Now You See Me

For me, the draw of this movie was Jesse Eisenberg. I’m serious. I find him to be a great actor and an attractive individual, and I assume most people only relate to one of those two things, but that’s fine. More J.Eis for me, in theory.

His character, along with the three other Horsemen of this movie, is a massive prick. They’re all professional pricks, actually, which is to say they’re magicians. Together, J. Daniel Atlas (Eisenberg), Merritt McKinney (Woody Harrelson), Henley Reeves (Isla Fisher), and Jack Wilder (Dave Franco)–and holy cats, those names are Aaron Sorkin-level bad–are the Four Horsemen, recruited by a mystery source from their individual and highly successful jobs in magic to work a massive year-long global show-performance-heist thing and scam the world and… Look. I don’t know. Parts of it were really hard to follow. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman were involved, and I’d list their character names, too, but I’m too lazy to go back to the IMDb tab and, really, they were just playing themselves. They don’t act anymore. They just sign up in tandem for big action movies. It’s fine. We’ve all accepted it, haven’t we?

Much of the mind fuckery can be attributed to producers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman, of Lost and Fringe fame, which makes me feel a little better about feeling stupid about the plot. They really know how to mess with our logic and leave a bunch of loose ends hanging around, waiting to be tied. This movie didn’t contain as many loose ends as, say, Lost, but it certainly left me questioning my sense of logic and reason.

Then again, maybe it was supposed to. Now You See Me is a movie about magic tricks, so why shouldn’t our disbelief be suspended for awhile? For at least the two-thirds of the movie, I was pretty enraptured by all of the illusions, even though I know they could cheat and CGI everything because it isn’t live. By the end, I had sort of given up on the magic, mostly because of the love story (I’ll get to it in a second), but I did experience a bit of child-like wonder when the Four Horsemen caused Euros to rain down on everyone in their Vegas arena-y audience. Really, how’d they do that?

So, the love story. Mark Ruffalo is involved. I was pretty indifferent about him going into this movie, but I see the appeal now. He’s a believable man’s man, sensitive, all that crap. Here, he’s the main FBI guy, trying to figure out how to get all this money back to its rightful owners, trying to pin down the Four Horsemen, trying to see who’s gaming whom, trying to figure out who’s behind this whole elaborate plan. And with the help of a French agent, played by Melanie Laurent, sent over because the Euros were stolen from a Parisian bank, he figures it all out, in a manner of speaking. There’s a twist at the end that I should have picked up on, but didn’t, which means I guess I did suspend my disbelief more than I thought I’d be able to. Go figure. There’s also a bit of tension between Ruffalo and Laurent’s characters, which makes for an uninteresting, cliche love story happening while all this money is being stolen and all these youthful hooligans are doing the stealing.

Entertaining? Yes. Harrelson and Eisenberg reunited under odd, dire circumstances? Yes. Worth seeing in the theater? Probably not. Unless you’re not going to Vegas anytime soon.

2013
06/12
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Conan O’Brien Can’t Stop

I don’t know why I was so insistent on the fact that there was a colon in the title of this film. It makes way more sense without it. Conan O’Brien Can’t Stop is a very true declarative sentence. Why muck it up with punctuation, my own brain?

What a fascinating little documentary. On the one hand, O’Brien is a complete toolbag. On the other hand, he let himself be portrayed as the toolbag he is, which means he can’t actually be that much of a toolbag. I’ve recently re-re-revived my long-standing fascination with him–and finally started to delve into episodes of The Simpsons, but that is another tale for another time, someday, maybe–and seeing what he was like outside of the NBC/TBS product that he’s become really informed and complicated my opinion of him. The underlying feeling I have for him is respect, of course, because he took his “unemployment” and turned it into something for other people to enjoy: a live show. And even though he’s a performer, he wasn’t necessarily much of a stage guy prior to hitting the road like this. He took a big risk, and it paid off for him in strides. That deserves respect. But let’s break down my complicated emotions, because this is my blog and I can do that.

