Olive Kitteridge a Thoughtful Look at the Human Condition

Olive Kitteridge
By Elizabeth Strout
Random House 2008
ISBN 978-0-8129-7183-5

This book won the 2009 Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Such awards often engender as much debate as glory, so let me dispense with this right away: my vote would have gone to Muriel Barbery’s magnificent The Elegance of the Hedgehog. That said, Olive Kitteridge is certainly a worthy choice.

It’s not the sort of book that grabs you immediately. Like Our Town and Spoon River Anthology, works whose structure it evokes, Olive Kitteridge is a string of vignettes—thirteen in this case—loosely tied together by the appearance and opinions of Olive. The book’s also not immediately lovable because Olive is hard to like. It’s set in the small coastal town of Crosby, Maine. Olive is a retired school teacher who has lived in Crosby for many decades and has witnessed its changes, the bulk of which simply piss her off. She’s cranky, judgmental, and generally tight-lipped, but when she does open her trap there are barbs hanging from her tongue. (They are mild compared to what’s in her head!) One of Crosby’s great mysteries is how such a sourpuss is married to Henry, her good-natured hardware store-operator husband. Olive, not without some merit, suspects several local women of carrying a torch for Henry. One of the book’s delights is that Strout—who also penned the popular Abide by Me—keeps Olive in character throughout. I won’t reveal more than to say that even Olive’s “tender” side has rough edges. Henry’s perpetual optimism is one of the many things that get Olive’s goat, and her son’s lifestyle is another.

Each of the book’s thirteen chapters features a different town character—an anorexic girl, an aging piano bar siren, a bride left at the altar, a man cheating on his wife, Olive herself…. Each has his or her secret, or at least they think they do. Strout essentially updates Peyton Place, the 1956 Grace Metalious novel that blew the lid off a New England town’s secrets, though Strout’s cast isn’t as evil or as calculating. Nor are they as uniformly destitute as the characters that inhabit Carolyn Chute’s The Beans of Egypt, Maine, another book to which Olive Kitteridge can be compared. What Crosby residents are for the most part are ordinary folks trying their best to cope with what life throws at them. Like most of us, some endure gracefully, some make a muck of things, and most seek to find sublime moments to counter the painful ones. Olive, a large woman, is both the symbolic and literal anchor in the book. She’s not the axis around which the action unfolds so much as the looming presence that persists across generations and whose reaction to change—including her own aging—forces readers to ruminate on the human condition. You won’t come away loving Olive, but you may find—for good and ill—that there’s a lot of her in each of us.

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

The Lacuna
Barbara Kingsolver
2009, 507 pp.
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A lacuna is a gap, especially in a narrative. It’s also the hook and title of Barbara Kingsolver’s latest novel. The book has not garnered brilliant reviews, perhaps because its setting and scope led critics to expect a Mexican version of The Poisonwood Bible. The latter work is such a masterpiece that Kingsolver may never duplicate it, but The Lacuna is an enjoyable read on its own for readers who can put aside expectations and let it be what it is: a good, but not transcendent work.

The book’s protagonist is Harrison Shepherd, born to Salomé, a freewheeling Mexican mother, and a button-down overly serious American diplomat far too boring and normal to hold onto his tempestuous wife. She and her son are soon off to Mexico, where Salomé becomes the mistress of a series of powerful men whose wealth she hopes will keep her in the delayed-development flapper lifestyle she’d like to become accustomed. As one might expect, things don’t quite work out that way. Harrison, his Anglo name notwithstanding, grows up with a Mexican identity and Spanish as his first language. We follow his life from 1929 to his death in 1951, some times through first-person accounts and sometimes through the journals he meticulously keeps and which his personal secretary discovers.

