In Defense of Camp (and a look at Cop Land)

So, one of the reasons that I question my ability to make a literary impact–and believe me this is only one, and not nearly the top reason–is the type of media that I like to consume.  I picture the modern literary novelist as a person who takes in foreign and indie flicks, squeezes every drop of enjoyment out of concertos and symphonies, and reads 19th century English novels.  You know, cultured and stuff.  I, on the other hand, enjoy campy movies (I won’t stretch the definition of “film” this far), the kind of R&B/Hip Hop that I know for a fact is inconsequential, and…well, my book tastes probably aren’t quite as bad, but I’m certainly not reading Henry James on a day-to-day basis.  But you get the point.

While my fate as a writer is yet to be determined, I’d like to say that I think Camp gets a bad rap.  Camp, by my definition, is a type of movie that is created around a few plot and character devices that have been shaped by its predecessors in the genre.  For example, in a campy horror movie–take any Friday the 13th (besides the horrible “re-imagination”)–you expect to see fornicating, drug-using teenagers fall into a cat-and-mouse game with the killer.  You expect a few creative kills.  You expect a few pairs of boobies.  You expect a pervasive sense of humor throughout the movie.  You expect the person with the least tainted morality to survive.  A solid camp horror flick will deliver these elements to the audience time and again.  Look at the camp cop flick: you’ve got a protagonist who is either a rogue or an underdog, you’ve got a traitor, you’ve got a protagonist’s self-awakening, and, most importantly, you’ve got the bullet from nowhere–you know, where our hero is on the wrong end of a gun and then BOOM! out of nowhere a character that we’ve written off comes back to save the day, taking out the gunman.

Each genre and sub-genre of camp has its own devices, and for a camp movie successful, all it has to do is to meet the audience’s expectations when it comes to these devices.  The creativity in these movies does not come from the crafting of characters or plot or symbolism or any of that nonsense.  No, the creativity comes from how the devices are delivered.  Who was the traitor?  How is the teenaged cocksman going to meet his fate?  We all know these things will happen, and the fun is in guessing how and when.  Like any great piece of classical music (I think), the magic comes from variation on a theme.  These movies get shot down by critics time and again, and perhaps for good reason.  These movies don’t count as cultural progress.  They sure as hell don’t make us reflect upon our own lives or human nature (though they may make us think twice about going on an isolated cabin retreat).  But they’re fun, they’re simple, and they’re almost interactive in inviting us to predict how the devices will be delivered.

That being said, I checked out Cop Land today for the first time ever, if you can believe that.  I’m not sure why, probably just circumstances: I’ve been re-living the finest moments of action stars from the 1980s and 90s, and perhaps more importantly, Netflix’s Watch Instantly library is pretty small. 

Being a slow-witted person, especially when the household is out of coffee, I didn’t catch on that this was camp right away.  Maybe it was how convincingly Sly played a punch-drunk, half-deaf sheriff (who knew that Stallone’s natural slurring is spot-on half-deaf talk?).  Maybe it was that the movie took a good bit of time in the exposition phase instead of rushing to the action.  But in the end, as anyone who has seen the movie knows, this is pure camp.  And God bless it.

I enjoyed this movie, minus the last ten minutes.  I mean, the climax is short, late, and unconvincing.  Good God, the man limps up the street with a shotgun and disposes of three men (a fourth goes down thanks to Liotta’s bullet-from-nowhere) in the span of a minute, the end.  That being said, I just felt like this was the role that Stallone was born to play… I mean, he’s perfect for it, really.  Harvey Keitel managed to curb his over-acting tendencies, and Michael Rapaport’s nervous flailing was less off-putting than it usually is.

I remember reading about this movie when it first came out.  The big news was about how convincing Sly’s weight gain was.  I vaguely remember him stating that he just ate whatever he wanted, to the point of getting sick.  Stacks of pancakes everyday and on and on.  Perhaps it is hindsight that allows me to view this more objectively, now that we’re used to the bulky Stallone, but he reminded me more of a bodybuilder in the off-season than an out-of-shape, over-the-hill lawman.  Needless to say, I wasn’t convinced.  His arms were just too ropy and his shoulders too broad.  God bless the man for committing to the movie, but if I’m remembering clearly, the praise was a little too exuberant.

