sovay | No, sir! I ate a salamander and jumped out the window!

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No, sir! I ate a salamander and jumped out the window!

I seem to be stranded in the land of summary posts. Have some things I have encountered recently.

1. Nine episodes into Gravity Falls, I was explaining to

derspatchel that there are ways in which the show reminds me of nothing so much as the novels of Daniel Pinkwater, especially the way the human characters are just as off-kilter as all the supernatural mystery going on around them. Fewer jokes involving Yiddish, equal time for weird relatives. Beautifully sideways treatments of familiar genre tropes and the matter of being an oddball. This is a world in which the eighth-and-a-half President of the United States successfully preserved himself in peanut brittle for two hundred years after his eccentricities so embarrassed his country that a national conspiracy was instigated to replace him in the historical record with William Henry Harrison. (Think about that for a minute.) Next to Grunkle Stan or Old Man McGucket, Flipping Hades Terwilliger would pass without comment. And I can say this as someone who discovered The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death (1982) reprinted in an omnibus of Pinkwater's 5 Novels (1997) this afternoon in the basement of the Harvard Book Store—I haven't read the book since eighth grade at the latest, but I remember I considered it my favorite Pinkwater at the time. I am so looking forward.

2.

rushthatspeaks was entirely correct that I would love Frances Hardinge's Fly by Night (2005). I have just finished the sequel, Fly Trap (2011, Twilight Robbery in the UK. I am waiting for the third book to have some kind of time-of-day title as well, after which her American publishers can feel silly). On the one hand, it's probably facile to describe the world of Mosca Mye, Eponymous Clent, and Saracen the homicidal goose as the perfect cross between Lloyd Alexander in Westmark mode and Sid Fleischman, especially when I have no idea of Hardinge's relationship to either author. On the other, I can't think of a more concise way to get across both the intelligence of the political fantasy and the sly, word-smitten humor of the world and how much I enjoyed both books, unless it's the fact that I was so taken with the first conversation between Mosca and Clent (at the end of Chapter One of Fly by Night, "A Is for Arson") that I typed out the whole five and a half pages and sent them posthaste to Rob. There was going to be more in this vein, but I just looked at Hardinge's bibliography to double-check dates and saw that we were in the same issue of Steve Pasechnick's Alchemy in 2006 and now I'm just kind of staring at the retrospective awesome in my life. Most of 2006 sucked. All right, autumn, are you making a point here?

3. I've been meaning for a week to post about Suddenly (1954), the film

lesser_celery and I watched last Wednesday, because I cannot in good conscience recommend it except for Frank Sinatra, but he makes it worth watching. Without him, the movie would be an entirely forgettable piece of boilerplate B-noir. No one in it is more than plot mechanics—you can hear the creaks and thunks as we meet the pretty war widow whose husband's death has left her so sensitized to violence that she won't even let her son have a cap gun to play with, which the film makes clear is as short-sighted and selfish an attitude as her refusal to remarry the persistent sheriff of their small California town ("Suddenly," so named from its overnight settlement during a gold rush, after which nothing exciting ever happened there again) whom her son would really like as a father, not least because he's tall and strong and carries a gun and no one is ever going to call him a sissy, who's only doing the reasonable thing when he slips her son his coveted cap gun on the sly because, as her father-in-law explains over her protests, she's got to let her son grow up someday and learn that there's evil in the world and it has to be faced down and dealt with, not hidden from or la-la-landed away and can she just stop being a woman for a second? Quote. Cardboard dialogue, tin-tongued delivery, agonizing gender idiocy at every turn: we made it through the first half-hour only by virtue of MST3K. And then Sinatra shows up.