It goes without saying that this man is a genius. He’s so fucking smart and quick and self-deprecating, it truly is astonishing that he wasn’t deemed worthy enough to host The Tonight Show for more than a paltry few months. He’s got this weird confidence, weird not in the sense that he doesn’t deserve it but weird that a guy who looks and moves and thinks and speaks like him is typically not dancing around onstage in a skintight Elvis costume or playing his guitar like a real axe. Guys like him don’t become guys like him, ordinarily. They stay pasty and greasy and work behind the scenes. Conan is an anomaly. He’s made himself into a symbol for the comedically talented but mostly ignored; his swoosh of hair and slick suits and beard prove that any Harvard nerd can find himself successful and appealing.

He’s also an attention whore. He’s constantly interrupting his writers, his fellow performers, Andy Richter (maybe even more of a genius than Conan, but I don’t want to get into it here), badgering them for ideas, placing him at the butt of his jokes and then kicking that butt really hard, questioning them for answers they don’t have, demanding that he not be demanded too much of. And yet he’s a nice guy, too. He trusts his fellow performers. He likes the people he works with, even though his joke-mocking of Jack MacBrayer backstage at the New York show was borderline not funny. He rarely apologizes, except to himself or to Sona, his beloved assistant. Their relationship seems like it should be complicated, because she’s a beautiful twentysomething and he is a world-famous fortysomething TV host, but maybe it’s not complicated, and I’ve seen too many movies. He truly listens to what she has to say, and values her opinion, and asks for her advice, even though he’s had more experience than her at everything, and he always will.

I wonder how Sona got to that level of comfort and trust with someone like Conan. In fact, I wonder how Conan has true friends at all anymore. Occasionally the rigors of the road would get to him and he’d open up without cracking a joke, and he’d explain how lonely he was or how difficult it was or how hard it is for people to understand what he was experiencing. And even though he’s that famous and that arrogant and that privileged and truly talented, I found myself wanting to give him a bit of sympathy. He went on to describe how draining meet-and-greets are, how it just ends up being this factory where you sign autographs and waste time having pointless conversations. Why people want to meet their favorite celebrities for several seconds is beyond me, but it’s what keeps a lot of these people on top and earning money. Those disillusioned fans who think Conan or whoever else will remember them after they’ve stepped out of the huge queue.

All of this ran through my head on Saturday, when I went to a concert at Golden Gate Park to see Mayer Hawthorne (and The Walkmen!) and got the opportunity to meet him afterward. I wasn’t expecting it; a friend of a friend had a backstage pass, and somehow I was given a wristband, no questions asked. I love Mayer Hawthorne’s music, and find him incredibly adorable, but I never thought I’d meet him, nor did I feel particularly compelled to do so. And yet there I was, in line, waiting to meet him. My two friends and I exchanged brief pleasantries with him; my friend mentioned something about how he should have more panties thrown at him, and I said simply, “Go Tigers!” And then it was over, and there was no point to it. I even showed some of my other friends the picture that was taken of the four of us, but it really doesn’t matter. He won’t remember us, I’ll only remember that day because of the concert and the fact that he pointed at me during a song, and I felt like I was the only girl in the crowd (gross but true!). Plenty of others stood in line before us, and plenty more followed. Most all of them took the moment seriously, and I suspect those same folks will treasure that artificial moment for the rest of their lives.

Conan, Mayer, all of these guys. How do that do it? I suppose they just have to ride the wave, knowing how much they’re valued by the masses without getting too overwhelmed by it. And I suppose they try to attract only cool fans, only people they’d want to hang out with and perform for. But that’s easier said than done.

If I ever meet Conan O’Brien, I think I’m just going to ask him if he needs help with anything. He may not remember me, but he’ll certainly remember being happy about the encounter. I hope.

2013
06/10
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comedy
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We Killed: The Rise of Women in American Comedy

A book like this definitely needed to be written, if only to serve as inspiration and comfort and education for people like me. I’ve only recently begun to read more about sexism, particularly with respect to the industry I’m interested in, which is comedy. Never before had I considered just how male-dominated this world is, and how many strides women have made to break that cycle.

