Christopher East

This week’s Netflix diversion is OSS 117, Cairo Nest of Spies (2006), a cleverish [sic] French pastiche of that particular brand of sixities spy film that features swinging, dapper, super-slick heroes. Made to look and feel like a product of its era — perhaps its most successfully achieved ambition — the film’s Bond figure is Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath, a bumbler in the Maxwell Smart vein, played with amusing quasi-suave flare by Jean Dujardin. The death of his former WWII partner-in-adventure (cue incessant jokes implying homoeroticism here) triggers the adventure, sending him to Cairo circa 1955. His mission: to bring peace to the Middle East. (“No problem!” he exclaims.) Soon he’s in the field, entangled with a femme fatale (Bérénice Bejo) and the various intelligence officers of other European powers in the area, basically making a mess of things even as he thinks he’s saving the world.

It’s a well produced, fun, harmless picture that does a good job of taking the piss out of old school spy film cliches, as well as mocking the obsolete colonial attitudes of its characters. It isn’t nearly as clever as it wants to be, and plays some of its jokes into the ground, but it’s redeemed by a classy look and winning performances, particularly from Dujardin. His priceless facial expressions occasionally elevate pedestrian jokes to laugh-out-loud moments — his finest moment, perhaps, a hilarious dance solo at the British Embassy.

The plot is at once absurd and predictable, and like a lot of over-the-top comedy it’s pretty uneven, but it’s worth a watch, particularly if you’re familiar with the material it’s spoofing.

Hmm, if you didn’t know me, you’d think I was into spy fiction or something…

Earlier this week my novel-in-progress, working title Subnetworks, crossed the 100-page barrier. As of this afternoon, after a couple of hours at Lulu’s, I pushed it to 111.

For some reason, getting into triple digits makes it feel more real, or something…and yet it still feels like I’ll never finish it! I guess I’ve been focused on short fiction too long…

I’ve been a big fan of Nancy Kress’ work for years, particularly her near-future short fiction, and also her novels — especially her classic Beggars in Spain (1993) and the curiously overlooked Nothing Human (2003). Her latest, Dogs (2008), is a contemporary thriller with some SF elements, set in a small town in Maryland, where a strange outbreak of vicious dog attacks quickly escalates from a local mystery to a national crisis. As the CDC, FEMA, and other government agencies descend on the town to investigate the canine virus, Tessa Sanderson — a retired FBI agent whose deceased husband was of Arab descent — learns that the outbreak may have a terrorist angle, and that she and her husband may be somehow connected to what’s happening.

It’s a brisk, effortless read, with a promising premise, but ultimately it’s not that satisfying. The central conceit has possibilities, but isn’t given much more than a conventional Hollywood disaster movie treatment. The heroes of the novel — Sanderson, and the local animal control officer, Jess Langstrom — are generally sympathetic and proactive, but prone to questionable decisions that seem more about advancing the plot than entirely making sense. Meanwhile, the vast supporting cast — as in many such films — seems to exist largely to show how people, sometimes in spite of their better nature, react irrationally in the face of a crisis, putting individual concerns over the public good. This seems very deliberate — politically, the book reads as a vehement repudiation of Bush era policies and American greed and fear-mongering in the wake of 9/11 — but it doesn’t leave us with enough people to root for, which is perhaps the novel’s biggest drawback for me. The point is made, but it feels a bit shrill, even to my left-wing sensibilities. I really wanted to like this one, but it in the end it fell short.

As much as I enjoy the espionage genre in film and television, for some reason I haven’t found that many spy novelists that appeal to me. In my book John LeCarre’ still sets the standard, but if I had to pick a runner-up, it would be Alan Furst. Furst writes atmospheric, realistic espionage novels set in Europe during the thirties and forties — ten of them, so far. For my money none of them have quite lived up to the first two, Night Soldiers (1988) and Dark Star (1990), which are epic in scope, gritty, detailed, and powerful…the ending of Night Soldiers, in particular, still sings in my memory months after reading it. But even so, each subsequent adventure has been well worth reading.

Kingdom of Shadows (2000) is the sixth, and like many of them, features an expatriate protagonist whose particular situation illuminates the plight of one of the many nations impacted by the world-shaking events of the era. In this case, it’s Nicholas Morath, a Hungarian advertising man living in Paris, whose uncle’s diplomatic position leads him to engage in risky assignments all across Europe against the burgeoning power of fascist Germany — taking him from France to Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Austria, Romania, and Hungary, among other places.

By now I’m familiar enough with Furst’s work to recognize its requisite component elements. The protagonist is almost always a man in his forties, worldly, brave, usually a romantic and a lady’s man, often caught in the crossfire between fascist and communist intelligence dealings. There’s almost always a great deal of business set in Paris, and always at least one scene that takes place in a notorious restaurant there. The formula is pretty unwavering, which is starting to get a bit disappointing.