He should have played fewer heroes. Johnny Baron isn't even brainwashed Ben Marco, trying so hard to be the white knight. He's wire-tight, whip-quick, thin as a burnt ghost, a paid killer who got his training on twenty-seven Germans at Monte Cassino and liked it. He talks too much for his own good and Sterling Hayden as our purported hero keeps trying to psychoanalyze him in the ham-handed way of social problem films, but the script never satisfactorily explains him: he's a man doing a job, telling himself it's for the dough when anyone who sees the shine in his eyes for more than a second knows it's really for the thrill of being the first successful assassin of a President of the United States. He's studied the others. He knows where they went wrong. He wouldn't have gone after the President on his own—politics are meaningless to him—but for half a million dollars he'll become the world's expert on the subject. And he makes the film interesting, because it is otherwise programmatic about disproving Ellen's pacifist convictions: there are some situations which can only be answered with deadly force, she should be proud if her son dies in battle so long as he dies in the service of his country . . . Johnny's a slum kid, illegitimate, mother implied to be a prostitute, father explicitly a violent alcoholic, in and out of state homes and institutions until he's shaken loose on the streets with nothing but nightmares of being swallowed by the crowd whose faces are all his and all hopeless; the war was his salvation because it gave him a gun and he learned his gift was for killing, and it rewarded him for killing more and more (and more and more viciously) until one day he killed someone he hadn't been drafted to and was section-eighted home, which he still doesn't understand. The gun was his salvation in civilian life: shaken loose on the streets again, this time he moved rapidly up the mob's food chain until he became the first person you call when you want a president shot. He's twitchy, but he's not crazy, at least not in the unstable trigger-junkie way the other characters keep saying; he's a surprisingly good portrait of someone who's taken so much damage, you might as well call him a sociopath because scar tissue isn't a code in the DSM. As he disarms her of the kitchen knife she was holding inexpertly but contemplatively, Ellen flares at him, "Haven't you any feelings at all?" and he's not even sneering when he answers, "No, I haven't, lady. They were taken out of me by experts. Feeling's a trap. Show me a guy with feelings and I'll show you a sucker. It's a weakness. Makes you think of something besides yourself. If I had any feelings left in me at all, they'd be for me. Just me." The film keeps telling us that Ellen's son Pidge should grow up to carry a gun like all good American boys, but Baron is just as American and when his country handed him a gun, it put a sniper's sights on its president's head a dozen years later. I'm not even sure the film is aware it's doing this. But the result is fascinating whiplash: so long as it's following Sinatra, it's almost as morally nuanced as noir calls for and actually as gripping as the story of a home invasion assassination plot should be, even if you can pretty much put down cash that an American film from 1954 won't end with a kid bleeding out or a bullet through the president's head. Somebody recommend me some more uncharming Sinatra. He was a surprisingly good Nathan Detroit, but I think I like him best when I'm not sure if he's about to shoot someone in the face.

4. I should be more awake to write about Blackmail (1929), Alfred Hitchcock's last silent movie and first talkie, which I saw with live accompaniment at the Coolidge Corner Theatre on Monday. I find myself mostly thinking about Donald Calthrop, who plays the blackmailer of the title—I think of Hitchcock villains mostly in the dramatic line, Peter Lorre in The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934), Joseph Cotten in Shadow of a Doubt (1943), James Mason in North by Northwest (1959), shadowily political or psychologically all kinked up, either way figures to be reckoned with. Calthrop's Tracy is a shabby little nobody, a petty ex-con with nervous, ingratiating habits who stretches out expansively with a cigar he can't pay for and tucks heartily into someone else's breakfast when he thinks he's got the upper hand; he has a clever character face and a trick of diffidence even when ostentatiously patting his pockets down and while he makes a threatening shadow against the door of the dead artist's house by night, in person on the killer's doorstep the next morning he looks most like a failed actor, overplaying a scene without the stage presence to pull it off. All he's got is the glove in his pocket, his word against a woman's reputation. I was struck almost as much by his anonymity as by the way he drops suddenly into sympathy when pinned for the crime he didn't commit, all his stolen swagger collapsing out of him as physically as if he'd taken a punch in the ribs. He panics and he's hunted and it doesn't erase the savor he took in holding his evidence over a woman who is already walking through waking nightmares of what she's done, but he shouldn't pull even that much of the audience's pity: I suppose in that he foreshadows Claude Rains in Notorious (1946), so there's a link after all. But I'm still trying to think of another Hitchcock film where the danger is so seedily domestic and I'm not really coming up with anything. I haven't seen his entire filmography—I'll take suggestions. In the meantime, it seems that Donald Calthrop plays a supporting part in The Man Who Changed His Mind (1936), which

teenybuffalo may have recommended to me? It's got Boris Karloff and mad science. I don't see how I could go wrong.

5. I think Midnight Riot (né Rivers of London, 2011) is the book I've been waiting years for Neil Gaiman to write, except Ben Aaronovitch got there first. I was able to identify the figure behind the mystery on page twenty and I was still not disappointed in it.

I keep misquoting a line from The Lady's Not for Burning. You'd think I'd be able to memorize eight words, the importance I keep placing on that play. —Go away, T. Witt. Autumn is making a point. This is going to be a better fall.

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the book I've been waiting years for Neil Gaiman to write, except Ben Aaronovitch got there first

Heh. It definitely does have that feel; but handled better in many ways (I like Gaiman's work a lot, but keep getting an indefinable could be better I can't put my finger on from his novels).

a paid killer who got his training on twenty-seven Germans at Monte Cassino and liked it

Well that only led to the most unexpected poemlet I've written in a while. (Been to Monte Cassino. Painful.)

The film keeps telling us that Ellen's son Pidge should grow up to carry a gun like all good American boys, but Baron is just as American and when his country handed him a gun, it put a sniper's sights on its president's head a dozen years later. I'm not even sure the film is aware it's doing this.
But the result is fascinating whiplash: so long as it's following Sinatra, it's almost as morally nuanced as noir calls for and actually as gripping as the story of a home invasion assassination plot should be, even if you can pretty much put down cash that an American film from 1954 won't end with a kid bleeding out or a bullet through the president's head.

