“Some Strange Desire” (1993)

More weird sex: this story by Ian McDonald is another longish, exotic, sexualized (not erotic) fantasy. Something must have been in the air? This one riffs on evolution, gender, and ancient vampire-like secret societies. It was nominated for a World Fantasy Award in the Short Fiction category in 1994. It seems that a mutant form of homo sapiens has lived among us for centuries. They embody both (or all) genders and can physically transform into them at will. And there are humans who get off sexually on them. What could possibly go wrong? The mutants are mostly just surviving, with little interest sexually in humans. Anyone annoyed by confusing pronouns will be annoyed here too, as the mutants are all referred to as “he” even when they are in female form, even as family bonds are referred to as “sister,” “daughter,” and “mother.” I don’t miss that the story was published in 1993, which is reasonably early for the kind of sophisticated LGBTQIA+ discourse given here. So points for vision, though of course Samuel Delany and Ursula K. Le Guin were basically already there and had been for years. The story is dense with concept, giving hurry-up explanation that must be parsed as we go, with a narrative that is perhaps necessarily butt-simple: one of the mutants is dying and unfortunately a human must be sacrificed for it to live. I never managed to get into this story. I understand the difficulty of what it’s trying to do—maybe it should have been a novel? That would have given the ideas here more room to breathe. The ideas are interesting but we are breaking down things like mutant terminology most of the way through, which thwarts narrative momentum. The story has so much concept to pack in that it really shorts character and story value. The concept could well be exactly what people like so much about this story, but I found myself getting impatient quickly with the slow pace and spoon-feeding of the ideas, however necessary. As I say, it probably just should have been longer to do that concept justice. Contrary to popular writing advice, everything doesn’t have to be showing. You can just tell us some things. It’s often quicker and more efficient—part of what the old-fashioned framing stories were doing.

Edited By, ed. Ellen Datlow
The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror Seventh Annual Collection, ed. Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling
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Kinks, “Mr. Churchill Says” (1969)

[listen up!]

Out here on the deep cut tip it’s possible this song is enjoyed best in the context of the whole album, Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire)—strained concept (in the parenthetical) and all. Concept rock albums were all the rage at the time, of course, but the song reads as ambiguously to me as the LP at large. On the one hand, it seems to be valorizing Winston Churchill and the UK’s World War II effort, an easy piety today and in 1969. But songwriter Ray Davies’s vocal sounds mocking when the song gets to the Churchill quotes, Wikipedia includes it in a list of antiwar songs, and Davies, when questioned in an interview, said, “When the battle's over and you've won, you always look good. But what was achieved by it?” So it looks like a clear case of go figure, perhaps comparable to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.,” which sounds jingoistic but is actually approximately the opposite. In many ways the 4:43 “Mr. Churchill Says” functions as a novelty—my favorite part is when the air raid sirens start at about 1:35, which never fail to light me up. The guitar-playing shifts into a loose-wristed mode and the band revs up the tempo. The nervous energy somehow suggests the terrors of the German bombing campaign. Eventually there’s a thoughtful guitar solo from Dave Davies. When the singer is back with his yobs they still sound mocking, but it’s not hard to take the propaganda at “keep calm and carry on” face value either: “Mr. Churchill says we've got to hold up our chins / We've got to show some courage and some discipline / We've got to block up the windows and nail up the doors / And keep right on 'til the end of the war.”

KPop Demon Hunters (2025)

