Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer | 1986

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer | 1986

I have a bit of a contradictory relationship with horror films.  As a child I grew obsessed with the Universal monster features of the 30s, which lead to the atomic monster scares of the 50s, the alien and zombie scares of the 80s and right into the effects laden fare of the 21st century.  If it had an irradiated, mutated animal, a mythological nightmare beast or anything supernatural or otherworldly, I was there with bells on.  Any minor scares I got from watching were immediately wiped away with the thrill of seeing something imaginary brought to life.

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V/H/S | 2012

V/H/S | 2012

I'll admit straight off I don't have a lot of patience for the found footage genre as a whole.  Ever since THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT took the movie going world by the throat (it's still the only horror movie besides AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON - which is a whole other story - that gave me nightmares)  studios enamored by the idea of "micro budget horror + found footage = whopping profit" have cloned and copied the idea into the ground, turning it into the 21st century's equivalent of the 80s slasher film.  For every time a film breaks the mold with innovation and imagination (PARANORMAL ACTIVITY, [REC], TROLLHUNTER, CATFISH), there are dozens of small-minded, cheap and exploitative copycats that hope to lure you into watching with tired jump scares and crappy production value masquerading as artistic vision.

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By Way of Introduction

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I've spent the last few days thinking about how I wanted to kick off this blog, and the past few hours writing up a lengthy post that examined the connection between human experience and writing, and how my own writing changed as I came to terms with what I wanted to write about versus how I wanted to express myself.  It tried to capture the essence of what it feels like to write something true - even if it's only a few sentences in an otherwise verbose and overlong article - and how the pursuit of that over being merely witty or clever was a goal I was just starting to realize when I stopped writing altogether, for various reasons.  Then I wanted to go into detail about what I wanted to do with this site and give a glimpse into some of the ideas and topics I've been ruminating over and...

...and you get the idea.  It just kept going on and on, and while there's some really good stuff in there, it makes for a pretty drab introduction (or re-introduction) back to my online writing.  Hence this much shorter (by about 1,000 words at this point) opening post to Stranded Below Nirvana.  The short version is over to your left: examining a man's life via the media he consumes, which seems to imply nothing but reviews but my hope is to go a little further and take a look at why I'm absorbing the things things I am and connect it to, if possible, the myriad events that make up my life.  

And since I'm not getting paid to do this, I don't have any obligation to review the latest Hollywood blockbuster or indie auteur film.  I don't have to cater to a target demographic when deciding what book to read, or see what's trending on Pitchfork to decide on the music I should write about (although I'll likely do all of that).  Instead I'll write about the things that interest me, and attempt to examine this one peculiar life that by all rights I should know better than any other, but don't.  Which sounds awfully highfalutin  when you consider the next couple of entries in this thing will most likely be horror reviews, but that just comes with the territory, right?

Or, as a far better writer than I put it:

And I know I am solid and sound / To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow / All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

      - Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

1Q84 | Haruki Murakami

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It may seem deceptive to say that Haruki Murakami plays it fast and loose in 1Q84 with the themes that have inhabited his writing since his breakout novel A Wild Sheep Chase thirty years ago, considering his new novel (released in Japan as three separate volumes) clocks in at just 1,000 pages.  But by wrapping his clinical assessments of love, identity, the nature of reality and the power of stories in a sprawling narrative involving a masseuse that doubles as an assassin, a religious compound cut off from the world, immaculate conceptions, and the existence of an alternate reality where two moons light the sky and the potential for rekindled love can be had, provided you live through the experience.

It's 1984 when Aomame, a slender, quiet woman late for an important appointment, decides to leave a cab stuck in traffic on the freeway.  By the time she's made her way down a decrepit set of service stairs to the streets below, it's 1Q84.  As she slowly goes about her day, she begins to notice small things - police officers are carrying automatic pistols instead of the revolvers she recalls only a few days before, news items appear she has no recollection of.  It's only later, when she looks up at the sky and see a second moon, smaller and green in the night sky, that she begins to realize she's somewhere, well...else.

In another section of the city Tengo, a young math teacher with writing aspirations, is asked to revise and polish an extraordinary novelette called Air Chrysalis, written by a mysterious young girl named Fuka-Eri.  Seemingly autobiographical, the novelette concerns a young girl in a religious compound who witnesses the arrival of the Little People: small, nondescript people that crawl out of the mouth of a dead goat and begin to weave a cocoonout of threads of air.  In the story, two moon light the sky, and soon Tengo realizes the world he's revising in the book is his own. 

From there 1Q84 takes off, each chapter alternating Aomame and Tengo's story until they ultimately collide.  Everything you come to expect from a Murakami novel is present: music is a defining trait for characters, food is as detailed and described as the sex, and the dialog (the novel is translated by Murakami mainstays Jay Rubin and Philip Gabriel) has that introspective, calm cadence that's a defining trait in Murakami's writing.  Writing, the physical act of writing and its effect on people is a major theme in 1Q84.  For Tengo it is very direct - the act of polishing Air Chrysalis visibly changes his world, and involves him in a conspiracy that could endanger his life.  Later, a short story about a city of cats he read to his dying father begins to mirror his own predicaments.  For Aomame, the prayers she was forced to recite as a child becomes mantra as her world slowly grows more crazy.  Reading Air Chrysalis ignites her connection to Tengo, and allows her a glimpse into why the reality of 1Q84 exists for them.  There's a beautiful passage illustrating this connection, when Aomame realizes the act of reading something Tengo has written connects them:

Still sitting on the floor, Aomame closed her eyes.  She pressed her nose against the pages of the book, inhaling its smells - the smell of the paper, the smell of the ink.  She quietly gave herself up to its flow, listening hard for the sound of Tengo's heart.

This is the kingdom, she thought.

I am ready to die, anytime at all.

If you're going in looking for a slick SF alternate history book, a la Harry Turtledove, this isn't it: Murakami uses the existence of this alternate version of 1984 not to postulate a alternate future, but to illustrate the human need to create own reality in order to find something intangible in our current world.  1Q84 is a purposely sprawling, messy conglomeration of everything Haruki Murakami is fascinated by, equal parts moving, funny, and gripping.  It's along trip, but still the ending came too soon.