- Is your ad-blocking app destroying journalism?
- Yes, it could happen.
- The doomsday seed vault is opened for Syria.
- Coming soon to a drone near you: Lasers.
- Ignoring new Pope when they feel like it.
- Refugees and fragile states as the century’s defining issue.
- A few Scandinavians are responsible for pretty much all hit music; Or, how to get from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs to Kelly Clarkson in one chorus change.
- Making the classics all smutty.
- Print and read: The “Forgotten Battalion” fights to save themselves from suicide.
In the neo-feminist Western The Keeping Room, three women must defend themselves against marauding soldiers at the end of the Civil War.
The Keeping Room is opening this week in limited release. My review is at Film Journal International:
Somewhere in the American South in the last year of the Civil War, a black woman, presumably a slave, hauling wood down an empty country road meets a fierce-looking dog. When it begins to growl and bark, she barks right back. Then she notices the carriage stopped in the middle of the road. A half-dressed woman runs from the carriage, only to be shot in the back by the Union soldier in the carriage who appears to have just raped her. Then the first woman is herself shot in the head by another soldier who appears behind her. It’s a vicious and primal scene, a warning for what awaits the trio of women who are next in the soldiers’ path…
Here’s the trailer:
Plenty of us have fallen down the new TV-binge rabbit hole more than once in the past few years. It’s a nice change of pace every now and again, instead of patiently waiting for the next installment just plowing through 5, 6, or 10 episodes on a weekend. Adult life? Eh, it’ll still be there on Monday.
What goes by the wayside in the meantime, though? James Pearson’s essay on coming back to America and the media deluge that awaits him provides some answer:
When I left Uganda this winter I had finally broken the 300-page barrier in David Foster Wallace’s gargantuan novel, Infinite Jest. I’ve started it three or four times in the past and aborted each time for attentional reasons. But 300 pages felt like enough momentum, finally, to finish. Then I hit my first American airport, with its 4G and free wi-fi. All at once, my gadgets came alive: pinging and alerting and vibrating excitedly. And even better, all seven seasons of The West Wing had providentially appeared on Netflix Instant. I’ve only finished 100 more pages in the two months since…
It’s an addictive kind of media parasite that promises to keep sucking up more and more and more of our time.
In an ironic twist, Wallace himself (who wrote on seductive comforts of mediocre shows) predicted the future of perfectly addictive entertainment in Infinite Jest, in which he imagined a movie so astoundingly awesome that everybody who started watching it would keep watching it … until they died.
In 2009, according to the media research company eMarketer, the average U.S. adult consumed about 10 hours and 32 minutes of media per day. (That’s including multitasking, so if you spend an hour browsing on your iPad while watching TV, that counts as two hours.) By 2012 that total was up over an hour to 11:39 per day. That’s almost eight hours more per week, per person. Now multiply that by America…
The question is what is being supplanted by all this media space? We probably already know and the answer isn’t a comforting one.
Some say publishing is rigged. These are often the people who have been shopping their work—whether misery memoir, cozy murder mystery, 11-part zombie erotica series, or finely etched literary short story about quiet people with quiet problems—without success for years and don’t get what they’re doing wrong. Unable to get an agent or magazine to give them the time of day, their conclusion that it’s all a closed loop for insiders is not hard to fault; especially when one considers the quality of much that is published, not to mention the august list of big-name authors who first had to grind through dozens or hundreds of rejections.
It’s hard not to write off a lot of this frustration as sour grapes, the anger of those whose writing simply isn’t good enough to hack it. Obviously a lot of the time that is true—just take a dive through what gets self-published on Wattpad if you need convincing.
On the side that argues it’s all a racket comes a rare voice from the inside. In the New Republic, Theodore Ross writes with winking candor about what happened when he got sick of his rejection slips and decided to stop following submission guidelines and game the system:
At the time of these submissions, I was a junior editor at an established magazine, and I decided to use this to my advantage. I typed up a cover letter on my employer’s very fine letterhead, slipped it and the story into an envelope embossed with our well-known logo, and rules be damned, sent it to the folks in Brooklyn. A few months later, an editor emailed me at work—stick it, SASE!—to say he would like to buy the story, which I think rose slightly-but-not-significantly above not-half-bad. It was published a few months later after a few skillful edits. I earned $500, which I believe is $495 more than I had earned in my fiction-publishing career to that point…
Moral of the story: To get published, first work at a well-known magazine.
- Here’s what to do about St. Louis; the full report.