Haha! I love it! A film that ends up nuanced in spite of itself--and in focused on the villain. Fascinating.

I keep wanting to write you an email but life interferes, so here goes:

I think I saw ...Suddenly on VHS, on impulse, because of reasons; it might've been referenced in a book on Film Noir, but more likely I think it was in a book on 1950s films that I later found I completely disagreed with vis a vis its thesis on the subtext of most era-specific genre movies. And I remember having almost all the same reactions you did here, though in slightly more puerile form, because I was, like...seventeen, or something. Instead of paying attention to and trying to process the background characters, I just skipped over them in my head, because their corniness was too much to bear for the hipster sensitivities I was trying to cultivate. But I did (if not love, per se; he won't let you) admire Sinatra's Johnny a lot. From my current perspective, his line about disliking to give anything away for free reminds me most of Nolan's Joker in The Dark Knight, thus perhaps shoring up Steve's theory that that iteration must've begun life as a only slightly unhinged black ops guy. It's certainly a breathtakingly odd thing to say in a perfect little 1950s town, and I wonder what lessons Pidge will really take away from this man's intrusion into his formative years.

(It also reminds me that around the same time, I watched a 1961 thriller in which Johnny Cash played one of a gang of bank robbers going door to door in a small town, holing up with whoever answered their knock and then killing them when they had to leave. The plan was slightly more elaborate than it sounds: The home invasion took place at a bank president's house, and Johnny disguised himself as a door-to-door guitar instructor. It's called Five Minutes to Live, and Johnny being Johnny, he also wrote and performed the title credits song.)

Edited 2012-09-19 13:00 (UTC)

I adore the Aaronovitch series. I kept thinking it was written just for me, as it centers on the parts that of London that I know best and I keep getting even little in-joke asides.

The Aaronovitch books are marvelous. At the moment, they are my go-to gifts for _genre

(I like Gaiman's work a lot, but keep getting an indefinable could be better I can't put my finger on from his novels).

I've never liked any of his prose as much as his work in comics. There is an exception of one story I never remember until I'm re-reading it, so I can't tell you which one it is. (I like the historical vignette chapters of American Gods; I would have enjoyed a cycle of those. The rest of the book burned a lot of goodwill with me.) It may be "Keepsakes and Treasures."

Well that only led to the most unexpected poemlet I've written in a while. (Been to Monte Cassino. Painful.)

I'm . . . sorry? (Do I get to read it?)

I kept thinking it was written just for me, as it centers on the parts that of London that I know best and I keep getting even little in-joke asides.

Nice! I take it I should read the sequels?

He writes an incredibly good sense of place. Which can be faked; see M. John Harrison's Viriconium or most of the novels of Jeff VanderMeer. But he's good about giving directions both by history and the newsagent's on the corner and the combination does not feel like an author plotting out a map for verisimilitude, it just feels like a city in all its dimensions. Including the ones that aren't there for most people.

Edited 2012-09-19 16:32 (UTC)

A film that ends up nuanced in spite of itself--and in focused on the villain. Fascinating.

It seems to be Netflixable, although you shouldn't watch the colorized version. I suspect you can also find it playing freely online.

At the moment, they are my go-to gifts for _genre

Rivers of London had all the elements of urban fantasy that usually do nothing for me, especially the combination of police procedural with secret history, but I don't think it's simply that it's so well done, it transcends its genre—I hate that criticism—I think it's that it knows the right way to put its disparate genres together. Police work isn't the plodding thing magic is there to get around. Magic didn't spend the twentieth century being outcompeted by science, everyone just assumed it was and let it fade accordingly. The dual nature of London's rivers is a beautiful expression of change and multiculturalism, echoed but not schematized by the protagonist's mixed race. And I don't want to kick anyone for the Latin; I think there is one confusion of singular and plural and otherwise Aaronovitch is so ahead of Jim Butcher, I shouldn't even finish this comparison. There is a certain kind of mythic fiction that builds itself around personifications and it runs the risk of being reductive: this symbol, this alignment. Even after you know Father Thames' name when he was human, you still don't know everything about him. Mama Thames never tells us her name.

Nightingale's is the backstory I want most at this point, which is probably not surprising. I thought he might be older than he looked almost as soon as I realized that the references he kept making clustered around the Second World War, but I'd love to know if he's actually long-lived human (in which case I assume he's just running off environmental magic, like Molly or the vampires, only less predatorily) or something more complicated. Peter did get a vestigium of canvas off him once.

Instead of paying attention to and trying to process the background characters, I just skipped over them in my head, because their corniness was too much to bear for the hipster sensitivities I was trying to cultivate.