One final note, if you haven’t seen this movie, see it.  If only for DeNiro’s haircut.

Don’t call it a comeback…

…because I was never really here.  But here I am, and like billions of others in the blogosphere, I have resolved to be here more often.

I have been guilt-tripping myself for months about how I don’t write–since March to be precise.  How can you honestly tell yourself that you are a writer, I ask myself, if you don’t ever write?  Well, I’d like to think that I’ve been letting the pot simmer while I’ve been taking care of some other important things: law school finals, graduation, moving, studying for the bar exam, taking the bar exam, and recuperating from the bar exam.  But now I’ve done all of this–well, still working on the last part–and I am still afraid to write.  I’ve managed to sit down and bang out a thousand words of the novel that I’ve been formulating for months, and I hated every single one of those words.

I’m going to stop before this begins to read like a diary entry.  The point is that I’ve lost whatever writing voice that I had.  Imagine a comedian with a few decent jokes but who lacks any sort of stage presence.  To the audience, it feels like he is standing in front of a microphone reading from a list of jokes.  I think most comedians start this way, not counting the few that have  naturally compelling personalities.  Contrast this poor sucker with the veteran who has learned who he is on stage, how he talks, his cadence, his rhythm, and so on.  Now it feels like you are having a conversation with the comedian.  Just a conversation with a gifted storyteller who happens to be hilarious most of the time–and who happens to hijack the entire conversation.

Well, I feel like that first comedian.  I’ve got stories to tell, but without a compelling voice, they read like a catalog of actions.  I have lost my voice.

The only way to get it back is to write.  So, once again, here I am.  This space will be used mostly for small things of little to no consequence: book and movie reviews, essays, thoughts, and–boy, could this go poorly–personal philosophy.  Perhaps more important is what I will try to refrain from putting on this space: pieces that read like diary entries (notwithstanding the beginning of this post) and attempts at fiction (sort of like the embarrassing types of posts for which this space has been used before).

I plan on lightly editing posts, probably just a once over to catch typos and glaring grammatical errors, though those may slip through from time to time.  Expect the writing to be stilted, uncertain, and annoying for the immediate future.  I hope that things improve as I begin to get comfortable with my voice.  I hope that then we will be able to have a conversation (wherein, like the veteran comedian, I do all of the talking).

Never Knowing

I think I’m afraid of knowledge–more precisely, I probably feart the possibility that, after expending so much effort, commitment, and youth to obtain it, I’ll find it doesn’t really exist.  Instead I learn a smattering of talking points and counterpoints so I can keep up the charade.  Like a ping-pong match, my thought bounc back and forth: point, counterpoint, exception, caveat, qualification, and on and on until I’ve narrowed and sanitized a piece of information ot the point where it holds not value except to show that some other piece of information is less correct than presented.

So I do this.  But then I’ll get so cynical, so cognizant of hte fact that I am not closer to a truth of any kind, so far from creating constructive, affirmative knowledge that I just stop.  Instead, I’ll allow myself to get caught up in mundanities like money, work, television, “the future,” mindless games–the exact things that I tell myself to move beyond every morning.

Southern Belles

Three ladies, all probably about the same age-upper-twenties-but at different points on the path to middle age stepped onto the elevator to the parking garage, a slow old thing that shook and shimmied its way down through four stories worth of terrain.  The alpha female, and also the prettiest-no coincidence, that-remarked to her two friends, one more so than the other, about her eyebrow lady, the one that manicured the eyebrows of all of the local celebrities, and through whom Raven had met them.  Raven’s eyebrows were not unattractive, though normal-looking, which was a fair summary of her in the entirety.  A glossy brunette with a few “tasteful” highlights and a permanent tan, Raven was attractive enough to take home the tomcat of her choice from any of the local bars.  She cast her brown eyes, despite the weight of her eyeliner and mascara, at Shanda, her number two.  Shanda, also not unattractive-though less not unattractive than Raven-nodded mutely, as her role required.  Shanda had the great distinction of being terrifically undistinguishable: a man-even one with the elephant’s memory-would inevitably forget her features immediately after she left the room.  Nonetheless she was passable enough to scrape by on Raven’s leftovers at the end of a long night.  As usual, Rosaline was being ignored-not actively, mind you.  Rosaline stood at five feet three inches if she rose up on her toes.  Her body had already begun to put weight in the places that women will, though she hid it well by wearing mostly black print sundresses in the summer-which, in turn, caused her to sweat profusely at times-and slacks and jackets in the winter.  Compared to the other two, Rosaline was unkempt, though not slovenly by any means.  She simply suffered from split ends, a pasty complexion, and moles on her neck.

