Book Review- L.A. Stories: Three Grindhouse Novellas

L.A. Stories (Uncle B. Publications) is a collection of three interconnected novellas written by Alec Cizak, Scott Rutherford and Andrew Miller, respectively, with an introduction by Rex Weiner that firmly sets the tone for the mayhem to follow. This book is everything it purports to be, with the cover design of a VHS porn tape, populated by prostitutes in various sleazy stances whose looks are less “come-hither” than “come on down.” Indeed, L.A. Stories pulls readers down into the gutter, through back streets and cheap motels where dirty deals are orchestrated and executed. Equally dirty are the secret and no-so-secret lives of the corrupt who pose as “moral betters” of society, both the purveyors of entertainment and salvation, whose proclivities, from the gastronomical to the sexual, make the streetwalkers plying their trade look positively wholesome.

Set in late ‘70’s/ early 80’s Hollywood, at the dawn of the Reagan era, with twin threats to free speech as the right’s “silent majority” finds its strident voice and the left’s “political correctness police” seek to rein in the excesses (or is it the freedoms?) of the waning “Me Decade,” Alec Cizak’s “The Temple of the Rat” drops us in a part of L.A. that’s far more grit than glitter, but nevertheless, the Hollywood aura beckons the bright and ambitious, damaged and distorted alike, including a mentally ill homeless combat veteran and zealous evangelical Christians imposing their twisted world views on others. It holds in its orbit washed-up Hollywood execs trying to claw their way back into the good graces of the powers-that-be, and shines a light on shadowy vermin-infested structures where the up-and-coming elite indulge in bizarre rites symbolic of the imminent devolution of American democracy. If some aspects border on the polemic, one need only look around to see this at turns as both a realistic and an allegorical tale of What’s to Come.

Scotch Rutherford’s “The Roach King of Paradise” is a return to straight-up crime-fiction territory, with a colorful cast of criminals, misfits and hippy-esque do-gooders drifting in and out of the Paradise Motel, a hell-hole of an address and for the unfortunate girls being trafficked there, a dungeon. Gangsters in their glittering rides float in and out of the parking lot, crooked ex-cops show up to get their fixes, and the management seeks to maximize profits with minimum interference, enlisting the help of the “Roach King,” a shadowy figure part exterminator, part hit-man, to maintain order.  Rutherford manages the various activities at the Paradise with cinematic ease, drifting in and out of its rooms amid scenes of varying degrees of depravity, from which one rare instance of compassion stands out in this harsh world as especially memorable.

Andrew Miller’s “Lady Tomahawk” caps off the narrative grindhouse with a buffed-out heroine who lives up to her name and turns on its ear the notion of the innocent girl who comes to Hollywood with stars in her eyes. Film and fashion references streaming throughout this section herald the coming decade of, up until then, unparalleled greed. The behind-the-scenes view glimpsed here of rampant hypocrisy might seem over-the-top in tamer times, but these are not tame times. Like in Gore Vidal’s novel, Hollywood, about how American power and influence migrated west with the rise of cinema to make La-la Land a twin capitol, here that concept is sexed-up, debauched and left ship-wrecked in bloody sheets while the perps shower and go to church.

A far cry from most cultural time capsules of this transformational era such as the free-wheeling college kids turned earnest yuppies of The Big Chill and even the human fall-out of the transition from old-school porno to videotape in Boogie Nights (yes, I’m aware these are movie references, but hey, this is Hollywood), this decadent romp through L.A.’s underworld, at turns violent and profane, humorous and profound, put me in mind of a late-night underground movie that I know might give me bad dreams but I can’t stop watching until I see how it ends.

And the end isn’t reassuring in the least.

Book Review: The Recalcitrant Stuff of Life, by Sean McCallum

If books are supposed to transport one to another place and time, The Recalcitrant Stuff of Life by Sean McCallum (Outcast Press) is a vehicle for a journey to a mystical place where few have been. The physical destination is Iquitos, Peru, and the emotional destination is to the heart of what makes one human. Roosevelt’s (Rosie’s) journey there is originally to escape the pain of a (very) bad relationship, and his best friends, freewheeling Deuce and strait-laced Izzy, are on a mission is to find and return Rosie to Canada. Of course, best laid plans do often go awry, but in this case, detours and derailments lead to better things for all involved, albeit each of these three has to walk through his own kind of fire to attain them.