I hate that the “women aren’t funny” issue came up a few years ago when Bridesmaids came out. It literally did not occur to me that Bridesmaids was “groundbreaking.” I didn’t notice that the main cast was female–really, I did not–and instead just enjoyed it as a movie. And then the internet went insane, commending ladies for finally breaking the glass ceiling and all that. It’s bullshit, though, because, um, what about Sex and the City? Jesus, that show was funny. (Remember this?) And its main cast had only XX chromosomes. I think Bridesmaids is hilarious because Kristin Wiig is so multifaceted and Jon Hamm completely debases himself in it and Chris O’Dowd is so lovable and Melissa McCarthy completely kills it as whatever that character was but, let’s be honest, most people laughed because Maya Rudolph took a shit in the street. It’s still frustrating that we even have to be talking about the movie in terms of its female parts.

Back to the main event. We Killed isn’t a manifesto or anything. In fact, it had its frustrating parts, too. Like Live From New York (which it actually drew upon for some research), it was an oral history, with quotes from ladies and gentlemen of comedy placed in chronological, sometimes completely contradictory order. There were many times when I found myself reading about one breakthrough comedian, only to find in the next chapter that she was considered hack, and that the “next big thing” was the real breakthrough. Lizz Winstead brought up a good point about female “hack” comedians: “It seems that people like to make this stereotype, but how can they keep saying that’s what women comedians do all the time when a bunch of successful ones don’t?” (p. 170). Essentially, comedy by women has behaved in cycles (har har har!); there have been times to be androgynous and asexual (Ellen, Roseanne) and times to be beautiful and appealing (Sarah Silverman, Natasha Leggero) and times to be wifely and doting (Phyllis Diller, Joan Rivers). If you, the audience member, hones your comedy taste in one cycle, the other is going to seem foreign and cheap to you. And that’s why, when reading this book, I never really felt like I was able to trust anyone talking about comedy who came up before the 1990′s, because all I truly know about comedy I learned starting at that time. I’m not discounting anything before that; I’m just saying it feels more unfamiliar to me, and consequently, today’s scene feels unfamiliar to them. I just can’t imagine a time when women were though of as lesser, unfunnier performers, and I’m damn proud of it.

I found that women were less hard on each other over the years than men were. Maybe that’s a good thing. But as a result, it was hard to tell who was actually “bad” besides, well, Kathy Griffin. It appeared, from this oral history, that no one ever really liked her. Ouch. But the rest of ‘em were just “not my style” or “unconventional” or some other Band-Aided term for “not good, but not willing to admit it.” Or maybe not! It was so hard to tell! Where was the filter? Was any woman really willing to admit that some women actually weren’t funny?

I’m ranting, I know. But I should also say that the book had a lot of high points. For example, the description of Mary Tyler Moore (starting on p. 68), made me want to watch MTM more than I’ve ever wanted to watch a show. I still have never seen an episode, and the reverence with which people speak about it is so intoxicating. Speaking of intoxicating, I was intrigued by the stories of Elayne Boozler (p. 119) and Laura Kightlinger (p. 236), two comics who got famous in comedy but never became stars. I still don’t fully understand why.

We’re in a golden age of comedy now, what with podcasts and YouTube and alt rooms and $5 shows at the UCB and more dudes than ever defending our right to be on that stage for just as long and with just as many dick/vag jokes. A sweet anecdote by the otherwise unbearable Victoria Jackson, about how on The Tonight Show, “Carson would interview me while arranging everything to make me look funny, not himself. He would let me get the laughs and tap his pencil to get an extra laugh” (p. 144), that diplomacy was once rare but is now commonplace, at least among the good ones. The bad ones are still out there, throwing the double standard back at pretty female comics (p. 282) and insisting that explicit sexual content in a routine is just there for shock value, but the good ones jump right on board with Kightlinger, who mused, “I’m an awkward person, who, for some reason needs to forge a connection with strangers by sharing true, intimagte, humiliating events from my own life” (p. 223). If that’s not a comedic truth, I don’t know what is.

