smithing the writer
I finished Lunar Park today.
Dear God Tori Rob Snarski but it fucked royally with my head. And disturbingly so. In a reality warping metanarrative, omg is it fiction or memoir what is he doing, skin-crawling way. Gah. As if Bret Easton Ellis could get any more traumatic.
But weirdly enough, I actually got used to it. Or I got past it. At a certain point, I decided "yes, this is definitely fiction, he's totally fucking with me, it's fiction, he's just being a devilishly mindbendingly clever flash bastard." And then it was all right. But I'll tell you he took his goddamn sweet time getting to that point. Horrible wonderful genius brilliant evil man.
I hope I'm not the only person to be so rattled by this book. Must go read past entries on not_an_exit, I suspect I'm not, seem to dimly recall a lot of anguished confused entries just after the book came out in the US. And I certainly hope I wasn't so effectively mindfucked because I'm a writer too.
He's such a fucking legend. And did something so amazing with this book that I even feel guilty expressing admiration of him. Yes, I know that makes no sense at all unless you've read the book.
It's amazing how he gets you to hate his protagonists so so much but still you keep reading because you have to know, you have to see his protagonists either self-immolate or redeem themselves even though there really is no such thing as redemption in an Easton Ellis novel. And now I feel like I know way too much about him as a person but even that must be an illusion because he's too smart to let that happen. Or is that the genius of him, knowing I'd think that?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhh!!!
And it's all about fathers and sons and it's Hamlet but without the mother issues or are the mother issues turned around and channelled a different way? And after he's indicted young dissolution, indicted young sexuality, indicted yuppie consumerism, indicted fashion superficiality and global paranoia, now he's indicted hyper-neurotic suburban perfection. He took down the young feckless heir, he took down the callous slut boy, he took down the pristine yuppie guy, he took down the himbo and the rambo, now he's taken down the midlife crisis pathetic male specimen. If there's anyone other than Trez who embodies "you know me, I hate everyone!" it's Easton Ellis.
God, I love him.
Only I'm fairly certain he hates men way way way WAY more than he hates women, hates himself way more than he hates anyone else. Or perhaps that's the myth. He doesn't really, you know, he just wants you to think that cos then you'll love him like a proper fangirl. Just like Trez. Heh.
Yes, dri, and can you say P-A-R-A-N-O-I-A?
*uses icon*
Which reminds me. Tuesday night I did a smart thing and rented out the first two seasons of Millennium to fortify myself against the possibility of being without the Internet. Happily, I don't actually need it now.
But gosh, it was a little odd to be watching the pilot after so so long. I never realised how dark Lance's hair was at the beginning. Also never quite realised how dour my darling Frank Black is. I loved him so much. Now I'm looking at him with some measure of bewilderment, going "er, why?" But I still stand by my former love and you know why?
Cos he's doomed. He was doomed right from the start! *wails* No wonder I loved him so. And all his impassivity makes those moments of tenderness and affection with Jordan and Catherine that much more beautiful, make him that much more textured a protagonist. He's so doomed, though.
And, ahahahahhahaaaa, seeing Terry O'Quinn as Watts after so long when that's all I knew him as for the longest time. Now I keep bellowing "Locke!" at him and marvelling at how much he's physically changed. The years have been rather interesting to good ole Terry.
Can I just note how very very influential those opening credits have been on television since then? Millennium totally started this trend of interesting opening credits, strange cryptic montages with floating text. The X-Files may have pioneered it but Millennium perfected it and everyone else has just copied, I tell ya, from House to sodding Ghost Whisperer. Gosh, I remember when just that music would scare the living bejesus out of me. Thank you, Mark Snow, I'm sure you've scarred a whole generation of television viewers.
And omigod the song played over the first horrible scene? Piggy, Nine Inch Nails.
I screamed and kicked my legs and sang along and totally gibbered at how what I know now has changed the past. Liek omifuckinggod it's TRENT! Trent singing all low and sexy and malevolent while the girl does her sexy dance and Paul Dillon menaces her with Yeats recitation. Trent being replayed and replayed as Frank tries to decipher what exactly Paul Dillon's reciting, then played on through the rest of that scene. Fucking Brilliant!!
I coulda sworn they originally put the verse up just after the opening credits. Or maybe they didn't start the quote thing til the second episode. I remember the Yeats thing so clearly cos I had just started studying him and that very poem. The Second Coming, natch. And the next week's episode was prefaced with a Charles Manson quote to whom my best friend at the time was writing letters. I kid you not. And our family homestead in India is a big yellow house. Heh.
Only made it partway through Chris Carter's commentary before I fell asleep but finally the house shot was explained. I'd always puzzled about the opening shot of the house going from black and white to full colour. And the explanation was just heartwrenchingly perfect: that you can try to paint over the darkness but it'll still be there. *whimper*
Chris Carter. Another sad emo bastard, right?
God, I can't wait to meet Lucy Butler again. Her in her flowered dress coming down the stairs. *muffled shriek of terror* That shot still jolts me in the dark of night.
*sigh* I have a very early court tomorrow. Which I'm very grateful for because it may mean a nice long day and therefore enough pay to go towards making up for that day off. But it's also the latest in several early mornings and panicked rushes down to the bus stop. Oh for a sleep-in and a nice leisurely stroll. No matter, it's a real nice gift horse I'm inspecting and I know which side of the bread my butter's on and every cloud has a silver lining dontcherknow and two birds in the bush is better than one in the kitchen.