This is an ambitious book that’s part pure imagination and part historical novel. As Harrison grows up, his very residence is determined by his mother’s current domestic situation; sometimes he’s in Mexico, at others he’s in the United States with his bland father. In this regard, the lacuna is also symbolic of the gaps in Harrison’s identity (and that identity crisis extends to sexuality as well.) But even when he’s in tony U.S. prep schools Harrison feels more Mexican than American, and his fascination for the ancient Aztecs only fuels this. At a crucial moment in his life during the late 1930s, Harrison is back in Mexico and working in the household of muralist Diego Rivera and his volatile wife, the painter Frida Kahlo. He is also there when they host (and try to protect) Russian exile Lev Trotsky. Kahlo encourages Harrison to pursue both his personal passion and that for writing. After Trotksy is murdered by Stalin’s assassins, Harrison returns to the United States and becomes a successful writer of sensational historical novels set in ancient Mexico. The final part of the book sees him in Asheville, North Carolina, during the Red Scare—a naïve innocent about to be trapped in demagogic web. Indeed, the book’s final lacuna is the gap between truth and manufactured reality. Harrison is not the man anyone—accusers, publishers, lovers, his public—presumes him to be, but he fails to grasp the ways in which perception becomes its own sort of truth.

I found this a rewarding book, but I’d yield to those who charge that Kingsolver overplays her hand. Mixing fictional and historical characters is always tricky business because we know too much about the latter. Does Kingsolver romanticize Kahlo and Trotsky? Probably. Kahlo is sufficiently self-centered, but Kingsolver gives us a tender core that’s more what she’d like Kahlo to have been than the historical record reveals. In like manner, Trotsky seems more avuncular than a fiery revolutionary. And it certainly stretches credulity to think that Harrison’s novels—as Kingsolver describes them—would have ever caught the public imagination. She’s also guilty of working the lacuna metaphor too hard, as she does with a seemingly bottomless water-filled cave that’s an object of Harrison’s obsession.

Still, it’s a great treat to read Kingsolver’s descriptions of pre-World War II Mexico; they obliterate American popular perceptions of Mexico. It’s also refreshing to see American life through the critical eyes of a (half) expatriate. Few writers deal with culture clashes as well as Kingsolver, and The Lacuna is another reminder that American values are open to the critiques that U.S. residents are all too willing to apply outside their own borders. I wouldn’t say that the pace of this book moves at a fast clip, but Harrison is a sufficiently enigmatic character that he is able to move among the giant personalities that inhabit this book: Rivera, Kahlo, Trotsky, Joe McCarthy, Salomé…. It is not easy to spotlight a small fish in a tank populated by sharks and it is a testimony to Kingsolver’s craft that she can do so. A masterpiece? No. But The Lacuna is nonetheless a superior work of fiction.

MATTHEW RYAN: TUNES LACK CONNECTION

MATTHEW RYAN
Dear Lover
Dear Future Collective 001
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I’ve been hearing the name of former A & M recording artist Matthew Ryan for several years, thus I was looking forward to his latest release. Now I’ve had a taste and I can’t say that I hunger for more. Ryan has a gravely voice—mildly reminiscent of John Mellencamp—and he pushes it to its limits. The latter effect, at least on Dear Lover, has the effect of robbing his character- and situation-filled narratives of much of their impact. So too does the trippy, trance-like tunes in which he wraps them. “City Life,” for instance, is framed in spacey tones and propulsive rave-like beats. It would work better as the backdrop for a sci-fi film score than as commentary on urban grit. In fact, much of the music is centered on tonal soundscaping and sustained chords in which melodic structures are pushed into the bottom of a thick aural soup. I mostly liked his sparser songs, such as the folky “The World Is.” Oddly enough, the songs that had the least going on are the ones that most engage the listener; they are, simply, more approachable. Ryan has made a dozen records in a very short period of time and perhaps it’s time to slow down and work on tunes more suitable for planet Earth.

Jesus, Stop These People!

Does this product endanger our souls?

Pity the poor parodist. Parody used to be an ignoble but lucrative profession where a guy could actually make a (semi-) honest buck making up stuff. No more. The world has grown so seriously weird that it’s impossible to invent anything that’s more absurd than reality.

Don’t believe me? Ladies and gentleman of the jury I direct your attention to Exhibit A from Dream Products Incorporated: the copper, magnetic Jesus bracelet. Boy, talk about covering all the bases. Why for three pennies shy of a Hamilton you get—as the ad promises—the “penetrating power of magnets,” the “soothing power of copper,” and the “healing power of Jesus.” Dream Products also tells us that this bracelet has the potential to cure tendonitis, arthritis, bursitis, back pain, poor circulation, “and more.”