2013
06/02
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Smartass: The Music Journalism of Joel Selvin

Smartass is a pretty straightforward title for a book, no? Kind of gives the impression that its pages will be filled with constant sarcasm, biting wit, probably the description of a few fistfights resulting from those first two things. If this Selvin guy is a music journalist and a smartass, then certainly he got himself into a fair number of fistfights or word jousts. Or that’s what I thought, anyway. Turns out the book was much tamer than that.

In fact, it wasn’t about him at all. It was just a collection of most of his San Francisco Chronicle pieces, with a few magazine pieces and liner notes thrown in there for variety and good measure. It’s actually rather haphazardly assembled, as evidenced by the copious typos, which is disturbing if you consider that every one of the words in this book was published somewhere else before, but try not to let it bother you. There’s really too much good information in here not to read it, if you’re a fan of the whole Music Scene Thing.

I consider myself pretty well-versed in the music of my parents, which is probably exactly why my parents bought this book for me. They know I was secretly meant to live alongside them in the 60s and 70s, since I consider Creedence Clearwater Revival and Huey Lewis and the News among my favorite bands to this day. But in reading this book, in taking in the truly rich and often under-appreciated history of the San Francisco rock music scene, I realized that my musical education contains many holes. This plugged up quite a few, or at least sparked my curiosity in researching “new” bands on my own. The note I made most to myself in reading this book, for better or worse, was “check out more stuff by this guy.”

One mystery that was only partially solved by this book was that of the Grateful Dead. I still don’t completely understand them, but I do know that, had I been around in their heyday, I would have been a total Deadhead. I listen to the Dave Matthews Band, for dog’s sake. I like a jam band. I became rather enamored with the idea of listening to Merle Haggard, Boz Scaggs, Glen Campbell, Eddie Cochran, and The Band, and investigating Bill Graham, too, thanks to Selvin’s persistent, thorough writing. I wish this book came with a soundtrack, because it would be an exhaustive, fascinating survey of 40 years of solid rock.

Selvin’s writing is not as confrontational as I imagined it to be, which only makes me curious about his in-person presence. His words are clear and concise and flattering when they need to be, as when he described the Beatles in San Francisco (p. 127): “Borrowing a private jet that belonged to Frank Sinatra, McCartney showed up unannounced at a Jefferson Airplane rehearsal in the empty synagogue next to the Fillmore, carrying an acetate of the album the Beatles just finished recording, ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,’ more than three months before his bandmate George Harrison made his celebrated stroll down Haight Street in those heart-shaped sunglasses.” How dreamy those months must have been. But not everyone is displayed in that ethereal, favorable light. Thanks to frank portrayals of Sly Stone (p. 79) and John Fogerty (p. 232), for example, I learned that both of these extremely famous, charismatic individuals were also massive douchebags, enamored with their own talent and fame. Only Selvin can drop these names like he does, casually, and get away with it.

But Selvin is not a perfect writer, as he tend to exaggerate. He liberally throws around “the greatest” to describe several of his article subjects, which contrasts oddly with his mostly minimalist style and sort of dilutes the term by the time you reach the end of the book. He also falls prey to–or maybe he was the one who invented it?–cliched music journalism sentence structure. In describing Fogerty’s 1997 album, he lists songs with tired adjective lead-ins, which actually makes me not want to listen to the album: They range from the trademark twangy guitar of ‘Blue Boy’ to the Rolling Stones-style crunch of ‘Bring It On Down to Jelly Roll,’ from the country romp ‘Rambunctious Boy’ to the eerie ‘Walking in a Hurricane,’ the first single.” All music journalists do this, and it’s terrible. Let’s make a pact to stop, now.

I know I’ve found fault with the writings of a legend. I can’t help it. It’s in my nature to be critical, especially of another critic. But even with my nit-picking, I did take away the richness of his storytelling and the sincerity of his recommendations, which is really all any critic wants from a reader. And now I have to go raid my dad’s CD collection again.

2013
05/12
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The Place Beyond the Pines

What does it say about me that I have a lot of minor complaints about this movie, but I still thoroughly enjoyed it? Will you still believe what I say, dear reader? Here’s hoping.

