My Life in Movies

I was tagged with this assignment by Aditi some weeks ago and found it surprisingly daunting.  How to choose which writers have influenced me most?  Certainly everything I’ve read, seen, heard, and experienced has had some influence on me, but there are always the people whose work speaks to us the deepest, who we feel a connection to or simply admire, who on some level we try to emulate.  I tried to focus mainly on writers whose influence is most apparent in my writing, rather than writers I simply like or who serve as attending saints through the tunnels of my brain.  And while there are a few figures outside the purely literary realm mentioned, I tried as much as possible to stick with the written word.

I’m not going to tag anyone with this meme. If the challenge interests you, then by all means give it a try.  Just link back here so I know you did it.  But I would definitely like to see lists from Phill English and Todd Kiesling, who were also tagged with me.  C’mon guys!

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1.  Ray Bradbury
I read lots of his stories while in my teens–The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, The Illustrated Man, and collections of his early work.  It was always the way he wrote that influenced me, the lyrical, atmospheric style coupled with content that was speculative and fantastic.  I still want to write like he writes.

2.  Poppy Z. Brite
Haven’t read her writing in years, but damn if the influence hasn’t stuck.  Her plots are built around lots of interesting characters who tend to float in “alternative” and underground circles; her prose is lyrical, yet never overwrought; and her Gothic horror stories often deal with themes of alienation and transgression.  Even now, I find evidence of these elements in my work.

3.  Truman Capote
It was my boyfriend who got me into Capote, and it was the surprising recommendation via Burroughs that got him interested.  Again, I keep coming to writers I love for the way they write, but Capote is arguably one of the greatest American stylists of the 20th century, with prose that is very tight and concise, yet dreamy and lyrical, almost precious (though this depends greatly on which period you read).  He also had a way of writing characters you could fall in love with, a habit I often fall into while I write.

4.  Lewis Carroll
While I suppose he borders on “attending saint” and some would struggle to see his presence in my work, I can’t think of anyone so crucial to forming my vision of the world as the contradictory Dodgson.  I have no impulse towards parody, but I can write some witty dialogue when it strikes me.  But there is also the fluidity of reality in his stories, a melting of boundaries, and though his work is noted for its whimsy, there is always something dark lurking underneath.

5.  Nick Cave
What do I care if he’s not technically a writer?  He did write that one novel (And the Ass Saw the Angel, one of my favorites), and his lyrics are as literary as they come.  He can tell a great story with dark, vivid characters and throw in some beautiful imagery as well.  Definitely a major influence on the way I write.

6.  Philip K. Dick
The influence is not quite as related to language as his plots and concepts.  His constant investigation of perception and reality fascinates me.  While his concepts are contained in the sometimes pulpish context of science fiction (and his work is sometimes pulpish), they still relate to philosophical, psychological, and religious issues that have always fascinated me.  What I like and relate to most is the effort he makes to put ideas in a very human context.  He often wrote stories not about scientists, as is common in the genre, but about average people caught up in situations beyond their control, just trying to make sense of the world.  I really admire him for that.

7.  Charles Dickens
I have this need to write broad novels or bildungsromans that is likely influenced by Dickens.  Despite his penchant for writing sometimes stock or idealized characters, I love the way he could make you see and feel a place.  At his best, he had incredible scope and could show you a story at all levels, from the characters to the environment that influences them.
Hardy and the Brontes serve as similar influences.  19th century fiction in general.

8.  Fyodor Dostoevsky
I can’t remember who said it, but you could possibly learn anything you wanted to know about humanity by reading The Brothers Karamazov.  Hyperbole, perhaps, but Dostoyevsky was able to write characters who represent ideas and worldviews while talking and behaving just like real people.  I just love characters, and I love how he loved even the worst of them.

9.  Katherine Dunn
She’s written only three novels that I know of.  Only one of these novels is well known, and it’s more of a cult classic than a popular favorite.  What impresses me about Geek Love (besides the fact that it’s about a family of homemade circus freaks) is that Dunn combined the traditional broad novel approach with writing that was more modern to tell a story that made grotesque and very “Other” characters seem more human.

