IN MACY’S:

Oh, you’re so Eat Pray Love!  I’m so jealous!

(Not in the Meredith Baxter-Birney sense.)

Let’s see what’s what today. It will give me a break from trying to figure out what I think about the Anne Frank graphic novel.

1)  I appreciate doing things in order.  I won’t see a sequel before the original, and I prefer to read the book before seeing the adaptation.  Unfortunately, as I’m sure you are aware, it is a lot easier to knock off a movie in a couple of hours than a book — particularly if you are me.  And so, yes, I have betrayed my true and pious nature in this way.  Many times.

But sometimes I pull it off as God intended, and then I sit around feeling good about myself for months on end.  For example, I recently read Arthur Phillips’ The Song is You without even knowing it was going to be made into a film; I found that out later in a happenstantial fashion. Imagine my well-earned sense of triumph!

Now, last fall, when I went to see Paranormal Activity,* the film was prefaced by trailers for both The Lovely Bones and Shutter Island.  This was a valuable tip-off to me; I was in possession of both books, but had read neither.  Clearly, I needed to “get crackin’,” as the kids say.  I chugged through one after another and was done well in advance of the release dates.  It was a landmark victory for the forces of gluttony.

Anyway, I saw Shutter Island during opening weekend, and then . . . somehow I never made it around to the Bones. I suppose I had grown complacent in my state of preparedness.  (Also, I — ahem — wasn’t so crazy about the book.)

But I loves me some Peter Jackson, so I remedied the situation this week.  Happily, I found that some of what I disliked about the book had been muted a bit.  I won’t wreck the ending for those of you still lying in wait, but anyone familiar will know what I mean when I say that something bizarre (even within the context of a dead narrator) and unexpected happens at the end.  Something I found decidedly out of place.  It felt like Alice Sebold had gotten so attached to her main character that she wanted to do her a solid and hence gave in to a strange impulse that clashed with the rest of the story.

Anyway, the scene is not excluded from the movie, but Jackson pared it down significantly, in terms of both time and content.  Wise move, Sir Peter.

Oh, and Stanley Tucci is awesome.  I love that he was practically simulcast as a slithering pedophile and Julia Child’s adorable husband.  As my friend Shazbot put it:  “Tucci!”

2) After a full afternoon of child murder,** I decided to “cleanse the palate” with some degenerate comedy.  I had always judged myself harshly for missing Hot Tub Time Machine‘s theater run, so I decided to heal the rift between myself and myself by watching it On Demand.  At first, one side was resistent (I won’t name names), but in the end, both enjoyed a firm handshake.

But with respect to the movie: shameless were my giggles.  Oh, Crispin Glover, you wild card, you!  And I am delighted to see more and more opportunities for Clark Duke, Michael Cera’s other half, to perform for our pleasure.  That boy’s got a lot more to offer, I reckon.  <chews blade of grass thoughtfully>

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* As, unfortunately, did a cadre of savage, half-witted d-bags who sat far too close to my person.

** In the movie, jerkface.

Rest assured, I had a delightful time at Bret Easton Ellis’s appearance yesterday (at Cambridge’s Brattle Theatre — the same venue at which I saw Birdemic!  Coincidence?), part of his Imperial Bedrooms tour.

Now, the book itself was not my favorite of his, not by a long shot.  I found it a touch on the boring side, if I may briefly blaspheme.  One of the best things about Ellis fiction is its aggressive lack of a point (which, as you may have guessed, becomes the point). Bedrooms didn’t have much of a point either, but there were times when I felt like it thought it did.  I hate to see that; best to keep us all in on the same jokes, so to speak.

But that is not the — erm — point.  My compatriot and I had discussed, going in, what seemed a very real possibility that Ellis would simply saunter out onto the stage and open fire on the audience with a Heckler & Koch UMP.  It struck us as the only means by which he could maintain, and perhaps build on, the mystique that his prose has nurtured.  She and I made peace with this possibility, said our goodbyes, and took our seats with twin senses of closure and calm.  We were only mildly disappointed when our suspicions proved to be way off the mark.

Ellis read for less than 10 minutes’ time,* then took a Q&A.  He seemed a pleasant fellow — indeed, a pleasant fellow in a polo shirt — quick to laugh at how he has been portrayed in the media, and quick to fess up to how he himself has perpetuated that. (For example, he provided an explanation of his “douchy” photo on the Bedrooms book jacket with delicious grace and candor.)**

He displayed an admirable level of the pragmatic cynicism that I myself attempt to cultivate.  Minimal ego (that he cared to reveal), respectable openness, a notable lack of bloodthirst.  My compatriot and I agreed that we would enjoy “kicking it,” if you will, with such a man as Mr. Ellis.  So, there’s a feather in his cap.