So, the title of this movie is sort of dumb. I can’t necessarily think of a better one, but I almost feel like it could have gotten away with being “Untitled,” had big-name stars like Bradley Cooper, Ryan Gosling, and Eva Mendes not been in it. If it were an indie movie in the truest sense of the word, maybe. But it wasn’t, and so we’re stuck with this storybooky title that doesn’t really do justice to the complex interwoven-ness of the story.

Of course, the storybookyness lends itself to that very word, story, because this movie is not character-driven. It’s all about what’s happening, not really who it’s happening to. The aforementioned trifecta are all very well and good, especially Mendes, but the movie’s strength is its careful intrigue. I’ve seen more thrilling movies, more suspenseful movies, and certainly more brutal movies, but I’ve never seen one laid out so methodically before. I mean that as a compliment. It seems that every loose end was tied up carefully. We know why everything happened by the end, we know who everyone is, we know how they relate to each other, and we know why they’ve taken a certain action. It’s oddly satisfying to have all of these elements in such perfect balance, for once. It even seems to come down to equal screen time; Cooper edges out Gosling’s screen time by a little bit, but neither are really the lead actor. And the two young guys who play their sons basically co-star in their own third-act mini-movie. I guess this means it’s an ensemble cast? Labels are so passe.

I do wonder what would have happened if the story had existed before, in book or short story form, and someone like Aaron Sorkin had taken a stab at the screenplay. Or, okay, maybe not Sorkin, but someone with a little more skill in developing characters. Again, I’m not claiming that this movie should have given more play to character development, because it would have been too much with the plot, but maybe some of the actors would have gotten their chance to shine. Cooper as Avery and Gosling as Luke are both great, but they were both pretty flat in this. Gosling’s tattoos did most of the acting for him, and the same goes for Cooper’s suits. Good thing they’re both easy on the eyes. (But they’ve had their triumphant works in the past, and certainly more to come, so it’s not a major knock that this movie doesn’t let them strut.) Mendes did a bit of method work, it seems, dropping weight and generally appearing outside of her normal realm of casual confidence. She plays dowdy and tired surprisingly well. I think this role might be a gateway for her out of the RomCom scene and into some “harder stuff” (for lack of a better term). And I rather enjoyed Dane DeHaan as Jason, Luke’s son. He channeled the Gosling cool without appearing to do a direct impression of him. But oey, Emory Cohen. I saw the face and instantly recognized him as Leo, Debra Messing’s insufferable, pointless kid on Smash. He is even more insufferable (though not actually pointless) in this movie. He is somehow cast as Avery’s kid, which is completely mind-boggling considering the strand of gorgeous that is his parents (Cooper and Rose Byrne, who morphs well into his over-it wife) and the supposed good upbringing that their way of life implies. Cohen is AJ, a wannabe Soprano in more than just the first name. He speaks like he’s from some non-existent borough of New York, desperate to fit in and stand out simultaneously, completely disrespectful of everything his parents ever gave him, and just generally annoying to watch over-take every situation. It hurts my heart to have to say it, but Cohen is just a bad actor. At least in these two prominent roles I’ve seen him in, anyway. If he wants to learn how to play scum well, he should have talked more to Ray Liotta. His brief, slimy part as a corrupt cop ringleader was almost too well-cast.

Before I go, I should probably dole out some basic plot points, since, you know, context. Gosling is a crazy moto kid who knocks up Mendes, then becomes a bank robber to provide for them, then gets shot by Cooper, a cop. Cooper becomes a hero, Cooper and Gosling’s kids eventually and accidentally become friends, Cooper’s life becomes a hot mess because his past comes back to haunt him and Jason (Gosling’s kid) is more emo than we ever thought. Something like that, anyway. I feel like I just wrote a YouTube commenter version of a synopsis, but I don’t want to say too much because, again, it’s fun (and dark) to watch the story unfold before you. Just be advised that you’ll come away from it feeling a little sad, and a little more skeptical of that thing known as “coincidence.” It can be a bitch sometimes.