The structure of this book is complex but like the fractal geometric patterns that so captivate Vanessa, another seeker arriving in Iquitos whose story weaves in with that of the three main characters, it has a clarity and symmetry that makes for a satisfying conclusion. Flashbacks of what brought Rosie to Iquitos are like pieces in a mosaic that, by the final page, create a clear snapshot of Rosie’s emotional journey that started well before the beginning of the book. As the story progresses, the teeming chaos of Iquitos and of these characters’ lives doesn’t really sort itself out so much as provide the travelers with tools to navigate this world a little better the next day than the day before.

In Iquitos, resistance to the flow of life is futile, and if there’s one thing Rosie has learned and the others will eventually, the best one can do is go with it and stop trying to make sense of everything.

It’s only through Rosie’s resignation to making all the pieces fit: his past, present and what the future holds, that he finds the way back to himself. The disparate shards of his recent past start to fall away when he meets Vanessa, and the slights, questions and betrayals that hang between Izzy and the Deuce come to a head even as they briefly celebrate a mission accomplished by finding Rosie before turning back for the more than 5000-mile return trip home.

The portal ringed by fire, guarded by dragons of memory through which each must pass (FYI, this isn’t a fantasy; just figurative language here, nonetheless apt) is the experience that awaits them all deep in the Amazon jungle when they take part in an ayahuasca ceremony. To say that one “trips” on this drug, or very intense plant-based substance, doesn’t do it justice. Its effects on the mind and body are as spectacular as they are terrifying, and it is not an experience to be taken lightly. Having already transported us to an unfamiliar place, McCallum does us one better by transporting us though the violent pyrotechnics produced by the individual experiences of Rosie, Deuce, Izzy and Vanessa in the throes of ayahuasca so that, like them, we emerge whole but not unsinged. This book contains indelible images, but one phrase that still echoes in my mind is that of being “pulled under,” as when members of the group are most firmly in the clutches, or embrace, of ayahuasca tea, and which that is can change moment to moment.

McCallum’s insider knowledge of this remote location imbues the fictional narrative with documentary realism, making it a different kind of novel, one that deserves a special place on the shelf with others containing mystical wisdom, along with the geography of the continent to our south, and that of the heart.

Review: Two Novels by Duvay Knox--The Soul Collector and The Pussy Detective

Writer Duvay Knox demonstrates how great storytelling can both honor and explode literary tradition in his debut novel The Soul Collector (Creative Onion Press) and in his latest, The Pussy Detective (Clash Books). Both incorporate fully and to the bone, the language of street vernacular and the power of the image, with laser-sharp poetic precision.  Magical realism is woven seamlessly into everyday life in modern “Amerikkka” through Knox’s trademark style, minimalist and authentic, which makes make both of these innovative works of fiction fast-paced, satisfying reads.

In The Soul Collector: As Told by that Nigga Death, Death (formerly known as Sippian when he was a living human), moves through hell, establishing himself as a player in those infernal corporate offices that echo with the atmosphere of an abandoned downtown office building. His mentor, Mr. Otis, manifests as a middle-aged streetwise guy with a sharp wit and the uncanny ability to produce a Kool cigarette or a frosty mug of beer out of thin air. Even with Death’s keen awareness and ability to read others, including how they might react when given their two-week final notice, he’s philosophical and questioning. When Mr. Otis tells him, “…We gone upgrade you some mo to sumpen you mite not be ready for. So we gotta make sho you ready for it,” Death replies, “Im ready for anything. Cuz that last case put sumpen on mah mind and made me see visions of this game I aint know about.”

Far from an unfeeling entity, cold as the blade he figuratively wields, Death possesses sufficient memory of his own earthly existence to feel pity, an attribute that he seeks not to lose, but manage. His capacity for hope, and concern for the greater good, occasionally give this ace reaper pause, like a hit-man burdened with a conscience.