Netflix’s KPop Demon Hunters is approximately exactly what you think, with a glitzy K-pop soundtrack, fabulous animation, and scary demons. As the story goes, generations of female K-pop acts have secretly been demon hunters, running down the dark creatures with great ferocity and protecting their fans and humans generally. Now it’s the fictional girl group trio Huntrix picking up the mantle. The specific narrative arc here is that one of the singers in the group—Rumi, the one with the stupendous coil of hair—is secretly part-demon and must learn to come to terms with it. Awww... The animation is mainly what makes the picture work as well as it does, wild, vivid, expressive, verging on the psychedelia of the Spider-Verse movies. Besides Huntrix (with Rumi, Mira, and Zoey), there is a five-piece boy band, the Saja Boys, who are under the control of the Satan figure here, Gwi-Ma. Gwi-Ma is in the business of buying up and consuming souls. Jinu is the leader of the Saja Boys. Naturally he and Rumi fall in star-crossed love. Rumi must learn to accept and love herself for who she is while Jinu is trying to work through a lot of well-deserved bad karma. But he’s not so bad himself. Awww... Out here on the K-pop tip I don’t know much so my expectations (and hopes) were more for something in perhaps an EDM vein, rhythmic and seductive sexy and romantic for the dancefloor, but as I should have known what I got was a lot of pop warbling about self-help self-esteem self-care, with selfies for the fans etc. Huntrix’s songs are explicitly written in the sessions we see as messages of hope and strength for their fans. Awww... The animation does not fool around with these demons—I can believe they would be quite scary for little kids. Some 13 minutes are reserved for the end credits and include live-action shots of the main voice artists singing and carrying on—it’s as fun as the best parts of the rest of it, so think about sticking around awhile. If the music would have been better (the Saja Boys are no better than Huntrix but there’s no reason to expect them to be), and the story a little less on-the-nose inspirational, KPop Demon Hunters might have been something special. As it is it’s reasonably entertaining, not that I mean to damn with faint praise.

“Dying in Bangkok” (1993)

There’s a lot to sort out about the provenance of this strange story by Dan Simmons. It’s already on the long side (ca. 25 pages) but word is there’s an even longer version (called “Death in Bangkok”) which was incorporated into his 1989 novel Carrion Comfort. The premise from that novel—people among us who can use mental powers to control others—is not really part of this story, or anyway not in the version in the Year’s Best anthology edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. Datlow and Windling used “Dying” in the title whereas ISFDB is adamant it is supposed to be “Death.” Somebody has something wrong. The story is extremely and ridiculously over the top and full of cliches, with Vietnam grunts on R&R during the war encountering depraved and decadent scenes in Bangkok brothels. It’s not erotic but there is a grotesque blowjob scene (actually more than one) involving a prehensile tongue that’s what? two and a half feet long? Guys come so hard they shoot blood, which is then consumed by these monsters. I mean... Simmons just patiently lays it out there deadpan. It’s incredibly repulsive stuff but he never breaks character as narrator, just keeps telling it. It’s basically a revenge story, as the main character’s best friend was killed by these exotic prostitutes. He takes years to find them again and set his own trap, which is tediously timebound by attitudes of the ‘80s and ‘90s. His plan is to get infected with HIV before he has his sexual encounter with them. My first and obvious complaint is how racist, and how boomer, everything is here about Bangkok. Simmons reels off statistics about the sex trade in Bangkok and its high levels of HIV infection. He views it all as a freak show and the biggest freaks tend to be Asian. Then the sex scenes are gross, overly detailed, and go on way too long. What I remember of Carrion Comfort is that Simmons had some sadistic tendencies, by which I mean he doesn’t just traffic in extreme violence but also puts his most likable characters in great peril and makes us watch. I never felt like he was getting off on it himself (unlike, say, John D. MacDonald in his Travis McGee novels) but it does feel mechanical about being extreme. Let me tell you about a prehensile tongue that’s two and a half feet long and makes you come blood. Too much! And the revenge story is weak. So I do not count this story as a good one, but I was happy to be reminded of Carrion Comfort, which is a pretty good horror novel.

The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror Seventh Annual Collection, ed. Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling
Story not available online.

Anthology of American Folk Music (1952)

I grew up with my head in top 40 radio from the age of 10 and some sort of innate resistance to most folk music. I associated it with church youth groups or something. Glenn Yarbrough’s “Baby the Rain Must Fall” was more my style, thanks to that same top 40 radio (and Shindig). I never much liked singing “This Land Is Your Land” in grade school exercises (whereas now I’ll join any random singalong I encounter). I hated We Five with a deadly passion (whereas now I have come to love their hit “You Were on My Mind”). I had little use for the Kingston Trio or Burl Ives, and “Puff the Magic Dragon” was only a guilty pleasure by the time I reached junior high. I could go on. I was still having problems in the ‘60s and ‘70s with a lot of the Laurel Canyon stuff. These are my excuses for missing one of the most influential releases of the 20th century, by reputation a treasure house for anyone associated in any way with “folk” music, including Canned Heat, Bob Dylan, the Holy Modal Rounders, Steve Martin, and Pete Seeger, to briefly sketch parameters (and noting the possible exception of Paul Simon). I’m not sure I even knew the Anthology of American Folk Music existed until the 1997 CD reissue and Greil Marcus’s fierce beating of the drum for it.