10.  T.S. Eliot
My favorite poet of all time.  I still catch myself borrowing images, and “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” has precisely the kind of mood and atmosphere I like to write.

11.  William Faulkner
Hmm, I keep coming back to great characters and beautiful prose, don’t I?
Faulkner has mainly influenced me via his depiction of decadence and decay, psychologically rich characters (and sprawling family trees), and willingness to play with style.

12.  Neil Gaiman
Oh, how I debated his inclusion.  I’m more familiar with Gaiman’s career in comics than in literature, but even so, the storytelling and elements of the fantastic have definitely influenced my own stories.  What I liked in Sandman was the way he could take several different threads and eventually weave them together at the climax; the effect was striking and something I try to consider.  Also, I like his characters, how real they seem, and that’s always been one of my primary considerations.

13.  John Irving
Like Dunn, Irving writes traditional novels in a modern context.  He plays less with language, but I still love the richness of his stories, with their myriad of characters (often grotesque) and tendency to span full lives.  And the way he pieces together themes and motifs–fantastic.  He’s made me think a lot about the structure of novels and the way everything comes together.

14.  Franz Kafka
Atmosphere and mood, definitely.  Everything I write seems vaguely Kafkaesque, though I always hope it’s not obvious.

15.  John Keats
When I was 15, he was by far my favorite poet.  I think the Romantic, sometimes melancholy, feel and attention to phrasing really influenced the way I wrote.  And what I wrote.  All my high school poetry has a smidgen of Keats in it, which is both adorable and embarrassing.

16.  Tanith Lee
Mostly I’ve just read her Paradys stories, but I was so thrilled to discover that there was fantasy like hers.  The prose is so rich, the atmosphere so dark, and I love the city of Paradys, which resembles a mythical Paris full of ghosts, magic, and monsters.  Yes, it sounds a bit silly, but the way she writes it, there’s not an ounce of cheese.

17.  Flannery O’Connor
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m really into Southern Gothic fiction.  I love the dark, decadent, and grotesque.  O’Connor did it well, but it always reflects the social and religious themes that obsessed her.  While I don’t share her belief in Christianity, there is a violent, primal, and very necessary quality to her theology that is fascinating.  When discovering her work, I attempted to emulate her use of irony and revelatory climaxes.

18.  Joyce Carol Oates
I like Oates’s short stories, but her novels have tended to disappoint me.  Nonetheless, she wrote a little novella, First Love, that was recommended to me and I fell in love with, mostly for the way she depicted some rather disturbing character dynamics (primarily between a molester and his victim).  In general, I’ve been influenced by the way in which Oates often depicts such dark subject matter in an artistic way, often playing with style and focalization to distance the reader or draw him/her closer.  Again, I’m always interested in elements of the Gothic and grotesque in the context of “literary” fiction.

19.  Mervyn Peake
I love the way he wrote and I love his Gormenghast.  So Gothic, so grotesque, so uncanny.  Style as reflection of theme.  He had the audacity to fill an entire novel with exposition (Titus Groan), and thank God for it.

20.  Edgar Allen Poe
Like Bradbury, Dickens, Keats, and Carroll, absolutely essential.  When I was 12, nothing amazed me as much as “The Black Cat” and his willingness to write from the perspective of such an awful character.  Poe was always willing to go there, to write tormented, extreme characters who transgress in ways we are unwilling to transgress.  Poe wrote The Shadow of American liberalism.  He wrote it beautifully.  When I first read him, I knew I wanted to write that way.  I still do.

21.  Arthur Rimbaud
Baudelaire would be applicable as well, in the category of “Dark French writers who wrote fever-dreams and shadows of decadence and transgression.”  Now I’m getting poetic.  OK, Rimbaud influenced me through his imagery, dark and sorta dreamlike.  He influenced me through his creation of a personal mythology (much like Plath, Ginsberg, Whitman, etc.).  Another of my favorite poets.