The title character of The Pussy Detective, Reverend Daddy Hoodoo, emerges from the classic detective mold then smashes it to bits, redefining the phrase “private dick” on a natural, supernatural and cosmic level. The Pussy Detective blends the cinematic antecedents of 1970’s detective shows and the best of blaxploitation together with folkloric tradition and respect for the limits of magic into a surreal twenty-first century mystery.  Reverend Daddy Hoodoo’s specialty is helping women find their lost pussies, or more accurately, the lost essence of their pussy, which, in the case of his newest client Abyssinia, seems to include a loss of self and direction as well.

Along with his partner (in more ways than one), Madame X, the Reverend assesses the deepest needs of his clients, guiding them through intricate rituals not for his own fulfillment, but to help them reclaim the part of themselves that was lost, often through contact with those who would take them for granted or exploit them. Rev. Daddy seeks to restore, with much preparation and soul-searching involved. He’s an old-school detective for the New Age, as comfortable cruising over to “go see Sonja’s fine, troublesome ass about …customized GANJA,” as he is navigating the frontiers of consciousness. He’s astutely observant, equipped with a well-developed bullshit detector: ear to the ground, back against the wall, and does not suffer fools.

Knox’s innovative use of language has an addictive effect, and both The Soul Collector and The Pussy Detective have gripping plots, and sharply drawn characters. These works are hip in the OG sense of the word, and to engage with the first-person narration in each book is to be taken on an extraordinary journey with a protagonist in possession of his own superpower. So, get “Suited and Booted,” as Reverend Daddy Hoodoo would say, and prepare for a hell of a ride!

Review: In Filth It Shall Be Found

It’s been a while since I’ve written a review and this is the first of many I'm about to share. I’ve been undergoing my own personal transformation for the past couple of years and this is the perfect book with which to resume my literary musings. In Filth It Shall Be Found, the first volume of transgressive fiction from Outcast Press (ed. Paige Johnson) is a carnivalesque tour of the of the human spirit's darker side, and in keeping with its Jungian title, invites readers along on a Bahktinian journey through the netherworld of consciousness where the “It” of the title is discovered.

Russian philosopher and theorist Mikhail Bahktin identified and described 4 hallmarks of the carnivalesque world view that can be found in literature, and these pinged around in my mind immediately after I’d finished the book . While this isn’t meant to be an academic analysis or anything other than my own experience reading Filth, the fact that the ping was loud and persistent shows there is order in chaos, sanity in madness, and that this collection exemplifies the transformative power of transgressive fiction.

Using Bahktin's hallmarks of the carnivalesque as guideposts on this tour, the first, “familiar and free interaction between people where barriers are broken,” is the crux of Don Logan’s “Isaac and Me,” where the worlds of a homeless man and a mysterious “kid” collide then separate leaving one of them indelibly marked by betrayal. CT Marie's “Sugarbaby” is a train wreck that begins on a subway and ends in an unexpected place (for this reader anyway). In both of these stories, the urban setting heightens the “random” precision of chance encounters, Hitchcockian intersections where fate lurks behind the scenes, then steps out and knees you in the groin when you least expect it.

The next hallmark is “eccentric behavior,” where society’s norms are broken and/or blithely ignored without consequences. Simon Broder's“Dollhouse" flows in this vein, exposing the lie that grown-ups are wiser than kids, featuring an immature narrator with a most distinctive voice. Another example of eccentric behavior stretched to extremes is Emily Woe's “The Secret Smile,” where the narrator's utter blindness to the consequences of his own actions is nothing short of remarkable.

The hallmark of “carnivalistic” mesalliances” where those normally separated unite, is personified in Paige Johnson's “The Blue Hour.” Set in a strip club where lines are both crossed and laid out on a table, the roles of performer and spectator are blurred as forbidden familiarity portends a special kind of friendship, doom, or both. Another case of forbidden familiarity is examined in G.C. McKay ‘s “Je Ne Sais Quoi,” in a father's tortured observations of his daughter's odd behavior.

The final hallmark of the carnivalesque world view, “profanation,” is on full-frontal display with “The Fire Inside,” by Sebastian Vice, where anarchic take-down of all that is “holy” debases and grinds guardians of corrupt power into the ground. Profanation of the human body, specifically the female body, occurs in Amanda Cecelia Lang's “Daisy in the Dirt,” its dark magical realism sparkling with a crystal-clear awareness gained in the presence of death.