In a way anthologist Harry Smith—a record collector among many other things—invented the mixtape with the Anthology. All 84 songs are commercial releases from 1926 to 1933, professional studio not field recordings. They come from Smith’s massive collection, and you get a sense of how important the sequencing is just by scanning the track listings. The Anthology has both broad themes—“Ballads,” “Social Music,” and “Songs” (whatever exactly they mean)—and obvious fine tuning within and across them. Several artists appear more than once, sometimes by pairs of songs together but more often scattered across the vast field of this sprawling set. Smith seems to be following the rules and aesthetics of the old mixtapers, thinking about the organization and sequencing and even cover art and liner notes at least as much as the music itself. It’s largely a lost art now, a neglected consideration. Burning to CDs and building and sharing playlists from streaming services offer some close approximation, of course—but choosing to listen on shuffle (as I typically do with playlists these days, and no one is burning me CDs anymore) undermines the main points of sequencing.

At the same time, the Anthology is just so big I have had a hard time for years getting my arms around it. I enjoy it when it happens to be on, usually at someone else’s place, but I rarely play it for myself, instantly flummoxed by my lack of a context for the whole thing or how it works together. Hailing it as the “old, weird America” is not enough help for me. There’s lots more where this came from that’s available now on streaming services, yet something unusual and distinct remains about the Anthology. What is it? I decided to rely on the convenience of the CD package and treat it as six separate albums in the way I approached listening to it. There’s a high degree of consistency across the whole thing (I understand some feel the “Social Music” sets are not up to the rest but that’s not entirely my experience). I should note upfront that I still don’t have my arms around it—I may never—but here are some thoughts on the songs and individual CDs.

Ace in the Hole (1951)

USA, 111 minutes

Director: Billy Wilder

Writers: Billy Wilder, Lesser Samuels, Walter Newman, Victor Desny

Photography: Charles Lang

Music: Hugo Friedhofer

Editors: Doane Harrison, Arthur P. Schmidt

Cast: Kirk Douglas, Jan Sterling, Porter Hall, Robert Arthur, Richard Benedict, Ray Teal, Frank Cady, Richard Gaines

Director and cowriter Billy Wilder is one of my favorite filmmakers—Double Indemnity and Sunset Blvd. are on my short list of the best of all time, and The Apartment is not far behind—but I’m reluctant to make too much of Ace in the Hole, which Wikipedia among many others includes with Wilder’s major work. I like the noirish feel of it but struggle with the narrative, which exaggerates outrageously under cover of being a satire. And I guess I may also have a Kirk Douglas problem. He plays Charles Tatum with his typical feral intensity, a weaselly ankle-biting reporter on a downward spiral, washing up in Albuquerque and hunting for a break. Any break will do.

The story involves a type of US news item that seems to recur and catch national attention every 10 or 20 years: kids down a well, specific people isolated in floods, miners in a cave-in. Stuff like that. The most famous case at the time of this picture may have been Floyd Collins, trapped for days in Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave in 1925. The story was seized on for constant coverage by then-new radio broadcasters. An example on this side of the 20th century is “Baby Jessica,” who was 18 months old when she fell down a well in 1987. It took 58 hours to get her out. In Ace in the Hole the victim is Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict), plundering a burial ground in a nearby mountain considered holy by local Native Americans. So among other things Ace in the Hole offers up an early version of violated Indian graveyard business, later a staple of horror pictures. For a long time everybody has hated the media, from newspapers, radio, and TV of the last century to the internet-driven landscape today. As hard as it may be to believe, it has been worse in the past (though we are presently challenging that more and more). This is one of those stories, a theme sounded in the great Citizen Kane, Meet John Doe, A Face in the Crowd, and many other movies.

Kinks, “King Kong” (1969)

[listen up!]