The very existence of such a miracle product raises profound phenomenological and theological conundrums. I’ve got some of the aforementioned aches and pains, and this morning I broke out with a debilitating case of “and more.” So let’s say I shell out $9.97 for a bracelet (call toll free and pay no shipping or handling!). And let’s assume that one morning I wake up pain free. Who do I praise? Jesus? Anaconda Copper? Or maybe William Gilbert who, in 1600, unraveled the mystery of magnetic charges and coined the word “electric?” How do I know?

I think the National Institute of Health and the Attorney General’s office need to investigate this product. Far be it from me to suggest that the Jesus Bracelet should go the way of patent medicines or the electric belt. The word “fraud” never passed my lips. No, my friends, this product must be stopped because it threatens to induce nothing less than a crisis of faith in our fair land. After all, what would happen to my eternal soul after I die if I meet Gilbert on the other side of the great divide and he’s really pissed at me for lighting a candle for the wrong guy?

The Last Station Rich in Ideas, Weak in Direction

Ideals take a romp in the proverbial hay!

The Last Station
Directed by Michael Hoffman
Egoli Tossell Films, R, 112 mins.

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What if someone created a movement from your ideals and principles? Would you be pure enough and devoted enough to join? This is the central conundrum of The Last Station, a film that looks at the final days on earth of Russian author Lev Tolstoy.

The narrative is based on Jay Parini’s historical novel and is a work of imagination that should not be confused with a Tolstoy biography. This much is true. Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer) was, in his lifetime, a beloved figure around which a movement crystallized. In his late life, in fact, he was more famous as a social philosopher and humanist than as the author of War and Peace. Follower embraced Tolstoyan ideals that were a mix of pacifism, social leveling, and aestheticism--a Russian analog to British Fabianism. For movement leaders such as Vladimirr Chertkov (Paul Giamatti) and devotees such as Tolstoy’s personal secretary, Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), Tolstoy was a secular Christ. There’s a lovely scene early on when the young Bulgakov first meets Tolstoy and is moved to tears when he learns his beloved master has actually read his work.

The film’s drama centers on Tolstoy’s inability to control his own image. He is pulled in various directions by sycophants—including his own daughter Sasha (Ann-Marie Duff)--by the scheming Chertkov, by his own passions, and especially by his aristocratic wife, Sofya (Helen Mirren), who is more interested in her future inheritance than in the health of the “movement.” What’s an aesthete with a healthy appetite for sex supposed to do? The plot is a cat-and-mouse game to the bitter end between Chertkov and Sofya, with Tolstoy caught in the middle and Valentin charged with spying for both sides. Valentin’s not very good at it, because he’s wrestling with his own earthly temptation: the seductive Masha (Kerry Condon).

This film is great fun for its acting. Plummer plays Tolstoy with precisely the right amount of tension between ice and fire, and McAvoy superbly plays monkey-in-the-middle to Plummer and Giamatti. The latter is superb as Chertkov, a waxed moustache-twirling plotter who is equal parts puritanical and demonic. What is more important, Tolstoy the person or Tolstoy as a movement icon? Kudos to Giamatti for suggesting but never quite tipping his hand. Oddly, the weak link in the ensemble is Helen Mirren. Many of her scenes are over-the-top. Perhaps those histrionics are written into the script, but more machinations and less screaming would have made Sofya more convincing.

As much as we enjoyed the acting, The Last Station would probably be more powerful as a play than as a movie. The filmic possibilities were wasted by director Michael Hoffman. We do not see Mother Russia at her pre-revolutionary worst; in fact, we can’t recall ever seeing such clean peasants or prim communards. None are more so than the delicious Kerry Condon, who can split multiple cords of wood and keep her makeup intact. Views of the countryside similarly looked more like pastoral tableaux than real-life farming. Hoffman made curious choices throughout the movie. No one attempts a Russian accent, which was probably wise, but it might have been a good idea to get everyone in the same chapter if not on the same page. McAvoy is Scottish, Condon is Irish, Mirren is English, Plummer is Canadian, and Giamatti is American. Put them together and it’s more like the lobby of the United Nations than the verdant fields of Russia.