2013
04/28
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Dexter, Season 6

Oy, I missed Dexter. It had been over a year since I’d left Miami, so to speak, and the instant I heard those first few scratches of the theme song, a big dumb smile (not an uncommon thing for me when I watch television) crept across my face, and I was back in. As though I never left, or something like it. Doubts be damned.

Doubts, yes. Over the years, I’ve begun to feel more and more guilty for loving this show so much. People have pointed out to me that the same thing happens every season: Dexter doesn’t get caught. Of course, this builds tension and all that, but up to a point. I get it. It gets harder and harder to suspend one’s disbelief. For some reason, though, I can just do it with this show. Michael C. Hall continues to captivate me, and convince me that Dexter Morgan is a real person that I’m not afraid of. How’s that for screwed up?

The other guilty thing–or maybe it’s not guilt, just a small shred of shame–is that I’ve found myself drawn to very similar shows. It’s like I’m not seeking variety anymore I began watching Dexter Season 6 whilst simultaneously watching the first seasons of The Following and The Americans, and there were definitely times when the plots of all three got tangled up in my head. Both Dexter and The Following deal with twisted serial killers, both Dexter and The Americans deal with leading a double life, and both The Americans and The Following deal with the FBI being just incompetent enough to always be a couple steps behind. I thought I liked comedy, but I guess not?

Back to Dexter, though. This season definitely had its weird, absurd moments: the Dex/Deb thing, which was spoiled for me long ago, was about 86 steps too far; the absurd painting of Dexter by DDK shown in Episode made me laugh out loud; the fact that Edward James Olmos was not even one bit scary; the heavy-handed, stringalicious soundtrack that seemed way more noticeable this season than ever before; the dumb interns plot line, the fact that Harrison’s nanny is always availble, and, of course, the way that Hall says “Dark Passenger.” It’s never not funny.

But I stuck with it, because (pardon the pun) this season, with all its religious imagery and whatnot, proves that the writers are really putting Dexter on a path. He has an arc, and there’s an end to that arc, and the stakes are suddenly back as to whether or not he gets caught. I know I’ll have two seasons left to watch by the time I get around to it, so I can’t actually speak for the most recent season, but seeing Deb walk in (from where, it was never explained) as Dexter was killing someone was a huge revelation. This whole time, we’ve been thinking about what would happen when that happened, but we never knew if he’d have anything prepared to say, if he had been rehearsing that moment his whole life, or if Harry had simply neglected to train him in that part of his life. Despite his extensive, anal preparations for everything else, it appears he neglected this, perhaps because he was so delusional about his own Dark Passenger that he forgot about the fact that he’s living in the world.

Having an adorable son helps Dexter come back to reality, especially as he grows. Dexter was more intense this season than ever before, and less even-keeled as before, experiencing high highs on the family front with Harrison, and on the murder front when face-to-face with DDK, the Doomsday Killer, Travis Marshall (Colin Hanks). Now, I love Colin Hanks as much as the next guy, but he was a little too good-looking to be the DDK. His face looked too nice, even if they made him wear dad jeans. But even if he didn’t appear the part (or have any chemistry with EJO) he brought out something mysterious in Dexter, and that is what made the season interesting. Of course Dexter is an Atheist, but it’s more interesting knowing how he came to compare those thoughts with others he had heard outside of his immediate world.

Speaking of immediate world, Jennifer Carpenter did some work this season as Deb. Watching someone experience two awesome things on the same day is something you might want to do, unless it’s getting proposed to and getting a giant promotion. What a stressful day, which lead to a stressful season, which lead to therapy for her. As I said before, the whole love interest thing was royally fucked up, and part of the therapy plot line, so I’m just going to leave it out and focus on the Soprano-ness of it all. In one brief moment in the church in the finale, Deb became the main character, the most burdened character, in the whole story, just like Tony Soprano. She even cusses a lot and carries a gun. I can’t wait to see what happens next with her, especially given her proactivity in changing up every single one of her primary relationships. She knows Dexter’s secret, she covered up her mentor’s secret, she became LaGuerta’s (Lauren Velez) bitch, she dumped Quinn (Desmond Harrington), and she got promoted. Damn. I wouldn’t want to be her. LaGuerta though. Wow. I have never hated her more, and I feel sort of bad for Velez for having to be the villain the entire season. What a fun but sort of repetitive role for her to play. I do wonder how close to home the divorce storyline plays out for Hall and Carpenter. I couldn’t help thinking about how awkward it must have been to marry, then divorce your coworker and still have to do basically every scene with him. I wouldn’t want to be her in real life, either.