Raven went on, “You wouldn’t believe who was in Cari’s shop,” going on to name some minor celebrity that was either past his prime or had never had one, depending on the definition of prime.  Carolyn’s, or Cari’s to the familiar or pretentious-often both-was indeed a spa of some distinction, in fact, the best in Wilmington, North Carolina.  It was true that most celebrities in Wilmington frequented the shop when not shooting; when in-production, the producers would have the appropriate people flown in from Hollywood.  The Wilmington celebrity, typically from a spin-off sitcom or made-for-television movie, was lower rate than that among the Angelinos or New Yorkers, but the locals were thrilled regardless.  Raven’s connection, through Carolyn, was crucial to her self-esteem.

As she prattled on about the peculiarities of some male semi-celebrity, Rosaline felt neglected and began to grow desperate for some acknowledgement from Raven, or Shanda if Raven was unwilling.  “I’m going to dye my hair,” she blurted.

“You’re going to color your hair,” Raven corrected.

Rosaline, wide-eyed, trembling at the acknowledgement, “No, I’m going to dye all of it.”

Raven slipped, as she was prone to do, into irritability, “No, you mean you’re going to color all of it.  Dying is what it is called when it’s done poorly.”

The elevator buzzed, indicating that it had reached its destination.  The doors slowly opened as Rosaline admitted, “Well, I’m going to do it myself, so…”

Raven shook her head and stepped off of the elevator, giving up.  Shandra, seized her opportunity, “So, what color are you going to color it?”

The elevator’s doors shut behind them and the carriage was empty and still, smelling faintly of discount perfume.

250 Word Sentence – Anger

It is unbelievable to me that Harry Winters-a partner who is competent at best, but in all likelihood, merely adequate-has the pluck, the audacity, the sheer propensity for obscenity to delegate to me-of all people, a hard working schmuck that puts his head down and works while at the office instead of gabbing and parleying and trying to move up the corporate ladder-the bulk of a project, nay, the entire project, and then turn around to poor old Salisbury (the codger is lucky if he doesn’t have to be spoon-fed and sponge-bathed) and take credit-full credit, mind you-for the work I’ve done, when he hadn’t even looked at the . . . why, I wish old Salisbury had had the presence of mind, feeble or no, to ask him one question, just one, any question: that’s all it would have taken to reveal Winters’s complete and utter ignorance with regard to the details-hell, even the basic gist-of this project; oh, I would have love to have seen that, by God, and I would even be willing to bet a month’s salary (although to Winters that is probably a paltry week’s worth of labor-if you are willing to refer to stealing another man’s work and soul labor) that he wouldn’t have been able to answer even the most basic question, uninformed enough that even old Salisbury’s feeble mind would have probably been able to pick up on the complete and voluminous ineptitude.

A Change Gonna Come

The apprehension began as a little ball in Charley’s stomach.  He had seen those brooding eyes several times, always either briefly or in his periphery, but he had seen them.  There could be no mistake.  A man so cold and callous surely could not be here, Charley thought, after all, this is heaven.  So unnerved, Charley walked around the woods all day, scratching his head and squinting.  The little ball of apprehension grew until it roared.  He was positively starving.

Charley headed into civilization to get some food.  Through the woods, he walked, more hurriedly than usual.  He crossed the field to his family’s breakfast spot and was surprised to find it crowded.  Usually, he and his family could sit in a booth and have the booths to either side empty.  Today, he walked in and saw people lining the walls waiting to be seated.

If you wish, go around back to the kitchen door to pick up food, he was told.  He did so.  In the back of the building was an oak door, sliced in half horizontally.  The top half was open, revealing a flat-top and some griddles.  Charley was dished with a meager portion of bacon and hash.  I hope there’s more, Charley said.  There isn’t, we’re too crowded, come back later.  Charley walked back toward the woods and scarfed his food.  By the time he reached the tree line he had nothing left.