To be fair, I think they are from an entirely different movie, the white-picket-fence template into which Johnny's realism breaks as violently as the character into his victims' lives. I'm just not convinced this was a deliberate effect.

From my current perspective, his line about disliking to give anything away for free reminds me most of Nolan's Joker in The Dark Knight, thus perhaps shoring up Steve's theory that that iteration must've begun life as a only slightly unhinged black ops guy.

Hah! I feel I should have made that connection.

It's certainly a breathtakingly odd thing to say in a perfect little 1950s town, and I wonder what lessons Pidge will really take away from this man's intrusion into his formative years.

I would have respected the film so much more if it had closed on that image of dead Johnny in a room full of bodies, not all of whom are his work: the sunny coda with Pidge idolizing his recovering grandfather while the sheriff and the widow finally get their courtship on felt like one of those classically unconvincing attempts to paper over the horror, coaxing the audience that things are all the way back to normal—or better—when really I agree with you that Pidge has gotten a mixed lesson in gods and guns at best. And if not, there's always 1965 waiting for him.

It's called Five Minutes to Live, and Johnny being Johnny, he also wrote and performed the title credits song.

. . . I've never seen Johnny Cash in a movie. Much less as a murderous door-to-door guitar instructor. I'll look this up.

It seems to me most of the Sinatra films I've seen (or, at any rate, the ones that stick with me) have been of the uncharming variety. The Man With the Golden Arm definitely fits the bill, as does Some Came Running, and, for that matter, The Manchurian Candidate.

The Man With the Golden Arm definitely fits the bill, as does Some Came Running, and, for that matter, The Manchurian Candidate.

I've seen—and love—The Manchurian Candidate, but not the other two. Tell me about them?

The Man With the Golden Arm: gritty Otto Preminger film, with Sinatra as a heroin addict fresh out of jail, trying (unsuccessfully) to stay clean. It has a great jazz score.

It's been awhile since I saw So Came Running. Mainly I remember that Sinatra plays a cynical writer type who becomes friends with a gambling alcoholic (played by Dean Martin).

I wrote that comment on the Metro this morning, where I was stuck because there was a power outage between two of the stations. I bet you never could have guessed ... . ;) I meant to say "for genre-loving friends" at the end there, but the train got too crowded to type on the phone any more.

I love the way Aaronovitch rarely uses any trope in an expected way. Even the smallest characters are fresh and lively (like the Muslimah special investigator).

'Sorry' and 'poem', no, not in the same sentence ;)

Yes.

Speaking of misquoting Lady, try doing it on live stage, where it comes out as, "And make the place we're lost in look as much like wherever it is as possible."

"And make the place we're lost in look as much like wherever it is as possible."

Hee! That was your production?

I wrote that comment on the Metro this morning, where I was stuck because there was a power outage between two of the stations.

I take it you got home all right!

Even the smallest characters are fresh and lively (like the Muslimah special investigator).

Dr. Walid is awesome.

The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death...???

[boggles]
It sounds like something you'd see on the spine of a book in the background of a comic by Shaenon.

It sounds like something you'd see on the spine of a book in the background of a comic by Shaenon.

It does! It's one of the weirdest books I can remember reading as a child. It's also brilliant. You'll like it.

Have you read any of Christopher Fowler's Bryant and May novels? I think they may've influenced Aaronovitch a bit.

Have you read any of Christopher Fowler's Bryant and May novels?

I haven't—tell me about them?

Bryant and May are the geriatric front men of London's Peculiar Crimes Unit. Arthur Bryant in particular is a great character: a codger with a talent for destroying all technology (especially mobile phones), an encyclopaedic knowledge of the capital, and an eclectic set of friends, including dealers, mediums, and academics. Most of the recent B and M books are crime with weird trappings, but they turn up in earlier Fowler novels like Rune and Soho Black too, and they're dark fantasy.

I'm with you both on Gaiman - I prefer his comics, too. And his TV work.

Arthur Bryant in particular is a great character: a codger with a talent for destroying all technology (especially mobile phones), an encyclopaedic knowledge of the capital, and an eclectic set of friends, including dealers, mediums, and academics.

I'd read that.

Where do I start?

I'd say Rune. If you'd like to try the non-fantastical Bryant and May, go for Full Dark House, their first case, set in a theatre during the Blitz.

Very amateur, and I wasn't even involved, really.

And his TV work.

What has he written for television besides Neverwhere and the respective episodes of Babylon 5 and Doctor Who? (I love his film with Dave McKean, MirrorMask. I posted about it rather incoherently at the time.)

Full Dark House, their first case, set in a theatre during the Blitz.

That also sounds like something I would enjoy.

Thank you!

You're welcome. If it's hard to find, give me a shout; I've a copy you can have if you like.

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No, sir! I ate a salamander and jumped out the window!

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