Submarine, Joe Dunthorne

“One of the things I have discovered is that, although my father’s beard looks ginger from a distance, when you get close up it is in fact a subtle blend of black, blond and strawberry.
I have also learnt that my parents have not had sex in two months. I monitor their intimacy via the dimmer switch in their bedroom. I know when they have been at it because the next morning the dial will still be set to half way.”

Oliver Tate is 15. He is abnormally preoccupied with his parents’ marital relations, determined to lose his virginity before he turns 16, and has a girlfriend who can do some very clever things with matches. Oliver is fond of new words, translucent skin, and will happily feed rat poison to your dog if he thinks it will 'safeguard' your long-term emotional stability.

Joe Dunthorne has a real flair for language, splattering the pages with one-liners and odd observations, as gleaned from the delightfully skewed mind of a protagonist whose mixture of intelligence and immaturity is best served in the guise of a teenage boy. Oliver can pen witty diary entries to appease his girlfriend (crafting delicious parodies of Adrian Mole), yet remain stubbornly oblivious to notions of tact, subtlety, and common sense. Misadventures and grievous errors are sure to ensure.

Consistently funny without ever feeling too forced, the narration far outshines the plot, which is a little random and not as compelling as Oliver’s observational nuggets. This is a novel perhaps best enjoyed in small segments, for as witty as Oliver’s precisely phrased narration is, the resulting detachment can feel a bit chilly at times. Indeed, Dunthorne’s protagonist is curiously reminiscent of Mark Haddon’s infamous autistic narrator (also a fifteen year old boy). It is the sort of deadpan delivery that is initially striking but can feel a bit oppressive if you don’t take a break after a chapter or two.

Despite its teeny tiny shortcomings, Submarine remains an impressively assured debut from a very promising new(ish)* talent.

*(It was published last year, so shame on me for taking so long to find it.)

Lorrie Moore's writing broke my heart, in a bad way.

I've long been a fan of Lorrie Moore's short stories. If you haven't had the opportunity to read her work, I'd recommend it. She's funny, smart and cynical, which are my three favorite adjectives. Also, she often writes stories about interesting female protagonists of the funny, smart, and cynical variety.

If you're interested in podcasts and the like, you can listen to Louise Erdrich and New Yorker fiction editor, Deborah Treisman read and discuss a Lorrie Moore story here.

So, I was greatly disappointed when I read her novella, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, which I found largely whiny and flat. Lorrie Moore is an author whose voice I identify with so strongly and whose characters I often wish were real people so I could befriend/think I'm already friends with. Because of this (unhealthy) relationship I have to her work, I felt strangely betrayed by this novella.

Readers, have you had this experience with an author? Please share!

Waltz with Bashir (Israel 2008)

Snarling, angry dogs; eyes ablaze, teeth bared and saliva glistening in the sickly yellow light of the dawn sky. They stampede through grey streets, knocking over everything in their way as they hurtle towards their quandary, who stands waiting at a window. This is the recurring dream that old friend Boaz tells director Ari Folman about one night in a bar, explaining that they are the 26 dogs he was ordered to shoot during the Lebanese war; he still remembers every face. Folman is surprised to realise that he remembers very little about his own experiences of the war, and sets about tracking down old friends and acquaintances from the past, in the hope of bringing into focus the elusive imagery he is able to dredge up.

What follows is a mesmerising investigation into Folman’s wartime experiences, detailing the subjective, slippery (and often hallucinatory) nature of memory and its ties to trauma, guilt, and confusion. Past and present, fantasy and reality, horror and beauty all blend into each other, further muddying the murky waters of the filmmaker’s hazy recollections. The result is undeniably stylised yet sufficiently substantial, ensuring that the viewer is instantly engaged with the subject matter and soon absorbed entirely into the collective recollection of Folman and his interviewees’ wartime experience as he unveils the mixture or trauma and utter bewilderment they experienced during a war they understood very little about.