When he arrived at the cabin, he found Ness still in bed.  He sat on the edge and stroked her back until she craned her neck and smiled meekly at him.  Her pretty face sagged from her skull a bit, pasty but flushed.  What is this, Charley asked.  I don’t feel well, she responded, did you bring me anything to eat.  Charley allowed his fingers to penetrate his thick mop and scrape against his head.  No, I’m sorry, love; let me get you something.

He could have died again.  His selfishness never ceased to amaze him.  He took off in a bolt toward town, allowing his body to reach its running homeostasis.  He gradually lengthened his strides until he nearly soared.  Back at the kitchen door, he received another small ration.  He carried the portion in a small brown bag as he loped back to the cabin.  He wiped stinging sweat, mixed with tears, from his eyes.

Here, my love, please eat this food.  I’m sorry I did not think to bring it before.

It’s okay, dear.  Thank you.  Is this all there is.

Yes, they are rationing it out.

Strange.

It was strange.  The food had always been portioned, but there had never been too little.  He had also never been hungry until that morning.  Nor had his wife.  After checking to see if his wife needed anything else-she did not, just sleep-he excused himself to the woods, to walk and squint and scratch.

Backyard

The family boat sat on a trailer in the back yard.  It had been unmoved in such a long period of time that it had sunk into the ground up to its axles and weeds were sprouting from every available opening.  A Chevy Camaro was similarly marooned, resting on its axles.  Near the Camaro was a cube of cinderblocks, about eight feet by eight.  Originally, the blocks were intended for a new shed, but it had yet to be built.  And when it was finally started, Dank would surely die before it was finished-probably from the bite of one of the black widows resting in the cracks.  The old shed it was intended to replace rested unevenly on the ground.  The lean to the left made the shelves on the right unusable.  The shed’s roof had worn through many years ago.  When it had first worn out, it was simply covered with a piece of tarpaulin.  Subsequently, whenever the tarpaulin wore thing, Dank would tie another sheet over it.

One Event, Five Descriptions

1)

 

Mack was a hustler, always bumping into people on the street as he tried to read his morning paper and walk at the same time.  He refused to slow down for anyone or anything.  Too many things to do, he would say, and life is too short.  This morning was no different, except in consequence.  While exiting the city bus, he missed a step and tumbled to the pavement.  Embarrassed and shaken up, he looked around to see if anybody-anybody important, at least-had noticed his fall.  Of course, everybody had seen it, and it had caused quite a stir.  A young blonde woman in professional attire, looked at him in amusement, a tiny pucker somewhere between a smirk and a smile.

 

2)

 

Maximillian J. Hollandsworth, the Third, developed a reputation about the community as an exceedingly difficult man to converse with; his obligations at a given time always exceeding his friends in terms of quantity, he was singularly unable to focus his attention on any one person or object for more than a few moments.  This facet of his personality poorly equipped him with the faculties required of a strong driver: he was eternal, both in his suffering and his insufferability.  The city bus provided a much more feasible alternative, allowing him to both peruse the previous day’s events and return the morning’s phone messages simultaneously-much to the ire of those unfortunate enough to be in his adjacency.  Unparalleled in reading efficiency, Maximillian would routinely finish the first three sections of the Wall Street Journal before reaching his stop at Chesterton Station, a typical commute lasting approximately eighteen minutes.  On one particular morning, the bus reached its terminal two minutes early, which gave Maximillian cause to smile.  He rose and began to proceed to the front exit of the bus; he kept reading, as he had nearly finished the third section of his newspaper.  Just as Maximillian began the first sentence of the penultimate paragraph, he stepped out when he should have stepped down and collapsed into a pile of flesh, fine wool, and newspaper.  Bugger, he thought, as he looked around and gathered up his scraps of newspaper.  Despite, being the universe’s perfect expression of perpetual motion, he stopped.  For the first time, he noticed a beautiful young professional, who was smiling at his mishap.  Embarrassed, he stooped to gather the rest of his scraps and hurried away.

 

3)

 

Must hurry.  Can you not move any faster?  This bus makes me want to rip out each one of hairs on my thickly laden head.  What a waste.  Imagine, to squander the two minutes that this bus granted us.  This bus, not just on time for once, but ahead of schedule.  Look here.  The damn high-risk debt market is still plummeting.  The Journal says that it could cause a recession.  A recession?  I think not.  I think-God damn it!  My fucking arm must be broke.  Did I miss a step or did somebody push me?  Oh, look at this paper, ruined.  Son. Of. A. Bitch.  Did anybody see this?  Obviously.  Everybody is staring at me.  Move it, you sons of retarded monkey fucks.  Look at this bitch, chuckling at me.  Like you’re so much better than me.  Move out of my fucking way, I need to get to work.

