War Dances (2009)

For our fourth entry on Arts and Humanity, it falls to accomplished Native American Sherman Alexie to showcase his recently published collection, War Dances. A multitalented Spokane and Seattle man, occasionally selling his services as both screenwriter and comedian, Sherman Alexie has produced some of the most humorous and poignant American fiction of the last two decades. Indeed, several of his works have proved so poetic as to indicate that this may be the Native American Century in terms of great literature, so to speak; particularly stories from the gorgeously titled The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (1993), and the much acclaimed novel, Reservation Blues (1995).

War Dances is an assortment of twenty-three different short stories and poems, exploring a miscellany of different aspects to modern human life and relationships. Death and sexuality are frequent themes, along with ethnicity and war, Dances coloured as it is by a post-9/11 viewpoint and a profoundly Indian perspective. Like much of Alexie’s previous books, Dances is a constantly shifting and fluctuating work. One section of the title story takes the form of an exit interview conducted upon the death of the protagonist’s father. Furthermore, the poems are free and experimental in form, sometimes eschewing rhyme or verse and often proving visually striking.

For the most part Alexie seems to be in his usual blistering form. His standout moments clearly come in The Senator’s Son, The Ballad of Paul Nonetheless, and Fearful Symmetry,where Alexie manages to compound witty pop culture references with high literature, combining Thunderball (1965) with Hamlet. By doing so, he seems to find great meaning in both.

However, while the short stories are undoubtedly impressive, the poems are decidedly of a lesser standard. Failing to deal effectively with the controversial American/Indian issues covered in his other collections or to craft meaningful relationships like those detailed in the accompanying stories, Alexie also tries to make the everyday seem poetic, but just ends up being pedestrian. Linguistically uninventive and unchallenging pieces means that the poetry feels like dead weight among the higher quality stories.

War Dances is possibly the most successful work Sherman Alexie has published so far. With it, he won the prestigious PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in 2010. But perhaps the problem of Alexie having garnered such a reputation as an author lately has meant our expectations for his future books are higher. Or perhaps it has meant that hype and great promise has blinded critics to the true quality of his latest works. In truth then: none of the poems in Dances can compete with his earlier pieces. On the other hand, the short stories are diverse, accessible and funny-an excellent primary source for any budding writer to learn the craft from and make Dances a worthwhile read.

3/5

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1976)

It seems that connoisseurs of American, postmodern literature are spoilt for choice these days. Ranging from the aforementioned Paul Auster and the disputed narratives of Jonathan Safran Foer to the even more controversial transgression of Chuck Palahniuk, many of the greatest living American novelists can be described as possessing an inherent postmodern inclination, in terms of both theme and technique.

Perhaps gliding just under some postmodern radars is Southern novelist, Tom Robbins. Known for his fragmentary works, Robbins fuses comedy and poetics to create books that are at once both crude and literary. Indeed, discussion in a Robbins novel can flip from contemplations on masturbation to musings on time and the nature of love. Moreover, the research has been done too. It seems that Robbins educates himself on random subjects (like red hair and woodpeckers) before challenging himself to unite them all in one book.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1976) is one of the most famous Robbins works and was also the subject of a much panned film starring Uma Thurman in 1994 (no doubt thanking her lucky stars that year for Pulp Fiction). Both novel and film focus on a woman named Sissy Hankshaw, born with exceptionally large thumbs and thus with a keen knack for hitchhiking. Her travels mean that she becomes a model for feminine hygiene products and eventually ends up on an all-female ranch, where the eponymous cowgirls demonstrate their drive for gender liberation. Along the way, Sissy encounters other bizarre characters, like The Chink, a sagely escapee from a Japanese internment camp.

Reading a Robbins novel is somewhat of a schizophrenic experience. On the one hand, Robbins seems to be writing a spoof or parody, a humorous fairytale not to be taken seriously. But on the other hand, he has produced a profound novel, touching upon deep philosophical issues and roping in interesting aspects of American culture (the role of the road in literature, for example). To combine both is no easy task, but because of his skilled writing style, Robbins manages to have his cake and eat it too.

However. The sacrifice for this bipolar narrative is any decent semblance of character or plot. Jellybean, The Countess, Sissy are shallow, unlikeable characters in comparison to the topics being expounded. In terms of story, there is a vague plot at the beginning and towards the end, dealing with whooping cranes and Sissy (the stars of the front cover), but chapters in the middle are mainly used to speak, at the expense of character development, about other things that interest Robbins. One of which is evidently sex, a recurring and obscene theme in Cowgirls. The majority of the cast has had raunchy intercourse with Sissy, and any nobility that the seemingly serious, would-be politicised cowgirl campaign might have had is undermined by the frequent references to lesbian sex and the vaginal, unsettlingly described by Robbins.