The highly subjective and ambiguous nature of the film renders the reliability of events – and the parts Folman played in them – difficult to decipher, giving rise to the question of both individual and collective avoidance. This is a bold, powerful and personal examination of the war-mist which envelopes and obscure things that – from guilt or trauma – get pushed down into a dark corner of our conscience.

Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams

Last month I met one of my idols. A writer that was introduced to me before I ever thought of myself as one. A woman with a multifaceted voice that comes from a landscape very different from my own but who has an outlook on family and tragedy that brought me in. When I learned that she would be at my local bookstore to read, I screamed and danced around my apartment. I realized I would get to hear her voice, reading her words, and that I might even get to speak with her. I still get sick thinking about the fact that I did.




Terry Tempest Williams came to Porter Square Books, a small but powerhouse independent bookstore in Cambridge, MA, in late October to read from her latest publication Finding Beauty in a Broken World. TTW found her inspiration as she lost her sense of self in a post 9/11 country broken and at war:

We watched the towers collapse. We watched America choose war. The peace in our own hearts shattered. How to pick up the pieces? What to do with the pieces?

It was the “pieces” that inspired Williams to look closer at our fragmentation and the potential to not only rebuild but also for beauty. Her journey takes her to Ravenna, Italy, a town famous for its bejeweled walls, to lean the craft of mosaic and then to Bryce Canyon National Park where she studies endangered prairie dogs for two weeks day and night in what she calls an “ecological mosaic.” Her journey comes full circle when she travels to Rugerero, Rwanda, with a group called the Barefoot Artists to meet with survivors of the 1994 genocide, serving as their scribe and telling the world what many countries, including America, tried to pretend was not happening.

My main concern is that while showcasing the prairie dog for its ecological importance and complex language system (something this blogger admits being completely ignorant of), Williams loses her readers at times discussing political action and detailing her days observing the animals in excess. That is not to say, however, that this section does not hold merit, but it is difficult to get through. (TTW told attendees at the reading that her father claimed he would pay anyone $1 who could get through this portion.)

Finding Beauty in a Broken World finds its voice and journey’s purpose with the tale of the genocide survivors and their ongoing battle to rebuild their country and to find semblance in their everyday lives. There are few words to describe what these people have been through and continue to deal with. Yet there is so much hope and want for progression. Williams captures this essence describing the villagers as they work with the Barefoot Artists—a group experienced with rebuilding and uniting communities through art. Bleak, government-built houses are painted with designs from orphans and a mosaic memorial is built from rubble and overlooked material. Together they create something beautiful out of their destruction and show what humanity is capable of (good and bad).

You, The Living (dir. Roy Andersson)

"Be pleased then, you, the living, in your delightfully warmed bed, before Lethe's ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot."

And so begins what superior critic Anton Bitel enticingly describes as ‘a litany of human disconnection, misery, frustration and despair’- but the kind that sees humour in the apparent futility of our day to day mishaps and misunderstandings that bind us together in our collective angst.

Conventional narrative is replaced with a series of living tableaux; our hapless characters shuffle around ineffectually – forlorn and resigned - some in silent anguish, others more vocal in their pain. It could make for decidedly grim viewing if not for the rather jaunty music provided by members of a marching band, and for the distance created between ourselves and the characters which enables us to see humour in their absurdity. And yet, somehow, there remains the tiniest glimmer of humanity within it all.

Andersson is gifted with a distinctive visual style: everything is in long shot, the static camera moving only once or twice throughout. Every scene is composed like a painting, the heavy ashen make-up and muted palette serving to enhance this aesthetic. The director explains: ‘I want light that has not much shadow because I want light where people can’t hide in – light without mercy.’ The pared down result is beautifully stark; the lack of distraction allows us to savour the texture of the utilitarian architecture and weather worn streets in all their gritty glory.

The film may well be a master class in mise en scene, but there is a philosophical core lurking not far beneath the surface: think understated rather than startlingly profound. Either way, this collection of deliciously droll vignettes is something you have to see for yourself.