The book’s cover art features a woman removing a mask, an appropriate image to represent this volume. Perhaps I have a particular affinity for the notion of the carnivalesque and what it represents, having lived in New Orleans for nearly twenty years. There, Carnival season is a time when normal rules don’t apply: everyday routes are altered, appetites indulged, and appearances don’t represent reality. Bourbon Street swells into a bacchanalian mass of humanity in all its wonder and debauchery. The success of each Mardi Gras is measured by the amount of trash collected on Ash Wednesday, but for weeks and even months afterward, one finds glitter in the gutters, and beads hanging from the trees. Such is the effect of feasting on the stories herein and coming to the last page: the show is over, parade passed, but the details linger and haunt.

Each of the twenty stories in this anthology makes its unique contribution to the transgressive gestalt of In Filth It Shall Be Found. I look forward to seeing more from all these writers in the future, and more anthologies from Outcast Press.

Laissez le bon temps rouler!

Motel Chronicles #4

Once you lock the door

It’s your space to do whatever

But you don’t want to

Move around too much

If it gets cold and

You keep it cool

Because the alternative is unpleasant

in a small room

Shared by countless other ghosts

Who’ve passed through this space

Slept in this bed

Showered in this tub

Looked in this mirror

And the bed covers are supplemented

By tomorrow's clothing

and felt blankets from the car

Providing a refuge

An island or a raft

From which to seek

The horizon

-NMc

Motel Chronicles #3

You discover more about yourself through staying at a series of cheap motels for several weeks than you ever would spending a month at a luxury resort. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it puts one in touch with one’s basic needs rather than catering to every want.

The Oblique Charm of Sergeant Brice

There are some characters on TV and in movies that I’m thrilled to see whenever they appear. Not the stars, mind you, though I've nothing against star power, per se. As Peter Bogdonavich once said (and I’m paraphrasing) it’s the reverberations emanating from stars that draw us into their orbit.

However I'm thinking now of the characters and actors that you don’t see, or barely see. One such character for me is actor Lee Miller (not Jonny Lee Miller from Trainspotting, the other one), who appeared for many years on the original Perry Mason TV show.

He was always with Lt. Tragg, or Lts. Anderson or Drumm, a plainclothes cop who almost always wore a hat and was forever in the background, or off to the side. He had few lines and it’s difficult to get a good look at him because he's usually standing in the doorway, seen in profile or a noir-ish figure in the margins of a scene. On the rare occasions when he does have a line of dialog, his voice rings clearly and deliberately, and the one time I ever remember seeing him on the stand as a witness, he was most engaging.

Why I find him so fascinating, I don’t know. Unless it’s simply that writer's tendency to wonder about people, to imagine what their lives must be like in their off-time. Does Sergeant Brice go to bars after hours? Have a wife and kids? Watch baseball on TV? Have some off-the-wall fetish that would shock his colleagues in the department? Judging from the spark in his eye, he could easily have a secret life. Maybe he dates a glamorous chanteuse from a swanky nightclub downtown. Still, even when he’s told to go clear the hallway or retrieve what could be a piece of evidence, like a glove or a broken piece of glass or a handkerchief, he sets off with purpose and conviction. He’s a guy some might call a typical flatfoot, and it would bounce off without leaving a trace, because his unswerving sense of duty trumps such petty name calling.

According to imdb.com, Miller was Raymond Burr's stand-in for many years. His presence on the show goes beyond his performance onscreen. Even if he was in the margins, he stood in the star's space behind the scenes, so perhaps the reverberations from Burr's steady and compelling portrayal of the world's greatest (fictional) lawyer accompanied Miller to his marks in the edges.

