappears with it into the sky.  Doctor Sax is amazed:  “The Universe disposes of its own evil!”  It is Easter morning.

It’s a strange book.  Then again, Eleven-year-old boys (and girls too, I’d wager) dream strange dreams.  Doctor Sax is an entirely different approach to novels about pre-adolescence.

Neither Doctor Sax, nor Picano’s Ambidextrous are your “ordinary” stories of coming of age.

Picano and Me

So I’ve been reading a lot in two areas:  Let’s call them “counter-culture” and “gay.”  By counter-culture I mean of the ‘50s, ‘60s, and maybe ‘70s:  The Beat writers and their offshoots:  Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs…Kesey, Hunter Thompson.  And the gay writers I’m talking about are the people associated with the Violet Quill of the ‘70s and ‘80s, but have been writing ever since; people like Edmund White, Andrew Holleran, and Felice Picano.

 

I have some mixed feelings about all of them.  The Beats I respect, but they certainly were a bunch of highly individualistic people.  I’m more conflicted about the Violet Quill; is it some kind of latent residual homophobia on my part?

I’m now halfway through Picano’s “memoir in the form of a novel, Ambidextrous.  I wasn’t expecting to like it.  My first attempt to read it ended when I got bored with his descriptions of being able to write with both hands as a child.  It just didn’t seem interesting.  And I seen reviews talking about all the childhood sex he describes in the book.

But I’ve gotten interested in his story, for reasons I hadn’t anticipated.  I’d read the sequel, Men Who Loved Me, first; so I knew about the years of his young adulthood.  He seemed much more freewheeling than I.  In fact we seemed quite different.  But now—

Well, I discover he had a run-in with a teacher in the fifth grade; quite a bit of trouble with that teacher, actually.

I had trouble in the fifth grade.  Whereas Picano’s teacher bullied him, my own teacher merely teased me.  My perception—well, it might as well have been bullying.  Now it might be considered mild psychological bullying.

But I believe my teacher simply liked me and didn’t know how to express it.  I was fairly shy at the time, in a new school and a new environment because of my own circumstances of growing up with the U.S. military.  Anyway, I hadn’t been expecting that Picano and I would have an unpleasant fifth-grade experience in common.

And a bit further on into the story:  Descriptions of model airplanes.  Picano’s friend makes airplanes out of balsa wood.  I myself bought plastic models and assembled them.  Picano describes the different airplanes that were modeled, plus the decals, the paints, etc.; and hanging them from the ceiling.  

As a child, I assembled some airplane models; though I didn’t concentrate on planes.  I made several large ship models; a large model of the Eiffel Tower; cars; etc.  

In short, as far as Picano’s description of himself at the age of eleven or twelve, I could relate to that; in spite of the fact that he was talking about New York City and its suburbs, while I would be talking about the tidewater area of Virginia, about seven years later than he is describing.

Picano’s descriptions have moved me along a bit towards continuing with my own novel based on my early life.  And for that I thank him!

I’ve also been taking another look at Kerouac’s Doctor Sax, another novel dealing with a boy who is eleven or twelve—but that is a totally different type of work!