 

4)

 

Gather ‘roun’, kiddos.  And bite yer tongues, I’m a’go’n'a tell ya a story ‘bout how yer great-gran’pap met his wife o’ sixty years and o’ seven babies, including yers truly.  Y’see, yer gran’pap, ‘fore he seen the light, was city-folk.  A’bustlin’ roun’ the Big Apple like a ‘coon hound after a jack-rabbit.  E’ery mo’nin’, he’d a’git his stories from the bus’ness paper while ridin’ the bus to work, yammerin’ to hisself the whole time about the stock-market this, debt that.  Oh, how he did love those papers-like a piglet in fresh-laid shit.  Well, then, on this one partic’lar mo’nin’ he found hisself antsin’ to get off the bus so’s he could get on to work, up on the Wall Street.  But, he a’couldn’t keep his’n eyes off his stories.  Well, the result’n’ mess is that he found hisself ass over elbows on ground after fallin’ down them there steps.  Well, he looked up, about as beet red as a whore in church, and a’who was it he seen?  Why this b’utif’l wom’n all drussed up like a bus’ness man, I reckon about the only woman on the whole of Wall Street.  And she was a’smilin’ at him, he bein’ all lit up like a deer in headlights from the ‘barrassment.  Don’t you know, from then on, they didn’ forget the other.

 

5)

 

This is the first day of the rest of your life, Mack told himself as the bus pulled into the station.  He checked his watch, delighting in the fact that he was early.  If I can just finish this section of the paper, he thought, I’ll be off to a fine start.  Caught between thoughts of billable hours from his daydreams and the realities of the struggling debt markets in the paper in front of him, he failed to find the step as he tried to exit the bus.  End over end, he fell until he collapsed in a heap.  At first, he felt only disappointment: What a way to squander a head start, he thought.  Then he looked around and saw all eyes on him, and some mouths agape.  He felt the heat first build up behind his ears and then spread to the rest of his face.  Oh Lord, he thought as his eyes fell upon a striking blonde professional, attired in a snug-fitting jacket and business slacks that showed her curves.  She was smiling at him, or was it leering, he thought.  Not today, he thought, gathering his scraps meekly and shuffling away; for once, slow and deliberate.

The Penultimate Paragraph

Janice walked into the room and immediately felt that something was amiss.  The shades were drawn down, shutting out the mid-afternoon sunlight that generally poured through the large windows at the head of the bed.  Very unusual.  The master bedroom was perched at the top of the house like the jewel of a crown, so would-be peeping toms could see little more than the ceiling from street level.  As a result, the curtains were generally left open during the day.  The room had a slightly musky smell to it: her husband’s fragrance, combined with sweat, and . . . something else.  Tom shouldn’t have been home yet.  She flipped on the overhead light and noticed that the scarlet comforter duvet cover was rumpled up from the foot of the bed, revealing brown sheets-Tom’s choice, not hers.  She smiled as she remembered the argument over the sheets: Tom had chosen the brown ones to put on their wedding registry because she kept pestering him to have an opinion about something-anything.  She walked to the closed bathroom door across the room, placed a hand on the cool, brass knob.  So Tom had chosen the ugliest sheets he could find to make some point that was lost on her.  Janice placed her head against the bathroom door to listen.  She didn’t change the registry and, sure enough, somebody bought them the brown sheets.  It was something that they still laughed about, eight years later.  Janice knocked, no answer.  She felt an unexplainable buzzing in her head.  She turned the knob.  She felt flush, and too warm.  She opened the door.

The Missing Rug

A University of North Carolina Tarheels throw rug went missing from the house, a vacant 1960′s-style home that was being renovated for sale.  Tara, the owner of the rug-and house-interrogated the contractor.  A finger-in-face and spitting-and-hissing interrogation.  The contractor vouched for his men-all good people, he said-but promised to talk to each of them, and suggested that she may talk to the realtor in the meantime.  Tara dismissed the suggestion, the realtor, she said, was respectable.