Motel Chronicles #2

Driving by in the harsh light of day a place you wouldn’t consider an oasis

no pool no pond

Not even preferable to the asphalt ribbon of highway 441 flowing past new threadbare chains of old capitol up to the briarpatch and beyond

Egyptian compounds, white columns glass towers Greek temples

What white heat renders opaque inhospitable inscrutable

Sunset reveals azure with cobalt doors below a cerulean sky tinged in pale pink

High windows transcend confines of reality and this might be the same light shining later in Moriarty

or Tucumcari

No pool no pond

Just glass puddle mirror reflecting infinity

and transient beauty of a long day’s ascent into silken night

NMc

Motel Chronicles #1

Random holes in walls

cracked tile

a tricky remote control so leave it on the channel where favorite show will be on an hour from now

otherwise lost in home shopping hell of endless infomercials

missing boards on dresser and table and

pillow that somehow got soaked

on the sofa

AND YET

tonight this is home

A/C works

remain shipwrecked in king-size bed for days

microfridge and microwave and endless supply of ice

for packing emotions in cooler

for later time when we at last unpack everything

including memories both good and bad if not to fling in the fire to place in storage again

until the next time angels usher us onto the lost highway under a copper moon

To escape in a divine cloak

of invisibilty

NMc

At last: the light of day

I say that because Outcast Press recently announced the publication of my new novel POSER as a part of their 2022 line-up!

I’m excited beyond belief, of course because I’ve found someone who, along with me, believes in the story enough to help me bring it out into the world--into the light of day!

Not only that, but they’re glad that this will be a series of novels (as am I), and the next two installments of the series, the Eucalyptus Lane Novels, will follow.

Since I had some trouble placing POSER in a neat little genre box, I was concerned that this could make the road to publication quite difficult. Outcast Press specializes in transgressive fiction and dirty realism, and when I read some of their posts on Twitter about exactly what transgressive fiction is, I had an ah-ha moment.

According to several sources, transgressive fiction features “characters who feel confined by the norms of society, so they break out in unusual” and often “illicit” ways. I have several characters who do that to some extent, so pretty soon POSER had found a home!

I'll be working some more on POSER this fall as Outcast's editor and I get it ready for a March publication date. In the meantime, you can check out an excerpt on an earlier post from last March, and I look forward to a cover art reveal sometime in the near future.

Cheers!

Vacancy!

I've recently been inspired to write a series of word sketches called The Motel Chronicles. Nothing fancy and no frills (or “no thrills” as my late Uncle Biddy used to say), just like the Motel 6's where I stayed all across the country on a trip out west when I was ten.

These will be short pieces capturing a snapshot moment, accompanied by a motel snapshot photo. I learned about word sketching from Jack Kerouac and other writers since who have followed in his well-worn, road-weary, ever-hopeful footsteps with diamonds-hard shards of experience embedded in the soles of their shoes.*

*If you’re wondering if there could be a song reference from the ‘80's in there somewhere; there could be. Name the artist and album in the comments and your wildest dreams will come true.

Excerpt from POSER now up at Deep South Magazine!

An excerpt from my novel (first in a series, ) POSER, submitted for Deep South’s call for pieces on the theme of “Separation” is now up! Click here to find it.

Fretville--The Capitol Edition

Fretville--Conversation outside the Circle K

Today’s post marks the return to my comic series “Fretville,” set in the contemporary rural south.

It's an Ending--and a Beginning

Finished POSER New Year’s Eve and now doing a final edit—well, not final—but enough to keep going forward, getting it into the best shape it can be (#journey, # process!). I spent most of 2020 on this project and little else, but now I’ll be back at the blog more frequently—at least once a week— and I have a new “Fretville” ready to post soon! Happy belated New Year and all best to you on YOUR writing/ reading/ whatever-project-makes-you-most-happy goals!

Editing at Last!

I haven’t posted in a while because I’ve been so obsessed with completing a rough draft and now I have it—a rough draft! So I’ll be posting more here much more frequently as I continue in the writing process.

As for the title of this post, perhaps I say ”Editing at last!” with such joy, not because I think I’m anywhere near finished with my novel, but because I feel that I’m taking another step forward in the process—That’s why it’s a joyful thing to me! I have quite a long way to go, but as they: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” And the closer one gets to one’s goal—the more steps one wants to take.