22.  Sylvia Plath
I find most criticisms of Plath patently unfair.  She wrote her own mythology, recasting herself as characters and metaphors drawn from classical and contemporary sources, always desperately seeking the truth.  When I thought I was a poet, that’s what I tried to do.  Like everything other depressed girl who thinks she can write poetry, I was never as good as Plath.

23.  J.D. Salinger
I did not, like Aditi, write my own version of Catcher in the Rye, but I did write a lot of stories fashioned after Salinger when I was 17.  Nothing much ever happened, and everyone was so sad and wistful.  He’s still in there somewhere.

24.  Tom Waits
The other songwriter, with no novel to legitimize his presence (OK, he collaborated with Burroughs on a musical play; does that count?).  Well, here’s how his lyrics have influenced me: 1) the use of place, 2) characters who exist outside of mainstream in some fashion, 3) re-appropriation of cliches and idioms, 4)damn, that guy can write good lyrics.  In short, integral.

25.  Denton Welch
Burroughs was also a fan (yes, he’s one of my attending saints).  Like Capote, there’s something bordering on precious about his work, something very detailed and precise–pretty–about his writing.  But also something vaguely dark and strange that fascinates me, especially in the private moments of his protagonists.  I also relate him somewhat to Peake, as both were visual artists, both were English and close to being contemporaries, both had a miniaturist’s obsession with details, and both had rather brief careers as writers.  It helps that there are traces of Camp and traces of an ambiguous eroticism.

On the subject of adaptations, there are a number differing attitudes.  Some expect nearly absolute fidelity to an original work and are prepared to pick apart even the most minor details to ensure that the spirit remains intact.  Some are so suspicious of the adaptation that they must ask, “Why?  What’s the point?”  To which some answer, “Why not?  A story is a story, and a good story is worth telling in a variety of mediums.”  This, I think, is that attitude of many producers, though I would concede that in Hollywood, it’s all about having a built-in fanbase to guarantee opening night ticket sales.  The problem with this attitude is that some stories are so tied with their base medium that removing them from the original context removes something of what made that work so beautiful, important, or unique in the first place.  Watchmen is arguably a work of this ilk, a superhero comic about superhero comics, a story inextricably tied to its form (comparable to what Moby-Dick did with the literary novel and conventions of adventure fiction).  One of the various directors slated to direct the adaptation over the last 20 years, Terry Gilliam, summed it up best:

The problem with Watchmen is that it requires about five hours to tell the story properly, and by reducing it to a two or two-and-a-half hour film, it seemed to me to take away the essence of what Watchmen is about.^[1]

Of course, I have to admit a certain sick fascination with any adaptation of a work I am particularly fond of.  While I have been known to pick out details (a terrible habit), I’m usually curious as to how the director approaches the source material.  Especially a potential exercise in futility like Watchmen.

Since I went into the theatre with lowered expectations, I can’t say that I was disappointed by the film.  On the other hand, judged on its own terms, I can’t help but think that Snyder’s Watchmen is anything more than just OK.

I’ll give Snyder kudos for retaining all the major characters, most of whom are competently portrayed by a cast that is, for the most part, well chosen.  Jackie Earle Haley perfectly nails the gritty, hardboiled tone of Rorshach, along with the barely contained seething rage that guides his black & white worldview.  Equally memorable is Billy Crudup as Dr. Manhattan, who despite all the CGI manages to convey a real person disconnected from humanity by his superhuman knowledge and ability.  Jefferey Dean Morgan and Patrick Wilson were also good fits for The Comedian and Nite Owl II.  Matthew Goode’s performance as Ozymandias is somewhat different than I imagined the character in the book (more on the characterization later), I did find his minimalistic approach appealing for the mystery of the role.  As many have noted, Malin Akerman doesn’t give much personality to Silk Spectre II, but I found her boring performance preferable to Carla Gugino’s soap-operatic overkill in her treatment of Silk Spectre I.  While I’m not personally familiar with Gugino’s work, I’ve generally heard good things, so I’m going to assume that this is the fault of direction.

