Drunk and Windy with Ernie

"The Three-Day Blow" by Ernest Hemmingway

Don't listen to Blue Oyster Cult, the reaper is the only thing to fear.

In literature, the medium of a short story is hard to compare to other arts. Would a television mini-series, a brief radio documentary (like an account on This American Life), or a blog post be comparable? I feel like that’s not the case.

With Ernest Hemingway’s barely eight-page story “The Three-Day Blow,” a full narrative springs from a seemingly innocuous drunken evening between two acquaintances. The episode consists of the pair mundanely imbibing and talking. No action climax occurs; however, one character internally wrestles with a recent break-up.

The title refers to an autumn wind striping previously lively trees of their leaves. Protagonist Nick discusses the relevance to his break-up:

“'All of a sudden everything was over,’ Nick said. ‘I don’t know why it was. I couldn’t help it. Just like when the three-day blows come now and rip all the leaves off the trees.’”

Hemmingway’s point is that life – or elements of life -- can suddenly cease to exist. Nick internally whines about his seemingly hopeless situation. But Hemmingway won’t let it be that bleak. His simple approach toward the two intoxicated men allows for the other character, Bill, to provide Nick an epiphany, unbeknownst to his crack-brained mind.

Bill warns Nick that if he isn’t careful, his relationship could be rekindled. The warning is slightly a joke because these burly men in the vein of Hemmingway’s code hero aren’t outwardly discussing feelings. Bill simply means that Nick could get trapped by monogamy; this is exactly what Nick wants to hear.

“Nick had not thought about [them getting back together]. It seemed so absolute. That was a thought. That made him feel better.”

Using deception, Hemmingway makes the reader think the short story will end tragically. Nick and Bill grab rifles and run out into the wilderness at the pinnacle of their stupor. Nothing happens – or it’s not written anyway – but the author’s point does not relate specifically to the pair’s story. Instead, unlike other Hemmingway works I’ve read, it seems positive. Other than death, nothing in life is final. Even if Nick screwed up his relationship, it is never technically beyond repair until someone dies.

Although morbid, the theme is hopeful.
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Short story: “The Standard of Living” by Dorothy Parker

Jim Tome-y: Eat Your Heart Out

#90 Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

There's nothing brief about Hugo's massive novel.

I don’t think I properly understood the word “tome” until I read the unabridged version of Les Miserables. Previously adjectives like “humongous” or “gigantic” seemed sufficient in describing books over 800 pages. Now I can recognize the negative connotations that are associated with those terms. “Tome,” on the other hand, provides the correct dignity related to a masterpiece like Les Miserables.

Not surprisingly, Victor Hugo’s 1862 novel was written while the Frenchman vacationed abroad. I thought Tolkien knew imagery: Hugo throws nine kitchen sinks of compound modifiers into every description – clearly, the man had time to kill. Although sometimes a little too detailed, his novel excels because – among many other reasons – it is so comprehensive. After reading Les Miserables I feel as if I could navigate both Paris’ roadways and sewer system, discuss in-depth French history from the revolution through Napoleon to the mid-1800s, and even speak French (sorta).

Ironically, Hugo’s tome was involved in the “shortest correspondence in history” (whatever that means), according to Wikipedia.

"The shortest correspondence in history is between Hugo and his publisher Hurst & Blackett in 1862. It is said Hugo was on vacation when Les Misérables (which is over 1200 pages) was published. He telegraphed the single-character message '?' to his publisher, who replied with a single '!'."

Anyway, the life and crimes and repentances of Jean Valjean and his pals certainly deserves the lengthy time commitment needed to read the 1,200-page book. That does not mean that everything Hugo included was necessary. In high school, I read an abridged version and wondered what I was missing out on. The Kingsway Regional High School addition clocked in at 600 pages, what could the other 600 be about?

The answer to that question: interesting – but ultimately dispensable – background. The novel is divided into six volumes that possessed about 15 books. The books then are further broken down into chapters. Hugo’s flow is sometimes disrupted by the back-and-forth dynamic created by his layout and adherence to rigorous background. Book 5 would be a breathtaking romantic tryst between Marius and Cosette; Book 6 follows with a lengthy 50-page description on the history of a bell tower. The see-saw almost had the feel of a commercial break. The plot developed so seamlessly, you would not dare put the book down. The following exposition would bore you like Sunday afternoon at Aunt Betty’s house.

That complaint is essentially petty in comparison to all the remarkable aspects Hugo’s novel commands. Today, a qualified yet potentially harmful editor might have weeded out the heart and genius while trimming the expository fat.