What I Learned From Watching . . . Sunset Boulevard (From the Archive)

Here’s one of my earliest “What I Learned from Watching . . . “ posts about one of my favorite movies. I’m sharing this as I finish my novel-in-progress, POSER. I plan on adding to this series of blog posts soon, as well as starting a new series—more on that later in the spring. I can honestly say I’ve watched this film countless times, because I can’t even count how many times I’ve watched it, especially with my past film classes, and I always love to to hear students’ reactions to it. What do you think about Joe Gillis as a character? I’d love to read your reaction in the comments!

Dir. Billy Wilder    1950

One of my favorite films of all time is Sunset Boulevard, a true Hollywood noir in every sense of those words, with many motifs and archetypes associated with the mood of noir in general, but Billy Wilder holds the mirror up to Hollywood so specifically and precisely that it withers at its own reflection, like Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) does occasionally when she passes the mirror in the hallway outside her bedroom and realizes that Joe Gillis (William Holden), her live-in lover, might have seen her not looking her best. It’s said that Louis B. Mayer rebuked Billy Wilder outside the theatre after watching Sunset Boulevard because Mayer saw it as a scathing indictment of the very town that had been so good to Wilder. Wilder’s attempt to show the backstage/ back-lot heartbreak, raging ego and youthful ambition corrupted hit so close to home that fact and fiction met and passed each other, placing this film at the crossroads of myth and reality.

When I see this film I become transfixed by so many things in it that, taken as a whole, fill the screen with their Baroque grandeur, but here are three things I’ve learned from watching it.

1.       Get it in writing.

At the beginning, Joe Gillis’s ambition has carried him pretty far for a young man who one day up and left his newspaper job in Dayton, Ohio and took off for Hollywood. He has an agent and “a few B-pictures to his credit,” but real success, the kind that consistently pays the rent and keeps the repo men at bay has eluded him. When he lands at Norma Desmond’s mansion because of a blown tire he thinks his charm and cleverness are enough to dig him out of his situation when he agrees to rewrite Norma’s mess of a script for what he expects will be a lucrative fee. Norma chafes at any mention of money however and as Joe works on the script, thinking the money will come if he keeps up his feigned interest in it and Norma long enough, he becomes entangled in Norma’s scheme instead, having to depend on her for cigarette money. He watches his car get towed away because somehow that big check he thought he’d get is never coming. He lives well, but only at Norma’s largesse and with little to no independence. Norma’s mansion at 10086 Sunset Boulevard becomes Joe’s own Hotel California, where there’s always pink champagne on ice and “you can check out but you can never leave.” There’s no contract, no rules, and as Joe discovers when he reveals his truth and tries to leave, no way out.

2.       Truth is stranger than fiction, but fiction produces its own truth.

One of the most mind-blowing things about Sunset Boulevard is how closely it mirrors the real-life associations of two of its stars, Gloria Swanson and Erich von Stroheim, who plays Max, Norma’s butler. Erich von Stroheim started his career in Hollywood playing a chauffeur, and later became famous as “the man you love to hate” portraying ruthless German soldiers in several World War I propaganda films. He then went on to direct and act in the first million dollar blockbuster, Foolish Wives, for Universal. It was then that someone from the publicity department began spelling his name “von $troheim” when the film went far over budget, giving him a reputation for profligate spending that would follow him long after. Even von Stroheim’s nemesis, Irving Thalberg, who would later fire him from Universal acknowledged his genius as a director. Von Stroheim proceeded to be fired by every major studio in the ensuing years for his uncompromising commitment to detail and for frequent run-ins with studio executives. The final time he was fired was by none other than Gloria Swanson herself, from Gloria Productions, hers and Joseph P. Kennedy’s production company, during an early morning shoot for a film Von Stroheim had written for Swanson, Queen Kelly. There had been tension on the set but the final straw was reportedly when Von Stroheim wanted her to let co-star Tully Marshall drool tobacco juice onto her hand when he kissed it in a scene. The hour was early, Swanson wasn’t feeling well, and, disgusted, she fired von Stroheim and then Kennedy fired him over the phone as well. “Von,” as he was often called, was just as disgusted at the idea of returning to Hollywood years later to work with Swanson on Sunset Boulevard, playing the woman’s butler, of all things, but his mistress, Denise Vernac, persuaded him that this would be an important picture and that he should be a part of it. In the film, the scene in the garage where von Stroheim as Max, Norma’s butler, reveals the truth about his past relationship with Norma is as shocking as it is heartbreaking, all the more because of the history the real life players share.