Credit should also be given for retaining the essential plot elements, themes, and tone of the story.  As noted in my previous entry, Watchmen was not the first comic to present super-heroes in darker, more realistic terms, but it was among the first to examine the mythos and question the implications of such beings in the world.  In terms of spirit, the film gets things right.  It feels more or less an one would hope or expect–a super-hero movie for adults.  Of course, for the sake of clarity and conciseness, some minor plot points and textural elements have been removed.  The supplementary articles and interviews and the portions of “The Black Freighter” were the most obvious casualties, elements that simply don’t work in film.  Much of the back-story that plays out over the course of the series is contained within the brilliant opening credits sequence.  The ending is perhaps the most major change made to the plot, and there has been much discussion as to the reasoning behind it.  For my own part, I believe it was meant to give stronger unity to the plot and seemed more realistic in a film than the comic-booky monster that plays off the bizarre evil villain world domination schemes.  Yet even without the clean-up and removal, the plot is sprawling and unwieldy, barely manageable at 160+ minutes.  Though a stronger arc would have been nice, I enjoyed the time it took to get to know the characters, a feature I also found appealing in the book.

But there’s something else related to the running time that really bugs me, and that’s editing.  Primarily I’m thinking of the ultra-violent fight scenes that seemed to always play a minute too long, full of jerky stop/start moves and unnecessarily gratuitous slow motion.  This is what I had expected from Snyder; this is what I had hoped he would avoid.  But alas! I endured this nonsense throughout the film.  (Admittedly, I just loathe slow motion; if I could impose a 2 sequence maximum in every film, I would.)  Not only did the action segments seem to play too long, there is a sex scene that could have used some trimming.  Related to the editing, the choice of music was rather dodgy.  The use of “The Times They Are A-Changing”  Nena’s “99 Luftballoons” fits within the context, but other than the ironic/congratulatory note within the title and chorus, the use of “Hallelujah” was not.  On the other hand, the cinematography and special effects are beyond reproach, but this was expected and I feel not great need to comment further on the matter.

Thinking about the film, I’ve had to consider some of my approaching in critiquing adaptations.  Some people have insisted that enjoying the film in contingent on knowledge of the graphic novel.  This has not stopped Roger Ebert, who admits to not having read the book, from lavishing the film with praise.  Though I disagree with his assessment of the film, he is at the very least judging it as a film.

However, when I first read Watchmen, I understood that it was among the best of the form for the way it functions as a comic.  The story is still there, but without all the side-notes and use of art relative to the original medium, I feel like something is missing.  The obsession with the violence bothers me not because it was absent from the book but because it wasn’t so lingered over.  Furthermore, the shift in the characterization of Ozymandias/Viedt is perplexing if you consider how central he is to the plot and exploration of themes.  As in the comic, Goode plays him with a note of superiority, but there is also something preening and effete about the performance that doesn’t fit.  Viedt is, in some ways, modeled after the Charles Atlas model of human potential, but he is also the self-made man who has sought cultivation.   Goode never seems quite trustworthy or overtly heroic, which undercuts the ambivalence that the character represents, the ambivalence that all super-heroes represent.

If the goal of an adaptation is to retain the spirit of a story while functioning on its own terms, Watchmen is a mixed bag.  Snyder’s fidelity to the source is tremendous, and the film on its own term is a decent reassessment of super-heroes.  On the other hand, it can’t quite (or is unable to) capture some of what makes the book so memorable, and as a film often suffers from over-indulgence.

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(As an addendum, I more or less agreed with Nathaniel R.’s review of Watchmen, especially the shared hatred for slow motion.  Just say no, kids!)

Tales from the Gimli Hospital, Guy Maddin’s first feature film, bears all the hallmarks now associated with his work.  The style is a pastiche of early avant-garde and Surrealist filmmaking, German Expressionism, and 30’s Hollywood talkies in dimly lit black and white, accompanied by a crackling, often out of sync, soundtrack.  In typical Maddin fashion, the plot lacks a clear arc and floats in and out like a dream.  Sexual repression and perversion, fractured memories, familiar Maddin motifs, are also present.