Hugo’s attention to detail in characters astounds me; I’m certainly envious. Nearly every seemingly insignificant character has a climatic moment in the story – sometimes hundreds of pages or numerous years later. Gardeners, childhood enemies, and irrelevant backgrounders affect the central plot constantly. Every time Hugo reintroduces an esoteric character from page 278 shocks me like defibrillator. If Hugo took the time to give a character a name, then he was going to make sure that he or she was important. Otherwise, the character would be labeled simply as an attendant, innkeeper, or ukulele player (you’ll have to see for yourself if he’s in the book).

And all that is with the minor characters. 600-page essays have been written about each major player in the Les Miserables game. In lieu of that, I will provide an elementary explanation of each character. I am going to attempt to guess what each character symbolizes.

Jean Valjean (The Working Man) – An ex-convict who now lives a life of propriety, he constantly runs from the law. Every step forward he takes and every good deed he does is nearly always countered by a negative event in his life. He dies a beleaguered man frustrated by society yet ultimately pleased with the small but loving family he secures.

Cosette (Goodness) – An orphan girl cared for by Valjean who brings peace to all associated with her. Her love stings Valjean, though, when she succumbs to youthful temptation and falls for Marius. Although devoted to Valjean, she betrays him by neglecting him near his death.

Marius (Youth) – The grandson of a wealthy bourgeois, he rejects his wealthy upbringing upon discovering his father was a hero during the Napoleonic era. He devotes himself entirely to his passions (his deceased father, Cosette) in an almost pathetic manner; he always remains a good person, though.

Javert (Rigidness) – A police inspector who obsessively hunts for Valjean. His lack of a personal life balances with his strict adherence to all authority and regulation. Javert is my favorite character because of his almost entire lack of compassion.

Thenardier (Evil) – A con-man who takes Cosette in as an orphan, he plagues both the girl and Valjean throughout the book. He attempts to extort, murder, and defraud all he encounters.

While my review itself is not nearly as lengthy as Hugo’s work, it should provide at least a basic insight into why Les Miserables is so much more than a successful musical. The proper time needs to be dedicated to savor the 1,200-page masterpiece.
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Up next, (#89) Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe

Not Wilder Than Today's Standards, Still Awesome

(#93) The Apartment -- directed by Billy Wilder

Thankfully for prosperity's sake, Wilder avoided discussing Ike's cue ball.

Ever since I've heard the name "Billy Wilder" I've associated the famed director with the root of his surname: Wild. In my mind, Wilder is associated with the taboo, the extreme, the wild. His comedies shocked audiences in the early 1960s prior to the more liberal comedies that Hollywood would soon churn out at decade's end. While TV was still portraying Dick Van Dyke sleeping in a separate bed from his wife, Wilder latched onto the reality that people have sex for reasons other than procreation. People engage in intercourse for, gasp!, pleasure. Wilder is widely credited with expanding the bounds of acceptable entertainment.

Wilder, along with Woody Allen, has the distinction of having the most films (five) on AFI's Funniest Movies List -- including number one, Some Like it Hot. On the particular list I refer to, Wilder lands four (along with SLIH: Sunset Boulevard, Double Indemnity and, the film of this post, The Apartment), so I'll be spending a decent amount of time on this German-born director. Web sites laud Wilder for his simplistic directing style, often allowing the written word and the actor's nature to carry his films over fancy cinematographic techniques -- like contemporaries Alfred Hitchcock and Orson Welles. In total Wilder owns seven Oscars and was nominated another 15 times. His expertise went beyond comedy, as his court-room dramas (Witness for the Prosecution), film noir ventures (Sunset Boulevard) and war movies (Stalag 17) also received recognition from the academy.

In short, Wilder's got it going on.

The Apartment does not depart from Wilder's style of letting actors act. His job is to coax the most out of his talent and allow the excellent script (of which he co-wrote the screenplay) to do its job. Because of Wilder's subdued approach, Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine soar.

Bud Baxter (Lemmon) stars as an unimportant, young accountant in New York who has one link to the great movers-and-shakers at his company: an apartment. At Bud's well-furnished yet small apartment, (male) executives from work come to take their mistresses and have affairs. That's it. The whole crux of the film is based on the fact that rich, powerful, white men have sex with women who aren't their wives and the complications that this causes on Bud's life.