Still, it is a real joy to see fine actors ply their craft, accents and clumsy direction be damned. The film is very rich in ideas. Is a utopian vision that stifles human nature a contradiction in terms? Do principles liberate, or imprison? Can the mind ever be truly free of the body? What would we sacrifice to be true to our own values? The Last Station is no masterpiece, but it’s definitely worth seeing. And Christopher Plummer was born to play Tolstoy. If anyone gets around to making a biopic, Plummer should be the first person called.

Censure Vote in Order for Randy Neugebauer

Randy Neugebauer: The one-man ad for the degradation of American politics.

Imagine, if you can, that a House liberal such as Barney Frank got so enraged by a Supreme Court decision that he screamed “Fascist” in reference to Justices Clarence Thomas, John Roberts, and Anton Scalia. How long would it take before Fox News, the Republican National Committee, and every Teabagger, televangelist, and right-wing political action group in the country would be screaming for Frank’s head on a platter? Yet these are the same groups that have applauded Representative Randy Neugebauer (R-TX) and his March 21 outburst on the House floor when he called his colleague Bart Stupak a “baby killer.”

Stupak’s “murderous” act was to change his vote on the health care bill, which conspiracy nuts and crazy people seem to think will promote abortion. (And of course we all know there’s no abortion whatsoever under the current health care system!) Congressional rules call for decorum and courtesy in debate. There is simply no end run on this one—Randy Neugebauer’s comments were inflammatory, impolitic, abusive, undisciplined, and ill-informed. Worse, there were of a sufficiently derogatory nature that Stupak might have had a libel suit if Neugebauer had made these remarks in public without the protection of Congressional immunity.

There is only one appropriate measure: Representative Neugebauer should be censured by his House colleagues for his remarks. For those who may not know, a censure is considerably less than expulsion or impeachment. It’s a formal reprimand that is, in reality, little more than a hand slap, though it does have profound implications for future committee assignments and often jeopardizes a member’s chance of reelection. Since Neugebauer represents a particularly conservative district in Texas, it’s unlikely his reelection is in doubt, but it would provide Democrats with a highly symbolic weapon in their own reelection bids. Republicans are already vulnerable to being tarred as the party that says “no” to the future—add a dose of Newt Gingrich-style meanness to this and the GOP’s big November dreams may fade as fast as the red flush on Randy Neugebauer’s neck.

Unwanted CD Should Be Desired by All

THE UNWANTED
Music from the Atlantic Fringe
Compass 4526

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The Unwanted is an intriguing collaboration between Irish singer Cathy Jordan (Dervish), Sligo fiddler Séamus O’Dowd (Dervish), and Californian Rick Epping. Music scholars long ago unearthed the Celtic roots of what was once mislabeled “cowboy” music, so it makes perfect sense to open this recording with “Out on the Western Plains,” complete with its “Ti yi yippee yippee yay, Hey-aye” lyrics. Why not? After all, the most-famous version of that song came from an Irishman (Rory Gallagher in 1975) who borrowed it from a black man who was never a cowboy (Leadbelly). The Atlantic is no musical barrier today, it wasn’t back in 1975, and it never was! All of this is to say that there’s nothing odd about mixing Irish fiddle with harmonica, or turning a concertina-driven tune such as “Shove the Pig’s Foot” into something you’d hear at an Irish pub session. If you need more evidence of how The Unwanted obliterate borders, check out the way Jordan mashes her Irish lilt into an Appalachian-style catch on “Sweet Becky at the Loom,” and the way that Old West swing and Blue Ridge bluegrass collide on “Sadly Grows the Rose.” Heck, there’s even a cover of “The Dusty Diamantina,” which is about Australia and just about as far from Atlantic shores as one can get. It’s great fun to hear these three great musicians branching out. O’Dowd made his mark as a fiddler, but he plays a mean harmonica and slide guitar as well. Epping—a veteran who has played bluegrass with Bill Monroe, Texas blues with Mance Lipscomb, and Irish tunes with Joe Cooley—contributes dry-as-dust vocals, concertina, banjo, and jaw harp. And what accolade can add about Cathy Jordan’s voice that hasn’t already been uttered on numerous occasions? Let’s just say that she’s earned every one of them. This record makes great historical sense, but it’s also an offbeat delight stamped with uniqueness and variety.

Check out this Yourtube clip.