This Kinks obscurity caught my ear on the CD deluxe edition of their great album Arthur (Or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire). I like it because it reminds me of T. Rex, which in 1969 was still the fey Tyrannosaurus Rex. It’s possible the song had some influence on T. Rex honcho Marc Bolan—he probably would have heard it, right? Although he would have had to be a fan. It was released as the b-side of “Plastic Man,” a hippie-like screed about convention and hypocrisy and such (compare the spoken-word interlude on Jimi Hendrix’s “If 6 Was 9,” compare The Graduate). “Plastic Man” fizzled because the BBC had a strict policy they would not play any song that included the word “bum.” “Plastic Man” and “King Kong,” widely considered inferior Kinks songs anyway at a time when the band was verging on moribund, were thus relegated to album homeless status, only appearing later on expanded editions of The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society, Arthur, and elsewhere. Fair enough—“King Kong” qualifies as dum and stoopid in many ways, with a primitive stomping attack, chiming guitars, monotonous bass, and obvious regard for a rampaging movie monster. I happen to have some affection for that movie monster myself (and for T. Rex too), which I guess makes it more of a natural for me. And even when songwriter Ray Davies goes primitive his deepest instincts remain musical. “La-la-la” and “doo-doo-doo” once again sweeten the pot nicely. The opening line, “I’m King Kong and I’m ten feet long,” may be all you need to know, but note that the next line—“Got a big six-gun and everybody is scared”—suggests some unhappiness with the US. Who, in 1969, could blame them (indeed who, in 2026, could blame them?)?

The Three Impostors; or, The Transmutations (1895)

Arthur Machen’s early short novel displays his fascination with the occult and also, perhaps, his difficulties in organizing longer pieces. His long story or novella, “The Great God Pan,” published the year before, is another example. The images are striking, the situations unsettling, the language resonantly weird, but the narrative lumbers along like trawling a boggy swamp at night. The Three Impostors is so episodic, in fact, that two of its chapters (“The Novel of the Black Seal” and “The Novel of the White Powder”) (no, not that white powder) have been broken out verbatim and anthologized as short stories, which in turn exercised influence on H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and others. But the overall arc of the novel is much darker than either story. The “three impostors” are two men and one woman who belong to an occult society. They are hunting for “a young man with spectacles.” Two more main characters, Mr. Dyson and Mr. Charles Phillips, are middle-aged friends who see one another frequently for cigars and brandy and such. Dyson is something of a spiritual adventurer, or occult detective, while Phillips is a hardheaded proponent of the scientific way of thinking. They enjoy kicking it around. There’s a lot going on in the background of these scenes. The impostors have decided Dyson can help them find the young man with spectacles. They work to meet Dyson as if by accident, win his confidence, and accept his invitation to tell their stories, which include “Black Seal” and “White Powder.” The three plant clues in their stories to manipulate or lead Dyson to the conclusions they want him to reach. I think that’s what is going on here anyway. Machen can be so indirect and allusive about these themes it’s not always easy for me to make out. It’s possible I was missing things. There’s a lot compacted into this. We have no idea how horrifying the opening scene is, for example, until we have finished the novel. Then the opening becomes shocking. What I love most about Machen at his best is the powerful sense that more things are going on in heaven and earth beyond what we can detect or know with our senses. We only get glimpses of these realities, whatever they are, which are almost too awful to let ourselves contemplate. There are levels beyond levels beyond levels in the best of his stuff, which includes this novel. It may be awkwardly constructed, the dense language may hover near maddeningly opaque, but it is still a novel, not an accidental collection of breakaway stories. In a way, The Three Impostors is more like the opposite of a fix-up novel.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.

San Francisco Days (1993)