Initially, the problems were small (Mr. So-and-so took too long; he's locked out in the cold; his neighbors complain about noise). However when the most-powerful man at the company starts using Bud's apartment to have an affair with Fran (MacLaine) the elevator girl, (to whom Bud is in love) the real dilemma start. What is more important to Bud? The new-found (and probably undeserved) success his apartment has given him or staying true to his feelings by resisting his boss and proclaiming his love for Fran. The humorous scenarios caused by the apartment is checked by the real-life issues it causes. Wilder never lets the film get too serious (which is hard to do when Fran attempts suicide, still he manages), but he is also well-aware of the important subject matter he attempts to address.

A few thoughts on the film.

The past seems so glamorous. Everything about New York in 1960 appears awesome. The clothing, the manner of speaking, the formality everything has in it. I know Wilder made the movie as present day, but to a viewer in 2009, the time capsule is complete. The attitudes of all characters in the film are very unlike people today; however everyone feels authentic. Not that I would really know the appropriate way to behavior, but I feel like I do now. By using the strong-clarity of 1960's black and white film technology, Wilder makes the simple (a middle-class apartment) feel like a whole world unto itself. Bud's office building filled with innumerable adding machines, desk jockeys and Boller caps is a visible phenomenon. Wilder transforms the mundane to grand by doing nothing more than filming it. Visually, that's the beauty of this movie.

Indeed, what used to be considered risque is now tame. As natural as that sounds, this topic must be considered. With HBO, R-rated movies and, my lord, the Internet, people's attitudes towards sexuality sure have changed. Even when watching the seemingly-harmless sitcom Scrubs, for example, the viewer is still given large doses of sex. In The Apartment, I don't think the word sex is even uttered. No skin is shown, no cursing, no over-the-top innuendo -- just allusions carry the film. Maybe that's why the film is so funny. The viewer is never hit over the head with sex; it's omni-present.

That being said, comedy is comedy. Jokes about President Eisenhower's chrome dome might not be funny, but the elements of comedy are still the same. Relatable scenarios with humorous takes, zanny conflicts with exaggerated characters and unexpected, well-timed reactions remain funny. Bud straining spaghetti with a tennis racket made me laugh. Fran's melancholy delivery of the mantra of a mistress, "When you're in love with a married man, you shouldn't wear mascara," is sad, but nonetheless funny. Bud's neighbors with heavy-German accents thinking that he's a sex deviant because they see a different woman leave his apartment every night and accusing him of being a bastard is funny. Unlike TBS, Wilder knows funny.

On the other hand, an example of Wilder's appropriate infusion of seriousness into the comedy is during Fran's suicide attempt. The scenario surrounding her attempt is that she learns her man is stringing her along and will never leave his wife (like he promises he'll do). So she over-doses on sleeping pills. When Bud finds her unconscious in his apartment, he must ditch the train-wreck of a lady he drunkenly brought home (funny), convince his Jewish-doctor neighbor to aide Fran -- despite the fact the doctor hates him for supposedly being a womanizing play boy -- (funny), and later keep her from attempting suicide again by essentially removing all items in his apartment she might use to ax herself off with (sounds serious but once again is funny).

Mixed in with the humor is the handling of the suicide itself. Wilder artfully juxtaposes the callousness of the business man who feels her attempt is a nuisance with Bud's silly but honest feelings towards her. The film portrays women as more than just objects used by the wealthy to achieve cheap pleasures. Although Bud may loses out financially by choosing love over success, he wins morally as his happiness with Fran far outweighs the alternative.

Moral of the story: Love can make you do some crazy things, but remember that it all hinges on whether the other person loves you for the real you. A Full House-type ending doesn't take away at all from mastery that is The Apartment.

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Up next, (#92) A Place in the Sun, directed by George Stevens

Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant

"The Garden Party" by Katherine Mansfield

Rabbits may be cute, but they don't give a damn about poor people.

A rich British family plans, delivers and cleans up a fancy, mid-summer garden party. Isn't it grand? However, the fun is spoiled for daughter Laura when a poor neighbor accidentally dies prior to the party. She actually has the audacity to suggest that her family postpone the occasion in honor of the dead peasant.

Mansfield's 1922 short story contrasts the rich and poor with the ever-popular light and darkness imagery. Laura's family, garden, house etc. are bathed in all the sun's riches; the poor dead dude is submerged in shadow. The story does well in sketching the upper classes attitude towards the unfortunate. Good phrases used to describe the poor include: “Their houses were the greatest possible eye soar;” “It was disgusting and sordid;” “People like that don’t expect sacrifice from us;” and “I can’t understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes.”

