I received an interesting email in my gmail account earlier this week. My gmail account is reserved for business, including magazine offers and invitations to webinars. However, I have shared it with a few friends and one, a woman who is a personal coach, sent along an invitation to a new movie. A movie designed to astound, astonish, and fundamentally alter the way we think.
Crab Cocktail
Near the close of the epic film ATTACK OF THE CRAB MONSTERS one of the crabs develops a French accent. He or it sounds like Charles Aznavour as the battle for final control of a tiny Pacific atoll comes down to a British scientist and his lovely assistant. The French crab has grown out of control due to nuclear bomb testing; otherwise the island looks fine. When the crabs makes their move, the scientist pulls his assistant into his arms and remarks ‘I say, those are rather large.’
We’re left to wonder what he was referring to, although the assault by the massive crustaceans is a mighty spectacle. This was the Fifties, so Special Effects were limited to the proverbial iron on a string; while the last remaining humans on the island cling together the crabs never seem to move toward them. Most of the excitement was generated in the theater where all the girls in the audience as well as well some of the boys were screaming.
The scientist breaks the clinch long enough to empty his revolver into the mutant crabs. Whew. The French crab bites the irradiated dust and all his companions quickly follow suit. This seemed implausible in that the actual cause of death is never adequately addressed; instead heroic music swelled and the screen was filled with a mushroom cloud and the demented laughter of Crab Leader. In a short speech before the screen goes dark the Crab informs us that though their bodies are dead, their minds live on.
This explains a lot of things. The crab minds have mutated and seized control of key industries. Their first target; publishing. Having garnered quick control of the film industry, Crab Leader wisely moved east to the atoll of Manhattan. There, with patience born of centuries of stalking plankton or whatever, they took human form, went to the appropriate colleges and bided their time.
Now they control what we view, what we read, the very essence of our cultural life. We sense it; we talk about dumbing down and whether Britanny Spears will run for president; reality TV has demonstrated that the depths of the human mind are rife with crab like articulations of what the crabs believe we’re actually thinking.
Crab Leader warned us. Stay away from seafood restaurants that advertise crab feeds. They’re clever and time is running out. Cue the music. Fade out.
If You Had Five Minutes with the President
I usually hold to the “if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything” type standard for reviews. Unless there is an important issue at stake or and interesting debate to be had, I am not one to lash out a book I didn’t like. Better just not to review it at all. Even those books I have problems with I usually try to get at why the book might appeal to others or why it has merit even if I found it lacking.
Today I feel the need to stray from these sentiments. The good people at Harper Collins saw fit to send me a copy of a book that left me wondering why it was even published. If You Had Five Minutes with the President is a project put together by the Creative Coalition “the premier nonprofit, nonpartisan social and political advocacy organization of the entertainment industry.” As the title indicates, the group asked its members what they would say if they had five minutes with the President. Not surprisingly, the result is, with a few exceptions, a collection of left wing rants and diatribes either against the current president or a plea for the standard bleeding heart liberal agenda (tax the rich, give to the poor, make love not war, build schools not bombs, therapy not incarceration, etc.), The tone is angry, condescending, often insulting, and on occasion even vulgar (again with a few exceptions).
The thing that puzzles me the most is why anyone thought this book needed to be published. First of all, who really cares what Hollywood thinks? I mean, what in the world makes what actors, writers, producers or other artsy types say carry any more weight than anyone else? As the essays make clear, these people have no particular expertise or knowledge about the subjects they discuss. Sure some of the authors have personal experiences that relate to issues like adoption, health care, etc. But for the most part this is armchair analysis by an almost uniform group of liberal, secular, and urban celebrities in the entertainment industry. That the authors and the publisher thinks these people are important is clear from the lengthy bios that accompany each essay. As if a being in a string of movies or producing records suddenly gives weight to your opinion on the war in Iraq! Are we really turning to the likes of Tom Arnold, Fischer Stevens, Harry Hamlin, Christie Hefner, Fran Drescher, and Morgan Fairchild for advice on foreign policy? Do we really need to know that twelve-year-old Hallie Eisenberg is a vegetarian and thinks arts education is important? Do Tucker Carlson, Janeane Garofalo, Harry Shearer, Montel Williams, Eleanor Clift, Michael Medved, and Catherine Crier (all of whom have access to or are involved in TV, radio, or print media) need another forum in which to spout their opinions?
Millard Fillmore, Mon Amour
Despite the title of John Blumenthal’s latest novel, it’s not about Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president. It tells the story of Plato G. Fussell very much a man of modern times. Plato is a Millard Fillmore scholar who doesn’t believe in love.