Chris Isaak is a Roy Orbison pastiche so good that, with his pouty James Dean good looks, he was a natural for David Lynch and the Twin Peaks franchise. He appeared in Fire Walk With Me as an FBI agent on approximately the same psychic wavelength as Special Agent Dale Cooper. Isaak’s biggest commercial splash occurred with his previous album, from 1989, Heart Shaped World, home of the #6 “Wicked Game,” his only hit (which makes him technically you-know-what). He has carried on since, with a half-rack or more of albums over the years. In many ways San Francisco Days represents the beginning of the back side of his career, featuring, for the last time, Isaak’s secret weapon of lead guitarist Jesse Calvin Wilsey, the so-called “King of Slow.” Wilsey helps make the best song here, “Can’t Do a Thing,” with his sultry play. But the song is also a good example of Isaak’s songwriting skill, which is not negligible. He’s got an Orbison / Lynch theme about dreams and dreaming running through much of his material, but in “Can’t Do a Thing” it takes a notable turn. The singer rues a relationship he is still not over, taunting her passive-aggressively, in his mind, with the things he can imagine. And she can’t do a thing to stop him. Example: “Makin’ love with somebody / Exactly like you.” The sad, irresistible “Except the New Girl” follows, continuing the best part of the album, with a tender loser sensibility and Wilsey’s piercing play on the lower strings. “Beautiful Homes” positively glides. “Waiting” may or may not be a response to “I’m Not Waiting” on Heart Shaped World. Yes, much of San Francisco Days, even the best, is not far from the usual Orbison place, taking a somewhat rancid turn occasionally. But I have to forgive because Isaak and Wilsey make love-sickness work so well and so effectively. “I Want Your Love,” a total smoothie, plays more in the rockabilly mode, a reedy organ taking command. Orbison played rockabilly too, of course, but in the end the better model for Isaak might be Neil Diamond, which he seems to signal in a way by closing the album on a perfectly conceived cover of “Solitary Man.” Diamond was a great songwriter too, and even moody bruised singer in his own right, but the way Isaak records and sequences his cover here feels significant, even if it’s not much in the running for best tune on the album. Then here comes the rest of Isaak’s career.

“Troll-Bridge” (1993)

I read the first graphic novel in Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series many years ago and always meant to get back to it. But that was before he got into his recent troubles for alleged (by five different women) sexual assault or at least misconduct. I don’t otherwise know his work well and now I feel like there’s an excuse to skip it. He always seemed to lean into fantasy more than I like anyway. The allegations make me sad in a general way and contemptuous in another—just another overprivileged guy who can’t control himself. Like Louis C.K., he is now already attempting a comeback, denying the worst charges and hoping fans can forgive and forget. We’ll see how that goes. It doesn’t seem to be working for Louis C.K. In the better days of the ‘90s, “Troll-Bridge” earned a nomination for a 1994 World Fantasy Award for short fiction. In 2016 it was adapted into a graphic novel by Colleen Doran. Gaiman’s story was published originally in Snow White, Blood Red, a thematic 1993 anthology devoted to the arguably suspect subgenre of fairy tale retellings (edited, like the Year’s Best anthology where I read this story, by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling). I like the idea of these fairy tale retellings—see especially Angela Carter’s work—but the execution is too often uninspired and mechanical (part of the reason I skip themed anthologies as a general rule). Gaiman’s exercise here riffs on “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” which a 2010 Norwegian found-footage faux doc, Trollhunter, is altogether better on, with more humor and better special effects. Maybe that’s because this particular fairy tale has roots in Norwegian folklore. Gaiman is more going for something elegiac, with a self-pitying protagonist and a decaying urban setting, London in the late 20th century. Various basic elements such as the bridge itself confused me. The story hangs together largely because the fairy tale does. The bones of it are sticking through the fabric of “Troll-Bridge,” although not necessarily in the best ways. It felt too serious about itself for me. The troll under the bridge threatens to “eat” the life of our first-person narrator. It’s a confusing threat, but the end clarifies the meaning as something like the story’s designated twist. You’ll have to read it to discover it for yourself and I hope you have a better time than I did.

The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror Seventh Annual Collection, ed. Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling
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Louis Jordan & the Tympany Five, “But I’ll Be Back” (1939)

[listen up!]

This song, written by Louis Jordan, comes from early in his career, when he was still in Harlem before he moved to Los Angeles and when he was a little more buttoned down. Well, he was always buttoned down, but his humor and the music more generally grew wilder, more absurd and frenetic, as he moved more into jump blues pure, with tongue-in-cheek attitudes Chuck Berry would put to grand use inventing rock ‘n’ roll. But I love Jordan’s more simple, deadpan delivery here. He never breaks character as a doleful but plucky and determined loser cast aside. A muted trumpet—probably Courtney Williams—smoothly locks down the melody for a verse, then Jordan enters with his dogged tale. He’s been rejected, but he’s not giving up. “I’m goin’,” he announces, as we seem to be arriving at the end of a breakup conversation. “But I’ll be back.” The charge is larceny of his love in the first degree, and he’s prepared to take real action. “Gonna bring my mom and pop / And I’m gonna bring a cop / Gonna make you give me back my love / Before I blow my top.” Jordan’s vocal avoids any menacing hint of a stalker, which is exactly what makes the tune work. Instead, he is more like Wile E. Coyote, overrunning the cliff and suspended in space before he realizes he is about to plummet to his doom. The singer probably doesn’t deserve what he’s getting, but ain’t that the way? The youtube page concludes the listening experience with perhaps the single greatest youtube comment of all time (in a field not at all competitive), the only one on the page in 11 years: “Thanks for posting. I’m going, but I’ll be back.”