Er, what?
Dear God Tori Rob Snarski but it fucked royally with my head. And disturbingly so. In a reality warping metanarrative, omg is it fiction or memoir what is he doing, skin-crawling way. Gah. As if Bret Easton Ellis could get any more traumatic.
But weirdly enough, I actually got used to it. Or I got past it. At a certain point, I decided "yes, this is definitely fiction, he's totally fucking with me, it's fiction, he's just being a devilishly mindbendingly clever flash bastard." And then it was all right. But I'll tell you he took his goddamn sweet time getting to that point. Horrible wonderful genius brilliant evil man.
I hope I'm not the only person to be so rattled by this book. Must go read past entries on not_an_exit, I suspect I'm not, seem to dimly recall a lot of anguished confused entries just after the book came out in the US. And I certainly hope I wasn't so effectively mindfucked because I'm a writer too.
He's such a fucking legend. And did something so amazing with this book that I even feel guilty expressing admiration of him. Yes, I know that makes no sense at all unless you've read the book.
It's amazing how he gets you to hate his protagonists so so much but still you keep reading because you have to know, you have to see his protagonists either self-immolate or redeem themselves even though there really is no such thing as redemption in an Easton Ellis novel. And now I feel like I know way too much about him as a person but even that must be an illusion because he's too smart to let that happen. Or is that the genius of him, knowing I'd think that?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhh!!!
And it's all about fathers and sons and it's Hamlet but without the mother issues or are the mother issues turned around and channelled a different way? And after he's indicted young dissolution, indicted young sexuality, indicted yuppie consumerism, indicted fashion superficiality and global paranoia, now he's indicted hyper-neurotic suburban perfection. He took down the young feckless heir, he took down the callous slut boy, he took down the pristine yuppie guy, he took down the himbo and the rambo, now he's taken down the midlife crisis pathetic male specimen. If there's anyone other than Trez who embodies "you know me, I hate everyone!" it's Easton Ellis.
God, I love him.
Only I'm fairly certain he hates men way way way WAY more than he hates women, hates himself way more than he hates anyone else. Or perhaps that's the myth. He doesn't really, you know, he just wants you to think that cos then you'll love him like a proper fangirl. Just like Trez. Heh.
Yes, dri, and can you say P-A-R-A-N-O-I-A?
*uses icon*
Which reminds me. Tuesday night I did a smart thing and rented out the first two seasons of Millennium to fortify myself against the possibility of being without the Internet. Happily, I don't actually need it now.
But gosh, it was a little odd to be watching the pilot after so so long. I never realised how dark Lance's hair was at the beginning. Also never quite realised how dour my darling Frank Black is. I loved him so much. Now I'm looking at him with some measure of bewilderment, going "er, why?" But I still stand by my former love and you know why?
Cos he's doomed. He was doomed right from the start! *wails* No wonder I loved him so. And all his impassivity makes those moments of tenderness and affection with Jordan and Catherine that much more beautiful, make him that much more textured a protagonist. He's so doomed, though.
And, ahahahahhahaaaa, seeing Terry O'Quinn as Watts after so long when that's all I knew him as for the longest time. Now I keep bellowing "Locke!" at him and marvelling at how much he's physically changed. The years have been rather interesting to good ole Terry.
Can I just note how very very influential those opening credits have been on television since then? Millennium totally started this trend of interesting opening credits, strange cryptic montages with floating text. The X-Files may have pioneered it but Millennium perfected it and everyone else has just copied, I tell ya, from House to sodding Ghost Whisperer. Gosh, I remember when just that music would scare the living bejesus out of me. Thank you, Mark Snow, I'm sure you've scarred a whole generation of television viewers.
And omigod the song played over the first horrible scene? Piggy, Nine Inch Nails.
I screamed and kicked my legs and sang along and totally gibbered at how what I know now has changed the past. Liek omifuckinggod it's TRENT! Trent singing all low and sexy and malevolent while the girl does her sexy dance and Paul Dillon menaces her with Yeats recitation. Trent being replayed and replayed as Frank tries to decipher what exactly Paul Dillon's reciting, then played on through the rest of that scene. Fucking Brilliant!!
I coulda sworn they originally put the verse up just after the opening credits. Or maybe they didn't start the quote thing til the second episode. I remember the Yeats thing so clearly cos I had just started studying him and that very poem. The Second Coming, natch. And the next week's episode was prefaced with a Charles Manson quote to whom my best friend at the time was writing letters. I kid you not. And our family homestead in India is a big yellow house. Heh.
Only made it partway through Chris Carter's commentary before I fell asleep but finally the house shot was explained. I'd always puzzled about the opening shot of the house going from black and white to full colour. And the explanation was just heartwrenchingly perfect: that you can try to paint over the darkness but it'll still be there. *whimper*
Chris Carter. Another sad emo bastard, right?
God, I can't wait to meet Lucy Butler again. Her in her flowered dress coming down the stairs. *muffled shriek of terror* That shot still jolts me in the dark of night.
*sigh* I have a very early court tomorrow. Which I'm very grateful for because it may mean a nice long day and therefore enough pay to go towards making up for that day off. But it's also the latest in several early mornings and panicked rushes down to the bus stop. Oh for a sleep-in and a nice leisurely stroll. No matter, it's a real nice gift horse I'm inspecting and I know which side of the bread my butter's on and every cloud has a silver lining dontcherknow and two birds in the bush is better than one in the kitchen.
Er, what?