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Enter Confusion

The Atrocity Exhibition

Ballard, J. G.

Publisher: Harper Perennial

MNnnerrrgggh.  This book made my brain hurt.

I actually do think I may have sustained long-term damage to my brain cells.  Let me paint you a picture; I was aware of having an out of body experience while I read this tiny volume because I clearly remember watching my body sitting on the sofa smacking the open book against my head until the Lad asked me to stop.  Maybe that’s why my brain hurts, but I’m pretty much blaming it all on The Atrocity Exhibition.  Please don’t get me wrong though, the writing is genius, but it’s a little bit like the book version of that movie Mulholland Drive.  You get little snippets, literally, wee snips of story in no particular order that you have to wade through and even then you don’t know if you get the story, but you’re too scared that people will think you’re a moron if you say you didn’t like it.

Well, no more!  I’m standing up for morons everywhere.  I didn’t get it.  Which is not to say I didn’t like it, because by some miracle I did.  But I had to try and make sense of it by looking it up on the Internet, and you know that it’s a bad sign when you do stuff like that.  This book, according to the Internet, is a classic of underground literature.  It’s style is reminicent of William Burroughs, though that’s from the Internet too, because it’s been so long since I read any Burroughs that I couldn’t trust my memory of what his stuff is like.  He wrote the preface which is contained in this edition, so that was nice to read.

In retrospect, I should have started with something simplier.  We’ve had Ballard’s Empire of the Sun sitting in the bookshelf for a million years, but I read an interview recently with William Gibson where he talks about Ballard being a big influence on him.  And you know what a sucker I am for anything gruesome sounding.  And while parts of it are unnerving, and disturbing, and you end up searching for meaning which you’re not really sure is there, it is totally worth every second. Read the rest of this entry

Never trust an Actress

Review: Audition

Murakami, Ryu (translated by Ralph McCarthy)

Bloomsbury 2009

ISBN: 9780747589488

Let me state this right out front.  I’ve never seen the movie that they made out of Audition, but I heard some really good things when it came out – it was shown here in a film festival a few years ago and provoked quite a wee storm of controversy (which is kind of what film festivals go for).   So when I was perusing the shelves in the library (I was actually looking for Kafka by the Shore by the other famous Murakami, Haruki) and came across this book instead, I thought I’d give it a bash.

The story is basically that Aoyama, a 42 year old widower with a fifteen year old son, Shige, concocts the idea of auditioning a bunch of young lovelies for a bogus movie, when really, he’s auditioning them for wife material.  He owns a video production company, and his friend Yoshikawa (who is the one that comes up with the kind of morally ambiguous idea) is in films, so it’s not outside the realms of possibility.  The wanna-be actresses are all asked to submit a biographical essay, and it is this essay that causes Aoyama to fall head-over-heels in lurve with Yamasaki, a 24-year-old ex-ballerina (turned crazy-ass serial mutilator, but he doesn’t know that yet).  If I was a 42 year old man, I’d like to think that even a tiny part of my suddenly-testosterone-ravaged brain would be at least a little mistrustful of this demure, intense young woman hanging off my every word, which Yamasaki is frequently described as doing.   But no, Aoyama follows the path beaten out for him, “in the received style, like any other spoony”, in the words of Edward Rochester.  But Edward Rochester he ain’t, cublings.

The good bits first – it’s short.  The translated version that I got runs to 200 pages exactly.  I think that I would have felt more than a little discouraged if a book that short couldn’t be finished because it was just that terrible to read.  Uh… other good bits?  Isn’t one enough for you?  It’s got a snazzy manga-esque cover.  It’s… short, did I already mention that?  The family relationships are okay, I guess – Aoyama is sort of well written, if only he wasn’t such an insufferable ignoramus, and Shige is a bit too perfect, and in fact becomes almost a cypher by the end of the book (though he does have an important part to play).  I mean, for a boy who says flat out to his dad “Ever thought about getting married again?”, he’s a bit too respectful of the rest of his fathers business – never pushing to meet this girl who his dad is obviously mooning over in a big way, never even really asking questions about her.  I guess all of that could be code for a bigger kind of metanarrative thing of how we’re all so disconnected nowadays (which seems to be an idea that Japanese fiction returns to again and again), but I don’t know.  You could also read it in a way that when you’re as obsessively in love with a person the way Aoyama becomes, everything else (and every one else) ceases to exist for you.  But I just never really cared enough about any of the characters to find out or to even think that much about why they do what they do.

I guess that there can be a two-word summation of the bad parts of this novel: it’s dull.  I mean, I was expecting quite a lot, given the hoo-hah over the movie, but honestly.  It’s billed as a psychological thriller, and I was anything but thrilled.  You really shouldn’t be able to read a psychological thriller before bed, but I found myself drifting off, only able to read a page at a time.  Now that is heavy dullness.  Maybe I’m just jaded though; I am making my way very slowly through Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted, which is gross out of the highest order.  I mean, that shit is amazingly disgusting – what made me want to read it was this review, which is quite hilarious, and useful because it gives us the helpful phrase ‘Palahniuk Pass-out’.  It’s not the Japanese-ness of the text either; the reason that I was looking for Kafka on the Shore is that I wanted to re-read it because it’s a great book; if you like that sort of thing (which I certainly do), you should try The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, and some of the short stories and novellas of Junichiro Tanizaki too. Read the rest of this entry