Oh, and Rudy showed up again? Okay. Weird. Wasn’t okay having him back, especially because he seemed os friendly before he died. I just wish James Remar were in the show more often. Maybe in the finale, it’ll be revealed that James Remar is actually the Dark Passenger, and that Dexter has been carrying around a real person this whole time. Ha.

One final thought: I really did not care for the snakes, or the fact that most episode recaps contained the snakes, too. GROSS.

Season 7, please.

2013
04/27
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Gonzo: A Graphic Biography of Hunter S. Thompson

I bought this book way back when I was trying to impress this guy who, as far as I knew, was into both graphic novels and Hunter S. Thompson. By the time I got around to reading it, the thrill of the idea of talking to him about it/casually lending it to him was long gone, and also the full effect of its titular hipsterishness set in. But I read it anyway, and I’m glad I did.

I know nothing about graphic novels, and next to nothing about Hunter S. Thompson, and as pretentious and ignorant as it may seem to say this, I think it’s the perfect medium for telling his story. Of course, many liberties had to be taken, and many details had to be omitted, but that’s the art of it. (“Duh!” says everyone who is reading this who loves graphic novels.) I feel like I learned about a decent amount–a richer Cliffs Notes version, if you will–of his life, and it only prompted me to want to learn more, to revisit Fear and Loathing, to look up some of his essays. The man was fascinating, always bespectacled, and constantly in a cloud of smoke. A nerdy, adult Pigpen.

That cloud of smoke followed around 2D Hunter wherever he went in this book, as did his shorts and sandals and weird visor. Though the book never explained this bizarre, iconic uniform, it was oddly comforting to see him in it in each panel. Waldo wishes he could be as intriguing as this guy, and easier to find, at that. I do wish that the book had covered a bit more about his wife and child. They seemed like tertiary characters, and while I know space was limited, I got the sense that they weren’t the afterthought they came across as. And the section about the Hell’s Angels in Monterey was completely fascinating; as a now-ashamed Monterey resident, I admit I knew nothing of this event until I saw it in this book. Add it to the list of “things I need to ask my parents about at some point.”

I particularly enjoyed seeing Richard Nixon rendered two-dimensional (p. 159); he is maybe the truest comic book villain the world has ever seen, but only now just discovered. But the most powerful panels were those about the Vietnam War. I can’t really place whether or not Hunter would be content with a graphic biography of himself, but I can imagine that he’d give those images a pass. Pictures really are worth 1000 words, especially in the case of something as brutal and indescribable as a war. Those stark visuals honor the horror in ways that words can’t.

It’s a true accomplishment for authors Will Bingley and Anthony Hope-Smith to be able to do artistic justice to someone with such a unique way with words, and I think they need to be given credit for that. I don’t know if these, my favorite quotes, are their words or Hunter’s, but I suppose it really doesn’t matter. His affected theirs, and so shall theirs affect mine.

p. 12 // “In a caged society, a man’s liberty is the meat of his master’s power. But even in a world of jailers, no truth can trap an honest liar.”

p. 94 // “I believed that in order to become a great writer, first you had to be a great man.”

p. 141 // “Throughout history, art and politics have always shared a very close relationship. This is because art describes a nation in a way that pure politics cannot.”

p. 171 // “Your achievements, like bricks, will come to found the walls of your mausoleum.”

So it goes.

2013
04/11
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her?

I keep track of all the movies, TV series, books, and albums I consume, mostly for my own amusement. If you're amused, too, say so. It's fun out there.

Sometimes, I write for Cafe Dingo. Once, I wrote for HuffPo. Before that, I wrote for TV.com. Way before that, I wrote for The Daily Californian.

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