Thelma (2024)

Thelma is a feel-good caper comedy, set in Los Angeles and all dressed up in a pulsing action-movie soundtrack. It’s about the title character, a 93-year-old woman played by June Squibb, who was 94 at the time of shooting. Thelma is fond of her grandson Danny (Fred Hechinger, looking like Kurt Cobain or Scott Evil). He’s a 20something slacker with seemingly all the time in the world to visit and help Thelma with her computer. Later we find out Thelma is actually pretty handy with her electronics. Early in the picture Thelma is victim of a phone scam. Someone purporting to be Danny calls and says he was in an auto accident, almost killed a pregnant woman, and now he’s in jail. She follows the directions to post his bail, which involves mailing $10,000 in cash to an anonymous post office box. Thelma is not stupid but her panic blinds her to all the clues she’s being duped. The money is in the mail before she figures it out. Then she gets mad. Then she gets even. Classic stuff. Parker Posey plays Gail, Thelma’s daughter, Danny’s mother, and a psychotherapist. Clark Gregg is Gail’s husband Alan. Now they are all even more worried that Thelma is slipping mental-wise. But she is already on the case, stealing a friend’s scooter and taking off to monitor the post office box. Her friend, Ben (Richard Roundtree), takes off to help her and to get his scooter back. Her family frantically drives around town trying to find her. Thelma and June Squibb are charming enough, but the movie somewhat painfully wants it both ways on the elderly as figures of both pathos and comic relief. Director and screenwriter Josh Margolin makes this work (to the extent it does) by making it a farce, although he is not above abject pulling at the heartstrings in places. It is based on his own 104-year-old grandmother, whose apartment stands in for Thelma’s place. Thelma is basically a data point in the argument that you can make a suspense movie out of anything. Even an idle look can absurdly ratchet tensions. There is both gunplay and explosions along with gags about old people. A lot of stars in this one also helps put it over: Squibb in the first starring role of her life, Roundtree, Posey, Gregg, Hechinger, and Malcolm McDowell too. An amiable crew. You probably won’t believe a second of it, but you might have a nice time.

“A Nasty Story” (1862)

"A Bad Business," "A Disgraceful Affair," "A Most Unfortunate Incident," “A Nasty Anecdote," "An Unpleasant Predicament"
Absolutely prime Fyodor Dostoevsky here in this long story of the painful realities of class conflict, written shortly after the Russian reforms that liberated the serfs into lives of grinding poverty. Our main character here is that oxymoron, a liberal man of business. He has been dining and drinking with two peers with whom he has uneasy relations. He leaves for home but his coachman has mysteriously vanished. He decides to walk, partly because he’s a little drunk. By chance he meets someone who mentions that the revelry they can hear from a nearby building is the wedding of a man who works for him. He begins talking himself into making a surprise appearance there, thinking they would appreciate his condescending to be with them. It is a disaster, of course. Before he even enters, he steps in a dish of galantine put out to cool. Everyone, including his employee, is paralyzed by his presence. Our guy can see it is spoiling the party and he attempts to dispel the inhibition. But when the dancing and revelry begin again he does not like it. Others, such as the mother of the groom, are all over themselves to cater to him. They produce bottles of champagne for him. Later he realizes he is the only one drinking champagne, and even later we learn the cost of the champagne for the wedding party. There is a remarkable tension between boss and underling, as the underling furiously resents his presence but struggles not to show it. Meanwhile the boss is getting more and more drunk and finally passes out. It is a titanic piling on of incident, so wickedly painful there is moral vertigo just from reading. I like the dawning sense in Dostoevsky’s work of no limits. If you think things are bad now, just keep reading. It’s not long before Dostoevsky would be reaching this level of intensity at epic massive novel dimensions. But certainly here there is a compelling seed of it. I should also note this is another of his stories with an amazing variety of translations, even in the titles. They give a vivid sense of what you’re in for with this story.