On the whole, though, if you’re interested in the subject matter — the politics of the era, the circumstances leading up to and influencing World War II, and in general the way things were back then — there is still plenty to enjoy in this installment. As usual it’s meticulously researched, richly detailed, with many memorable moments of adventure, and possesses — as all the Furst spy novels do — interesting political conversations that hint at the what-ifs of World War II, from various of-the-time perspectives. Also, unique to the novel is the Hungarian angle — Furst does tend to vary the nationality of his characters enough between books that we get to view the conflict through different lenses. It’s a formula, then, but at least a formula that lends itself to some variety. So if you’re a fan of spy fiction or interested in World War II history — or, preferably, both, which is why this author is such a sweet spot for me – Kingdom of Shadows delivers the goods, yet again. For new readers, though, I highly recommend starting with Night Soldiers, and moving on from there if you’re so inclined.

I usually admire Danny Boyle’s films, even when I don’t enjoy them. Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, and Sunshine all come to mind — I found them dark, interesting, and visually striking films, but none of them quite left me satisfied. That’s definitely not the case with his latest, Slumdog Millionaire (2008), which is just as dark, striking, and interesting as usual, but resolves in a refreshingly…relieving manner, like a hard-fought battle ending well.

The story involves a young boy from the slums of Mumbai (Dev Patel) who becomes a contestant on the Indian version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and goes on an unlikely winning streak — which isn’t nearly as interesting as why he goes on the show, and how he knows the answers. These mysteries are deftly revealed by a familiar flashback technique, effectively and compelling executed. It’s a story of desperate people trying to transcend their bleak, hopeless circumstances, and as such there are moments that are difficult to watch, but ultimately it’s a rewarding film, with a unique and powerful look and atmosphere. There are moments of late symbolism that felt a bit heavy-handed to me, and amused as I was by the film’s mocking of its own Hollywood ending, I’m not sure that was the best choice. But on the whole I think it’s a memorable film and well worth seeing.

1. The Kings pulling their goaltender in the last minute of the game and actually scoring. (They lost in the shootout, but hey, we’ll take the point.)

2. Sarah Michelle Gellar at the movie theater. (My friend Jon thought he spotted Stellan Skarsgard, too, but I must repeat: Sarah Michelle Gellar at the movie theater!!)

Hamilton is probably best known for his huge, multivolume space operas, which is why I haven’t read that much of his work. But I did rather enjoy his Greg Mandel novels of the mid-nineties, which were pretty futurismic (except for the psychic business) and thoroughly entertaining page-turners. So I was pretty excited to sink my teeth into Misspent Youth (2002), a near-future novel just recently released in the US.

This one centers on a rich and famous family in the UK during a political turning point for the European Union. Jeff Baker, who notoriously revolutionized the internet by open-sourcing a data-storage technology that could have made him a mega-powerful gazillionaire (but instead made him merely a well-to-do and celebrated philanthropist), has been selected by a conservative’s nightmare of an EU government to be the first recipient of a rejuvenation treatment. The process will restore his eighty-year-old body to that of a twenty-year-old. On many levels, Baker’s moderate celebrity is being exploited by the tax-and-spend European government as a symbol of its strength and capability for achievement, but this plot business is (unfortunately) a sideshow. The A-story involves family conflict on the home front, as Jeff’s newfound youthfulness leads to severe consequences in his relationships, largely when he realizes that combining his fame and wealth with an attractive, twenty-year-old body can get just about any woman that he desires into bed with him. Unsurprisingly, this complicates his relationships, with his thirtysomething, marriage-of-convenience trophy wife Sue, and — more centrally — his sulky teenage son Tim. Meanwhile, political tensions in the wider world bubble along in the background, and ultimately spill over into the Bakers’ privileged, upper-class lives.

The novel has some strong points: its detailed, unique depiction of an over-authoritative, left-wing European Union, its effortlessly read, simple prose style, and some nicely realized speculation on life-extension biotechnology and the future of the internet. But on the whole I found this a hugely disappointing novel. The chief, brutally fatal problem with it is that all of its viewpoint characters — each and every one of them — is a wealthy, beautiful, shallow, self-centered, sex-crazed, drug-addled idiot. Every one! Jeff Baker’s eighty years of experience and wisdom virtually evaporate along with his wrinkles, and he reverts to a dirty old man’s wish-fulfilment scenario instantly — the novel ignores a ripe opportunity to speculate on what it would be like for elderly minds to exist within youthful bodies. Tim, meanwhile, is a sniveling, hormone-crazed whiner. And these two characters, upon whose relationship most of the novel is built, are worshipped and adored by every inhumanly beautiful woman who waltzes into their world — and they’re all beautiful, as the endlessly sexualized character descriptions are quick to make clear. To call these women cardboard characters is giving them too much credit; cardboard, at least, is recyclable. These ladies are completely disposable, existing merely to tempt the men into making every stupid dick-thinking decision that will create melodramatic story conflict.