Plato lives in the cradle of American eccentricity, Los Angeles. His theories about love spring from a difficult adolescence-the other kids called him Play-Doh-a disastrous first marriage and the cumulative affect of his own personality quirks. Obsessed with death, Plato became a multi-millionaire after selling his internet brainchild, Obit.com, to an Australian media mogul.
Struck on the head by an errant frisbee, Plato experiences a sequence of chemical reactions upon meeting Emily Thorndike; Emily is not only beautiful, but she seems to enjoy her encounter with Plato, surviving his Spoonerisms long enough to jot down her phone number.
After a Cat-scan to see if the Frisbee caused a brain tumor, Plato pursues Emily. His theories about love are tossed aside; Emily is an interior designer whose specializes in funeral homes. This could be Plato’s soulmate.
Complications ensue. We meet Plato’s parents, his quiet father, his demanding mother, a woman for whom the bowel movement has become the central thesis of her life. After his father has a heart attack, Plato learns that Emily is concealing an important secret. He attends a class reunion and falls for the same girl he loved in kindergarten.
John Blumenthal has pulled off a neat trick with this novel. Yes, it’s funny. Humor is a dicey thing in books; frequently they are one joke stories that degenerate after a few chapters. This is a novel that sustains both humor and poignancy as we follow Plato’s arc from social recluse to fully developed human being. How Plato arrives at this elevated state and what he does when he gets there supply the fuel to carry the book all the way to the end.
There just aren’t enough novels about Millard Fillmore. Did he have a scandalous affair in Buffalo New York in the decade before the Civil War? Is it worth a trip to Buffalo to find out? Here’s a shortcut. Go get a copy of Millard Fillmore, Mon Amour and decide for yourself.
Slaying Ideology with the Sword of Imagination
I have always been jealous of one particular aspect of being a magazine editor: assigning books to specific authors. Wouldn’t it be cool if you could just ask your favorite authors or writers to review certain books? I know this isn’t exactly possible but the idea has a great deal of appeal. Given my inability to generate a great deal of content on this site I have attempted a poor man’s version of this ultimate editor dream. I have asked people I respect to review books I think they would have a unique perspective on. As I am able to convince them to do so I will post them here.
Starting this series off is Alan Cornett with a review of Russell Kirk and the Age of Ideology by W. Wesley McDonald. Alan served as a personal assistant to Russell Kirk (1992-1993). Currently he lives in Wilsonville, Alabama where he serves as an evangelist. His frequent commentary on Christianity and culture can be found at Theosebes. See below for the review.
Jimmy Benchpress
You may wonder why I went back to 2002 for Charlie Stella’s novel JIMMY BENCHPRESS. I’ve wanted to read the man’s work for some time and this one was at the library. Anyway you have to start somewhere.
The novel’s principal character is Jimmy Mangino, fresh out of jail, looking for opportunities. He knows just where to look; Jimmy is waiting to become a made guy in a Brooklyn crime family. He zooms in a wannabe gangster named Larry Berra; not Yogi, Larry. Larry loaned $58,000 to a barber who has no hope of paying it back. He’s fallen under the wing of a made guy who can spot a fool and his money and knows how to separate them.
Larry has a beautiful girlfriend named Leanna. You could get the idea that she’s available to the highest bidder, an idea Jimmy puts into motion. He’s also hooked up with a guy trafficking in home made porn. Jimmy sees Larry as a cash cow and draws Leanna into a nasty game.
Two cops from Organized Crime are watching the show. These guys have issues. One of them beat a child murderer half to death, the other is stalking his ex-wife. NYPD brass are trying to do damage control as the Feds develop sources inside the Brooklyn mob.
Charlie Stella doesn’t embellish the life Jimmy Benchpress has chosen. The novel snaps with brusque dialogue and quick bursts of violence. It’s hard to sort through the characters for someone likeable; maybe the old barber trying to defend his wife. Maybe the cop who doesn’t use suspects as punching bags. Certainly not Jimmy. Meeting Jimmy is like being run over by a sanitation truck, not once, but repeatedly.
The ending has a nice ironic twist. Jimmy gets what he wants, but the price is high. He’s cut a swath of mayhem from Manhattan to Canarsie. Charlie Stella shows you what two bit hoods do in their spare time. This isn’t the scenic tour of little old New York. If you want that, buy a postcard. If you want a fast-paced spin through Brooklyn, Charlie Stella is your man.