Though it seems a dreadful shame to criticise such a knowledgeable writer, Cowgirls is quotable, witty and intelligent, but fails in most other areas. Go for Still Life with Woodpecker (1980) instead.

2.5/5

Man in the Dark (2008)

Paul Auster should be quite pleased with himself. He currently stands at the forefront of American high-brow fiction, and along with the likes of Philip Roth and Toni Morrison, has been intensely prolific in recent decades, producing popular works like The Brooklyn Follies (2005) and the triumphant New York Trilogy (1987), following that tradition of American authors who feel they owe their readership a trilogy (Henry James, William Faulkner, John Dos Passos).Very little, it seems, will oppose Paul Auster, as he strives for a cemented place in the canon of American fiction. But how far does Man in the Dark (2008) go to secure his immortality, that much craved holy grail of all artists?

Not very far, would be the answer to that particular question. Man in the Dark envisions an alternative America. A dystopian present where America never went to war with Iraq, where the Twin Towers were never attacked, and where several of the states have gone into secession, provoking a full-blown Civil War of independent versus federal states. Or so we would be led to believe, according to seventy-two-year-old protagonist, August Brill. Bedridden following an accident, Brill contents himself by telling stories about characters he has invented, including the sad saga of Owen Brick: a man flung into this ravaged America and charged with the mission of killing Brill himself. As Brill tells himself these stories, however, it is impossible to ignore his chaotic life in the background, the three generations of shattered relationships.

All sounding good so far. But sadly, a synopsis like that is more fulfilling than Man in the Dark itself. While Auster gears up for an aesthetic sort of At Swim-Two-Birds-style tale of a character waging war against his creator, a novel about how stories and lives interject and are in conflict with each other, he terminates the most compelling story (that of Brick) far too early, leaving you feeling shortchanged. Perhaps the suggestion is that it is futile for Brill to tell himself stories, that a harsh reality soon sears through these dream-narratives. In other words, that the real story Auster wants to tell is that of Brill, and not of Brick. But abandonment of the latter remains awkwardly jarring for the reader.

Aside from this unsatisfying turn of events, Auster succeeds on some other important levels. The writing is sophisticated yet simple, and the characters (even those of Brill, like Flora) are well-drawn and interesting. But if Auster was attempting to make some comment on contemporary America, as most writers would probably be trying for when constructing an alternative version of their recent history, it feels half-hearted and shallow, given only marginal attention. People are the real crux of this novel, not policy. Elsewhere, descriptions of scenes from movies like Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thief/Bicycle Thieves) may be poignant and accurate, marking examples of the intertextuality that Auster enjoys, but they boil down to little more than filler that can be skipped.

Overall, Man in the Dark is a disappointing novel from Auster. It has a wonderful premise, but the best of it is never developed fully, leaving it somewhat stunted and average. Not bad, but a reader could be equally happy left in the dark.

3/5

Midnight in Paris (2011)

Midnight in Paris (2011) has been praised by critics and audiences alike since its cinematic release last winter, hailed as a return to form for Woody Allen, a director thought to be himself past his belle époque. Recent Allen films have been criticised for weak humour, with the depth of earlier triumphs like Annie Hall and Manhattan largely absent. However, with a well-chosen cast championed by Owen Wilson, Allen has succeeded in once again delivering an Oscarworthy accomplishment. Even if he never attends the shindig anyway.

Briefly. Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) plays a struggling writer who has traded in his Hollywood hack job for the chance to write the great American novel. Holidaying in France with soon to be wife Inez (Rachel McAdams), Gil happens upon the mysticism of Paris at midnight, whereupon he encounters a gauntlet of expatriate artists from the 1920s, including Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates), Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston) and a marvellously brash Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll). Meeting everyone from Eliot to Faulkner teaches Gil important lessons about the past, present and his future.

Given little attention in other reviews is the glorious soundtrack at work in Midnight in Paris. It too, is filled with nostalgia for the past, featuring classic jazz musicians like Francois Parisi and Sidney Bechet. As a fan of modernist art and writing, I enjoyed how Allen manages to introduce modernist themes, such as city life and progress/tradition, with a kind of unexplained magical realism (itself associated with the postmodernist world Gil comes from, interestingly). Wilson is effective as a neurotic Allen-type, McAdams (perhaps appropriately, given the plot) makes an unconvincing fiancee, but the real fun comes with the cast of the Lost Generation, particularly Hemingway, Adriana (Marion Cotillard) and a surreal Salvador Dali (Adrien Brody).

Admittedly, Midnight in Paris does not reach the heights of the aforementioned Diane Keaton classics. Though well-directed and cast by Allen, it does feel a tad boring at the beginning, and the humour is not some of his best. However, as a billet-doux to the City of Light, one can see that it is certainly something he is passionate about, making it difficult not to be equally passionate about Midnight in Paris.

4/5