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Roma (2018)

Mexico / USA, 135 minutes

Director/writer/photography: Alfonso Cuarón

Editors: Alfonso Cuarón, Adam Gough

Cast: Yalitza Aparicio, Marina de Tavira, Jorge Antonio Guerrero, Diego Cortina Autrey, Carlos Peralta, Marco Graf, Veronica Garcia, Fernando Grediaga

Alfonso Cuarón takes a page from the playbook of Steven Soderbergh (and a few others), making his award-winning, much-celebrated picture for Netflix practically a one-man-band show, directing, writing, shooting, and editing this period piece set in early 1970s Mexico City. It starts slow, it’s a little long, and it can teeter dangerously close to pretentious, with a black & white color scheme and diegetic soundtrack (available commercially) that is composed entirely of music playing in the background on radios and TVs or at the movies. The parts of Roma that feel most obviously autobiographical are about a family plunged into media: radios, TVs, movies, full of audio strains and visual clips. In fact, Cuarón makes the most out of incidentals like what’s playing on the radio. My favorites are the jets floating complacently through the clouds of some of these scenes, aircraft noise and all. Some must have been shot near an airport because they seem to be flying relatively low, drawing perfect lines across their scenes. They are somehow fearsome and beautiful.

Roma survives any and all concerns about its intentions (except the one about Netflix, which I’ll get to below) as it patiently mounts a powerful slice-of-life tale with mild upstairs / downstairs notes, juggling the life of a middle-class family in breakdown with the life of their maid in similarly dire straits. Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio) is the maid and de facto nanny for the family headed up by Sofia (Marina de Tavira), her mostly absent husband Antonio, and their four kids, three boys and a girl. The youngest boy, Pepe (Marco Graf), might be 7. He is always talking about memories of his past lives.

Gene Thomas, “Sometime” (1961)

[listen up!]

I wound my way back to Gene Thomasson’s 1961 near-hit (which peaked at #53) mainly because it’s one of the cover songs on the classic Flamin’ Groovies 1976 album Shake Some Action, and I am always happy to seek and find the originals. Shake Some Action is a 14-track affair that came after founders Roy Loney and Tim Lynch had left the band. It’s composed of half original songs by Cyril Jordan and Chris Wilson and half cover songs by artists as well-known as the Beatles and as obscure as Gene Thomas—adding up to a nearly perfect, seamless whole. Thomas managed a #17 hit in 1968, “Playboy,” in the Nashville-based Gene & Debbe act with Debbe Neville and her spectacular beehive hairdo. It’s a nice country-tinged tune, apt in many ways for 1968, but I agree with the Groovies that “Sometime” (or, as it is sometimes and more accurately credited, “Sometimes”), is the better song. And I’m not sure who does it better. The Groovies version rocks it up nice with a full band and emphasis on harmonies, drumkit, and electric guitar. The Gene Thomas version is much more stripped down, with an easier tempo and Thomas’s plaintive solo voice stalked by a mellow saxophone. The singer’s problem is the same in both places, of course: “Sometimes I cry when I’m lonely / Sometimes I cry when I’m blue / Right now, I’m cryin’ ‘cos I love you / I’m cryin’ ‘cos you don’t love me too.” He’s worried that “all the tears I shed were shed in vain.” Given the way things generally go in this world, it’s a valid concern and he’s probably right. It doesn’t take much more than that for a great pop song.

Nostromo (1904)

The subtitle of this hefty novel by Joseph Conrad is A Tale of the Seaboard. A description I saw called it a rip-roaring adventure story, which led me to a few errant expectations. Nostromo is the name of a person, not a ship as I had assumed. And “seaboard” is not the same as “seagoing,” although perhaps the best part of this shaggy dog is a treacherous if brief sea voyage. The other best part is the treatment of South America’s long history of unstable politics, the colonizers’ greed for riches and lust for power. The novel at large, in fact, seems to be mainly a lampoon (as I take it) of South America’s ludicrous and bloody history, set in a fictional country, or territory. It’s not far from Venezuela, with a shipping port and a silver mine owned by an English businessman. Nostromo is barely present for the first half or so, seen at the edges of the large rotating cast of characters. Conrad is more expansive here, going deep into the backstories of these characters—and new important characters keep emerging beyond the halfway point. It’s a serialized novel and often feels it but Conrad brings it to a solid ending, taking it where it must go according to the richly complex characters. It ends up landing on Nostromo the hardest, as it must with that title. Nostromo, a sort of hapless but brave peasant, gets by mostly on bravado and luck, along with his skills as a seaman. I have to say, even with all the cruelty on display—I see South America’s reputation as a haven for terrible torture goes back at least to 1904—it often feels comical more than anything. The revolutions and patriotic fervor result only in terrible violence and death but still things go on. All officials are at least a little corrupt, some very much so. Part of Nostromo’s appeal is his sincere peasant background. His highest military rank is captain, but he is a man of the people. He has several names, suggesting his status as a legend: Capataz de Cargadores, Gian’ Battista, Captain Fidanza, Nostromo. His background is Italian. I still think Conrad is mostly a chore to read, but patience does pay off. This story ends quite satisfyingly.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.