Anyway, I opted not to get Bedrooms signed, transferring that honor to good old-fashioned American Psycho.   The book played a prominent role in the development of my gluttonous tendencies. For one thing, it corroborated my suspicions that I had a high threshold — and, well, an appetite — for extreme content.  Further, it marked the first time I’d really contemplated how far one could go in art, so long as one committed to it 100% and refused to sacrifice quality in the process.  This led to the first time I’d really contemplated how far I might be willing to go in my own creative output.  (I haven’t yet fully answered that question in my own mind.)  And it was the first time I contemplated the possibility that creating something that was iconic and undeniable, yet violently polarizing, might be more desirable than creating something that was universally enjoyed, yet forgettable.  Although, ultimately, I am glad that society has made room for both.

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* That’s one way in which I knew Bedrooms was not having the full effect on me; I found that I didn’t really care which selection he would pick to read.  The one he picked was fine.

** I would say “with great aplomb,” but it’s hard to use that word and not feel a bit douchy oneself.

In (unwillingly) reflecting upon my experience watching The Human Centipede, I realized that I had not been put through such a garlic press of grossness since I went to see Chuck Palahniuk do a reading in 2004.  He was touring in service of Diary, but he did not read from it; instead he read us his short story “Guts,” which was to be featured in the book Haunted — although not for two more years.

For all those unfamiliar, “Guts” is a story of creative auto-eroticism and its unforeseen consequences.  For all those unfamiliar and dissatisfied about it, chin up: you can read it here.  I spent most of the reading hunched forward, holding my stomach, and most people in my row were posed likewise.  At the conclusion, Palahniuk congratulated us on the fact that none of us had passed out, saying that two girls had done just that at a reading two days before.  A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.

For all those unfamiliar and completely bloody uninterested in reading “Guts” OR watching The Human Centipede, you should be grateful that we gluttons are out here, throwing ourselves on the proverbial grenade.  You’re welcome.

I have acquired a ticket to Bret Easton Ellis’s reading of his new novel next week.

I have also acquired Bret Easton Ellis’s new novel.

Two critical steps completed! I may as well sit back and eat bonbons.

Fake-out title again!  I am quite the crafty one.

Well, my rent went up, I got no sleep, and I attempted to board the subway this morning using what turned out to be a Best Buy gift card.  On top of these indignities, I was forced last night to watch Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull for the second time.  The second! The reason is complicated.*

The bottom line is, tonight I am in need of some comfort and refinement.  A glass of wine and some august British crime.

Based on my childhood, I ought to have read Brat Farrar much sooner, but you know how time gets away from us.  I grew up watching a PBS televised adaptation of it an absurd number of times, because I was young and it was familiar.  It aired on that Mystery! program — remember it?  It was hosted by Vincent Price and had the intro sequence created by Edward Gorey?  (This increased its cool factor immensely; Edward Gorey is inherently cool.)  Anyway, this particular feature starred the notably attractive Mark Greenstreet in a dual role.  Mark had first set the world aflame playing a bellboy in “Family Ties Vacation,” and he went on to make an equally big splash in a Vidal Sassoon commercial, if memory serves.

But now, the book.  By Josephine Tey.  The atmosphere hits the spot: classic English countryside, riddled with ponies and such.  Here you are:

photo credit: BinaryApe

I won’t give anything away, but the story, told in proper British fashion, involves the impersonation of a long-lost twin.  Hence Mr. Greenstreet’s dual role.  This meant that we got to enjoy the visual splendor of 1980s split-screen technology.  I recall one scene in particular, when one Mark Greenstreet had to bump into the other Mark Greenstreet and shove him aside; we were all terribly impressed.  (Our mouths formed little
O shapes; that’s how you could tell.)

I’m enjoying the novel, and I’d wager the film could easily — and pleasantly — be remade for general audiences.  Ms. Tey does have her devotees, after all.  Now, there was a dreadful rumor several years back that just this thing would happen, and that the role would go to Ben Affleck.  Given the elapsed time and the fact that the story demands a leading man who can pass for age 21, I think we may be out of the woods on that one.  Please, everyone . . . share in my relief.

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* A saving grace: I watched Indiana the second time with RiffTrax accompaniment.  If any of you are/were Mystery Science Theater 3000 fans and are not aware of RiffTrax, you would do well to correct this.

P.S.  Wholly unrelated: there is a show on tonight called “Extreme Poodles.”  I have no choice but to record it.