What a shame that all the interesting political, cultural, social, and scientific speculation in the book is relegated to the background of this Real World: Rutland soap opera. Only near the end of the book, as the less fortunate masses attempt to stage a revolution, do we get a first-hand look at the wider, darker future merely glimpsed from the privileged, comfortable periphery of the well-to-do Baker world, and it’s supposed to be an eye-opening experience for them. But by the time we get there, it’s too late — we haven’t seen the struggle, and anyway our “heroes” haven’t suffered much for the world’s problems. Their emotion and concern in the wake of all that’s happened is meaningless, because it’s simply impossible to care about them.

The title of the novel is definitely appropriate, but unfortunately youth isn’t the only thing misspent in this book. Give it a pass.

Brad Anderson is a solid director who’s done a number of small, classy independent films — most notably, for me, his low budget chiller Session 9 (2001) — as well as some television, including episodes of The Wire (my nominee for best TV show of all time). His most recent feature, Transsiberian (2008), is an effective but imperfect suspenser involving a train journey across the harsh, barren landscape of northern Russia.

A good-natured American couple (Emily Mortimer and Woody Harrelson), returning from a church event in Beijing, boards a transcontinental train from China to Moscow, looking to inject a little adventure into their simple midwestern lives. They get way more than they bargained for when their sleeper-car bunkmates turn out to be a shady younger couple (Eduardo Noriega and Kate Mara) that is up to no good. How so, exactly? The superior first half of the film builds on this question well, as Mortimer’s dark past emerges and she becomes more entangled with the sexy young newcomers. But ultimately, as the mystery comes into focus, the movie gets less interesting and more brutal, as a series of twists — some of them pro forma, others quite surprising — run them afoul of a ruthless Russian police inspector (Ben Kingsley), which turns their vacation into a nightmare.

A lot of standard thriller tropes come into play in this one, and they’re generally well handled, but unfortunately the superb Hitchcockian build-up of the early stages ultimately devolves, in my opinion, into contemporary action/violence excess. Despite the plot’s unrealistic escalation, however, I found the film well worth watching. It has gorgeously scenic cinematography and rare glimpses of Siberian life and culture, much of the puzzle-solving suspense of the early-going is quite engaging, there is strong, pure visual story-telling throughout, and the acting is solid across the boards, particularly from its lead couple. Emily Mortimer makes for a superb suspense film protagonist, expressive and engaging, while Woody Harrelson is quite genuine and effective as her spirited good-old-boy husband. So I’m glad I watched it, and for my money it’s certainly better than much of the current crop of Hollywood action blockbusters. It’s just too bad the story spins out of control in the latter half — perhaps deliberately (going “off the rails,” heh), but to disappointing effect.

I’ve been writing fiction for well over twenty years now, but I still haven’t quite figured out what kind of role I want it playing in my life.

When I was younger and hungrier, I was pretty prolific, and I think on some level the mere production of material was enough to make me happy. But somewhere in there, I started developing other expectations for my writing: that it should turn the science fiction field on its ear (it didn’t), that it should always sell (it doesn’t), that it should bring me acclaim (it hasn’t). I set the bar at perfect, missed, and got frustrated.

So, I tried not writing for a while, to see if that would make me happier than falling short of my goals. But not writing was worse. After years of building my life around writing, it felt like a big gaping hole.

Clearly I need writing to still be a part of my life, but to what degree? I’m still trying to figure it out, but lately it hasn’t been irritating me as much, so I might be getting somewhere.

My latest project is a near-future espionage novel, which I started during NaNoWriMo, then set aside when I ran out of steam, and have been tinkering with on and off ever since. Whenever I look at the project, I like it, but I don’t feel compelled to work on it, and I don’t feel guilty when I’m not. I have every intention of finishing it, but no timeline, and every hope it will sell, but no expectation that it will.

So far, this is feeling like a pretty sane approach to writing for me. And yesterday at Lulu’s it yielded just over 1,100 words in Chapter Six, and better, it didn’t feel like a chore. After all, this is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?

Last night we went down to the Staples Center to see the Kings take on the New Jersey Devils. Before the game, Jenn took “Kings Win!” and “King Lose” photos of me, to post here depending on how the game turned out. Well, it went like:

Yep, the Kings got spanked 5-1. The Devils converted their way-too-many power plays, and only Frolov, Boyle, and O’Sullivan seemed to have much jump for the Kings. Because it was a game with discounted tickets, the place was packed with half-assed spectators who clearly didn’t understand or care about hockey, and were constantly obscuring our view…overall, not a good night to be a Kings fan. Oh, well…!

On the bright side, we ate giant pretzels and drank coffee and cheered our team, and at least they didn’t get shut out!