The narrative is ostensibly framed by a grandmother, who at the side of her dying daughter in Gimli Hospital, tells a story to her grandchildren about the Gimli of the past, “a Gimli we no longer know.”  The story she tells, however, is no fairytale for children.  Sexually repressed Einar the Lonely contracts the plague and is taken to Gimli Hospital, where he is attended on by beautiful young nurses.  His roommate, Gunnar, is popular among the staff, which draws Einar’s envy, and rivalry brews between them.  As the friendship/rivalry progresses, Gunnar tells him the story of his young wife, who died of the plaque months before.  A bizarre love triangle is brought out into the open, and the story takes an even darker,  stranger turn.

What is remarkable about Maddin’s work is how he consistently continues to explore much of the same ground in regards to style and content.  His films are highly individual yet referential, drawing from a rich historical context.  One scene in Gimli Hospital contains a comedically offensive black face minstrel character.  Another scene in which Einar suffers a delirious fantasy, resembles a glittery 30’s Hollywood musical.  Such moments exist almost apart from the narrative.  What perhaps makes these moments so bizarre is the way in which they are melded into the context of a dark Northern town populated by Icelandic immigrants.

A Maddin film always exists somewhere outside of time, and there is always a point at which the plot completely unravels.  I often have a hard time knowing how to approach his work.  I find myself desiring something clearer and more concise, yet he seems to be purposely skirting these rules for a Surrealistic effect.  As a result, I find his work simultaneously beautiful and vexing.  This film is no different.

As an addendum, KINO has released Tales from the Gimli Hospital on DVD, but it is still not available through Netflix.  I am lucky enough to have a video shop that still carries the old VHS copy in its collection.  A bit more reasonably priced than purchasing a new DVD.  Both VHS and DVD contain Maddin’s first film, The Dead Father, which is quite amusing and worth seeing.

Last week I reread the Watchmen series in preparation for the film adaptation premiering today.  It’s as rich and multi-layered as when I read it over 10 years ago, perhaps even more so.  I’ll admit, I have some reservations about the adaptation.  The reviews thus far have been very mixed, many leaning on the negative.  This morning I read a strikingly positive review from Robert Butler of the Kansas City Star.  Having only seen Snyder’s remake of Dawn of the Dead, I have a limited knowledge of his ability, but as I’ve told many friends, his track record doesn’t bode well.  At the very least, I’m hoping that the quality of content will give his fetish for violence some ounce of depth.  But I won’t know until I see the film on Monday night.

My friend Deathstar461 wrote a couple of pieces for the blog Atomic Gadfly that delve into the history and significance of Watchmen.  I highly recommend reading both:
The History Behind Watchmen
What’s So Great About Watchmen?
One thing I really appreciate about the first article is how he details the historical precedents for the aspects of Watchmen deemed as groundbreaking.  Of course, most adult comics fans are familiar with Eisner’s work (if they have not read it, then they at least know about it).  Others, like me, are aware of the attempts by writers in the 60’s and 70’s to tackle more “adult” themes within super-hero comics, or at least imbue the stuff with realism or darkness.  While I’ve never been a huge super-hero comics fan myself, I did grow up reading my stepmother’s old comics from this period.  I’m familiar with the kind of content explored in The Fantastic Four (which often bordered on soap opera) and read the Batman stories penned by Dennis O’Neil.  It’s arguable, of course, that none of these comics quite transcended the constraints of the super-hero form.  But the medium certainly did not transform itself over night after Watchmen.  Frankly, it’s a bit condescending that critics still consider comics an immature medium when complex and mature comics have been around at least half a century (perhaps even longer).

Rereading the book has somewhat renewed my interest in comics, and I’m now in the midset of Moore’s V for Vendetta.  I’d like to reread From Hell this year.  If this continues, I might just re-tackle the entire Cerebus series by Dave Sim and Gerhard.