It is a shocking realization for Laura that people can suffer in misery unbeknownst to her in such a close proximity. The trifles of the garden party are insignificant compared to the sustained torment endured by the poor. Her family’s cold reaction to the poor doesn’t make them bad people. Instead, Mansfield was simply illustrating the general feeling of the establishment towards the lower class in this era.

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Up next: "The Three-Day Blow" by Ernest Hemmingway

A Sustained Departure - Short and Sweet

Delaying a bit what I got going on.

With a Barnes & Noble gift card I purchased a short story anthology. To increase posts on this here blog, I hope to intersperse brief reviews of short stories contained in the book. This is not meant as a substitution for any movie or novel, just an addition to the blog. The book is 50 Great Short Stories; it doesn't advertise them as the best, just great short stories. Milton Crane edited the series.

Up first: "The Garden Party" by Katherine Mansfield

Killing Never Seemed So Cool

#94 -- Goodfellas directed by Martin Scorsese

As Henny Youngman says, "Take Liotta out of this film...please!"

It took Martin Scorsese five attempts to finally secure an Oscar for best director. Although I liked the film he eventually won with (2007's The Departed -- it's pretty sweet), I'd argue it may be the weakest of the Scorsese films (OK, it was better than The Aviator) and may not have even been the best in contention that year (Blood Diamond and Babel were both very deserving). My point being that Scorsese was rewarded for a lifetime of awesome films. One of which being the next on the AFI list -- Goodfellas.

Just when everyone thought mob movies had been done to death (especially mob movies with Robert DeNiro), Scorsese roared into 1990 and released a overtly honest, cleverly scripted and gruesomely gory flick that soldifies the genre, once again, as bankable and capable of new ideas.

Ray Liotta -- in the only thing I ever could stand him as, ever -- portrays Henry Hill, a half-Irish, half-Italian mobster turned eventually stool pigeon. The film, based on the book Wise Guy, runs throw the glamorous life of Hill and his New York-based croonies. DeNiro and Joe Pesci co-star in masterful roles as his two best goombas and really steal the show from Liotta.

Pesce and DeNiro are everything to this film. Their characters have so much depth and both excel in comedic and dramatic scenes alike. Pesce's portrayal of Tommy DeVito is iconic. His indecisiveness and self-consciousness makes him a frightening character to encounter. The oft-quoted "What do you mean I'm funny?" scene far exceeded my expectations. Duplicators lack the fear Pesce creates with the character; throughout the entire scene -- and film in general -- you feel Pesce has the potential to kill everyone in sight for no reason.

DeNiro is at the height of cool in this movie. Also playing a half-Irishman, Jimmy Conway, DeNiro commands the scene like his character commands a room -- through subtle demands. By snapping his fingers, whispering in a colleague's ear or nodding in the direction of what he wants, DeNiro dominates. Not as outwardly dangerous as Pesce's character, DeNiro does not refrain from inflicting violence or defending his turf. When Conway feels his wishes are not met, the results are startlingly deadly. One thing that I learned from Goodfellas is that if DeNiro tells me not to spend my recently-stolen money for awhile, I sure as hell will listen.

In fact, after talking about how awesome Pesci and DeNiro are, fuck Liotta: he severely detracts from this film. When DeNiro yells, it's purposeful, it's poetic; when Liotta mouthes off, it seems as if that's the only card he has in his deck. The climatic scene detailing a paranoid Liotta running errands on the day of his arrest is a symbolic for his acting in the movie. It's like he is always looking over his shoulder to see how much better Pesce and DeNiro are than he. Sadly, it's as hopeless for Hill as it is for Liotta.

There are other noteworthy elements that I feel at least deserve mention. Like in any good mob movie, food plays an important role. Often humor comes from the inclusion of food. At one point, hot-headed DeVito kills a made man; therefore, Conway and Hill have to aid DeVito in burying the man upstate. Instead of getting things done ASAP, the trio stops at DeVito's mom's house and eats dinner -- some good gravy there. Later in the film, during Hill's paranoid drug-dealing spree, he continually bases his movements on a crucial element -- the making of tomato sauce. Liotta, all coked-up and strung out, stirs the sauce and worries about its consistency mere moments before being ambushed by the feds.

Also great secondary character work throughout the film. Lorrainne Bracco (the future Dr. Melfi on The Sopranos) excels as Hill's battered, cuckolded wife. Paul Sorvino's role as the mob boss exudes a Brando-esque dominance. And, for me, Chuck Low is the film's most unappreciated actor. Playing the annoying, clingy, dependent, oh-god-shut-up!, Jewish Morrie Kessler, Low hangs with the big boys and somehow becomes an endearing character. On top of all that, cool cameos by Samuel L. Jackson, comedian Henny Youngman ("Take my wife...please!), and Michael Imperioli (Christopher from The Sopranos) advances the idea that no character is too small.