- The billionaires who wanna be president.
- When trying to make yourself a martyr ends up hurting your cause.
- The surprising millennial fastidiousness when it comes to grammar and spelling.
- Which candidate thinks African Americans are not actually (legally speaking) citizens?
The glorious weirdness of Soviet bus stops.
“Complaining about book prices: $20.00” and other great bookstore signage.
- Print and read: When Ted Bundy’s mother talked to the mother of one of his victims.
In Francois Ozon’s The New Girlfriend, after a woman’s childhood friend dies, she discovers that her friend’s husband has a secret. Complications of a romantic and gender-blurring nature ensue.
My review of The New Girlfriend, which opens this week in limited release, at PopMatters:
There is a sharp, sublime Almodóvar film trapped inside the blurry outlines of François Ozon’s The New Girlfriend (Une nouvelle amie), as if aching to get out. You can see this in The New Girlfriend‘s sly opening, with its finely sculpted woman being dressed seemingly for a wedding before the gag is revealed, and in the moments of interlaced satire and desire in later sections. But Ozon’s highly polished surface allows for none of the Spanish filmmaker’s lurking wit or malevolence. Though Ozon’s penchant for putting pretty people in mildly baffling situations makes it hard to take his work straight, so to speak, this is the course with which you’re left in this ultimately confused film…
Here’s the trailer:
For the average writer, turning out new pages and finishing stories, articles, or (if we’re so lucky) books isn’t a problem. It’s the whole reason they’re doing it. Productivity counts. Quality, too, of course. But in the end, finished pages are nicer. Since the best way for most of us to be better writers is to do it as much as possible (feedback, feedback, please), then the more the better.
For some writers, though, being prolific is seen as a problem. As in: If they’re so good, why are they publishing so much? Shouldn’t they be taking their time.
As somebody who knows a few things about over-publishing (four books in a year) Stephen King has some thoughts on that topic. In discussing one of his pet peeves, the belief that productivity exists in inverse proportion to literary quality, he pulls out the expected trump card: Joyce Carol Oates.
But then King talks about Donna Tartt and Jonathan Franzen, whom he considers two of America’s great living literary treasures, and have just eight books between them. That minimal output, he admits, drives him crazy:
I understand that each one of us works at a different speed, and has a slightly different process. I understand that these writers are painstaking, wanting each sentence — each word — to carry weight (or, to borrow the title of one of Jonathan Franzen’s finest novels, to have strong motion). I know it’s not laziness, but respect for the work, and I understand from my own work that haste makes waste.
But I also understand that life is short, and that in the end, none of us is prolific. The creative spark dims, and then death puts it out.
We are only here for a short while. So get cracking.
- Political pundits on the (maybe) verge of extinction.
- Scarlett Johannson’s attempt to stop the publication of a French novel about a woman who appears to be Scarlett Johannson, fails.
- And the cycle of evil is now complete.
- A chart of where in Europe the refugees are going.
- New language: American.
- Print and read: The banlieues of France, where bleak postwar architecture meets alienation, religious fanaticism, and occasionally hope.
In 2012, a white supremacist named Craig Cobb decided to buy up land in the small town of Leith, North Dakota. His plan was to create his own Aryan enclave. However, the neo-Nazis failed to heed Cobb’s call and ultimately he went to jail for terrorizing his neighbors. However, as this stunning new documentary shows, that’s not the whole story.
Welcome to Leith is playing now in limited release and will be expanding around the country throughout the fall. My review is at PopMatters:
Early in Welcome to Leith, Ryan Lenz, a researcher on hate groups for the Southern Poverty Law Center, describes his first visit to the Leith, North Dakota (pop: 24): “It was like B-roll for the Walking Dead.” That’s a description the townspeople probably wouldn’t care for, understandably. But one glance at the straggly trees, dirt roads, and abandoned houses set against the broad and intimidating expanse of the sweeping northern plains, and the average viewer might be tempted to agree…
Here’s the trailer:
Paul Theroux has spent decades traversing the world and writing about it. Although some of his fiction has been set in America, his travel writing has always been the sort of thing that required a passport. In his newest book, Deep South: Four Seasons on Back Roads, Theroux rectifies that oversight with a deep dive into the American south and its beautiful and fraught contradictions.
Deep South hit stores last week. My review is at PopMatters.
There’s an essay called “The South of the South” that Theroux published last year in the Smithsonian magazine that will give you some idea of what he was after in this book.