Still, Max gets the last word when he directs Norma, who is in a very deluded and vulnerable state, down “the staircase of the palace” near the end. His pose between the two cameras is vintage Von Stroheim, powerful and in control, a glimpse of what he really wanted to be remembered for, his directing. In this scene, Max, creator and guardian of Norma’s myth, is in charge, shedding the role of butler for that once again of auteur.

3.       Tell it like it is—if you can handle the consequences.

As many times as I’ve seen this film, I never cease to wish the ending could be different, though in the high noir tradition, there can’t be a happy ending. Joe followed his heart to come to Hollywood to pursue his dream and became entangled with Norma too soon after he’d met Betty Schaefer (Nancy Olsen) who could have been his soul mate. Betty had become involved with Artie (Jack Webb), her assistant director boyfriend (and friend of Joe’s) before she met Joe, and she and Artie become engaged during the course of the story. It’s clear however, that if Betty were to truly follow her heart she’d leave Artie for Joe, and that Joe falls in love with Betty but is torn by the loyalty he feels toward Artie. It’s because of Joe’s sense of decency that he runs Betty out of Norma’s mansion that last night, and turns to meet his fate. He seeks to atone for his actions that have brought him to where he is, sacrifices his dream of success and even happiness so that Betty and Artie can go forward untainted by his choices. He tells Betty to go with Artie and be happy, but Betty truly loves Joe, not Artie, not anymore. She denies having heard a word Joe has said, denies even being in that house to hear his confession, letting him know that she’s willing to walk away from all this if he’ll just leave it behind and come with her. He sends her away anyway.

Is Joe’s chivalrous attempt to shield Betty from his earlier choices the right thing to do when Betty has already acknowledged that she knows what’s going on and loves Joe anyway, that Joe does deserve a second chance? Does he? I believe he does. It’s too bad for Artie but Betty says she’ll always love Artie, she’s just not in love with him anymore, which doesn’t bode well for that marriage. As for Norma, Joe refuses to shield Norma from harsh reality any longer and forces her to face the truth that sends her over the edge. He may have been guilty of trying to manipulate Norma at first, but since then Norma has twisted the genuine concern Joe came to feel for her into something quite warped, and for that she no longer deserves to be shielded; those around her have done it for too long and it has not served her well.

Joe’s attempt to right things at the end of Sunset Boulevard goes wrong in many ways but he cared about all involved enough to try and set things straight before catching the bus back to Dayton. Joe made mistakes but if it was his sense of decency that in the end caused his death (which starts the movie, by the way—no spoiler here!), Joe wanted to end by telling everyone the truth, for as we all know, the truth will set you free. It can also get you shot, fired, burned at the stake, crucified, exiled, and shunned. Joe knew this, too and did it anyway. Perhaps that’s why in his voiceover that both begins and ends the film, there’s not a hint of regret or irony in his voice, only continuing sympathy for Norma, former child star and beloved ingénue transformed and not for the better by the factory that is Hollywood, a sentiment echoed by none other than Cecil B. DeMille earlier in the film: “. . . a dozen press agents working overtime can do terrible things to the human spirit.”

Joe may not have achieved his goal in Hollywood but he took a shot at it, came so close, and could have made it big – if only.

No matter, to me he will always be the screenwriter’s patron saint.

Home stretch

I only titled this post what I did because I'm heading into the home stretch on my novel-in-progress POSER, but then of course there'll stull be tons of work to do on it as I rewrite and smooth out the rough edges. Still, progress is progress--and baby steps count! Keepin'at it! All best to you on your own projects. During this time of lock-down and quarentines, I hope you're finding a few anxiety-free moments in which to rest, reflect and write--or read!

Back for 2020!

Yes, it's been a minute since I've posted here. I last posted during NaNoWriMo. I made my 50,000 word count by the deadline but now I'm working to finish the entire novel by the end of this month. More here soon about progress on Poser, and bits and pieces of inspiration that help me long the way.

You've Either Got It or You Don't

Here’s a little something to help you power through the end of the year—and if you’re a NaNoWriMo participant, the end of the month!