So despite having a leading man who takes away from the film, Goodfellas is the most tasteful and artistic mob movie outside of The Godfather series. Although Scorsese should have won for this one, I'm glad he finally got what he deserved (just like so many poor, dead gangsters in this film).

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(#93) - The Apartment directed by Billy Wilder

I Think I Get It...

#91 On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Like Alicia Silverstone, I am clueless...regarding Kerouac.

The Beat generation in America paved the way for the Hippies.

That much am I aware.

As depicted in Kerouac's so-called "novel that defined a generation" the Beats were without identity and wandered the country in search of something -- whether it be love, euphoria, or simply joy.

That much I am also aware.

Aside from that I don't know what exactly I got out of On the Road. I'm just not sure if I get it...but I kinda do.

The novel describes narrator Sal Paradise and his gone friend Dean Moriarity's travels across the great American landscape. Divided into five sections, each segment tells a different adventure. Sometimes they go East to West; others West to East. Whether hitchhiking, riding the bus, driving their own cars, stolen cars or being hired to move cars, they always somehow get from Point A to Point B. Eventually the pair finds itself in Mexico for what I guess you would call the novel's climax.

But that's about it...to me anyways.

On the Road is based off of the real life exploits of Kerouac (Sal Paradise) and Neal Cassady (Dean). Thrown in there are also numerous secondary characters, the most notable being Carlo Marx -- the alias of yet another Beat icon, Allen Ginsberg. Marx and Dean spend loads of time together in the early parts of the novel and are described by Kerouac as outcasts:

"They were like the man with the dungeon stone and the gloom, rising from the underground, the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation that I was slowly joining."

I would give context for that quote, but there is none. Throughout the whole book there is no context for any description. Kerouac writes long, rambling paragraphs that are heavy on adjectives but light on purpose. He rants and rants and rants about nothing.

Kerouac's pointless, stream-of-conscious diatribes to me are empty. Time and again he writes of massive nights where Dean and Sal go nuts in random American city. It's all the same every time. Denver, New York, San Francisco, New Orleans -- each has its own unique identities, but each is still essentially the same. They don't learn anything knew; the only growth is the further experience of repetitive partying. I dug the admiration for black bop and jazz music, but everything else felt hollow.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe the American experience is one of letdown and disappointment. Dean can never be content in one city, with one woman, living one life. He's restless. Thrilled only by the chase, the road, Dean really isn't a complete person. In a lot of ways Dean is just a symbol for the failure of the American dream. With a drunk for a father and no formal education, Dean floats along doing as he pleases until he is forced to deal with reality. For him, the reality is in the form of the countless bastard children and divorced wives he leaves scattered around the country.

Are Kerouac's experiences a lesson of what not to do? In a lot of ways I feel his recollections are mere documentations of wild nights and nothing more. I don't think Dean is painted as a sympathetic character, though, despite Kerouac's efforts to make him one. I feel only anger towards Dean, not pity. I think it's because he's such a fuck up; he destroys everything around him and constantly ruins others' lives. If he didn't affect others it would be one thing, but that's not the case. Dean is lost and is bringing everyone down with him in his catastrophe of a life.

What pisses me off the most about this book is the lack of a climax. Like I said before, eventually Dean and Sal stumble down to Mexico, and they love it. The backwards-ness of the impoverished country inspires them...to accomplish exactly the same thing they do in America. Namely, they get drunk, smoke lots of "tea" and pay for sex. This episode concludes with Sal contracting dysentery, Dean abandoning him and eventually Sal returning to America.

The novel's conclusion is essentially Dean won't change and continues to wander and screw people over in the process; Sal settles down with a lady; and the pair -- despite Sal's yearning -- don't rekindle their road wanderings. By the way, all of that is summed up in about six pages of text. I'm not saying Kerouac had to resolve everything, but I wish he accomplished something.

Yes, Kerouac's wanderings spoke to countless young Americans who felt out of place. The hopeless feeling certainly exists today, and I'm sure On the Road remains an anthem to many. But for those with at least small ambitions, this novel yields nothing.

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Like I said before, a mystery guest will discuss Frankenstein. The next novel on my radar is (#90) Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I read an abridged version in my junior year of high school.

Also, a film review is in the works.