“Posthumous” (1994)

I came here ready to complain about this very short story by Joyce Carol Oates. Then I saw that it was published originally in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, in 1994, and somehow it became instantly more intriguing. What was she doing in Ellery Queen? Was she a regular? How did a story like this fit with the magazine’s usual fare? I never read it much but knew it as a competitor and sort of counterpoint to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. “Posthumous” is less than three printed pages. It is told from the point of view of a corpse, in a 21-gun salute to Edgar Allan Poe (10 years later, in 2004, she would publish a different and much longer story with a variant title of “Poe Posthumous; or, The Light-House”). But maybe I am being hasty and she is a near-dead victim of violence, her own or another’s. She doesn’t seem to be able to move or speak. Police are forcing entry. Italicized passages suggest a home invasion. The police are shocked by her appearance but the twist of the story, as such, seems to be that there is worse in another room, presumably her husband. Did she do it or are they both victims? Unclear. It’s a horrific scene, like a tableau caught in the flash of a camera. It seems extreme to me for Ellery Queen, but perhaps not for 1994, which I remember as particularly lurid—Tonya Harding, Kurt Cobain, OJ Simpson, etc. I like that Oates had outlets for a lot of things like this that are experimental. Sometimes I am impatient with her female victimology, which she turns to a lot. But then, females are frequently victims. I like the Poe touch, if that’s what it is, and I guess I appreciate the ambiguity too of the murky situation. So I come out liking this one after some consideration. I believe Oates may have been at least a semi-regular in Ellery Queen but I would have to verify that. The way she uses the police is great and the point of view of the woman or corpse is perfect as they force their way in, vivid and sensory. And it’s really short, accomplished at near light-speed. The mayhem is gratuitous maybe? I was inclined to complain about that. But in many ways I think mayhem might be Oates’s most natural mode.

Joyce Carol Oates, The Collector of Hearts
Story not available online.

Modern Lovers, “I’m Straight” (1973)

[listen up!]

This curiosity was not part of the original Modern Lovers album by Jonathan Richman & co., home of “Roadrunner.” Most of that now-classic LP was produced by John Cale in 1971 and 1972. “I’m Straight” comes from sessions in 1973 organized, overseen, and/or produced by the notorious Kim Fowley. It has been appended as a bonus track on reissues of the album since the Rhino release in 1986. In many ways the song hasn’t aged well. The term “straight” now refers more often to sexual orientation or secondarily an inclination toward the conventional. A third sense is honesty. The sense of it as drug-free, which Richman is on about here, has faded since the ‘70s; “clean” and “sober” are more the favored terms now. Richman was still accessing an aggressive persona derived in part no doubt from his heroes the Velvet Underground. But his own variations are all him. The singer in this song is so shy he keeps hanging up before completing a phone call to a woman he wants. But it’s a kind of calculated assault too because he knows she already has a boyfriend—Hippie Johnny by name—and he won’t respect it. “He’s always stoned, he’s never straight,” is his point. If I had to guess, the drug in question here is most likely cannabis—marijuana, weed, tea, whatever. That’s what “stoned” (and “dope”) usually referred to, at least in my circles in 1973. The singer is surprisingly aggressive: “Now look, I like him too, I like / Hippie Johnny / But I'm straight / And I want to take his place.” His voice is deep, growling. It sounds like the microphone is inside his mouth. And it is full-on unapologetic in its judgment of the stoner lifestyle. At the time, that put the singer arguably rowing against the current. Call him an iconoclast. Sometimes I object to the situation it describes, stealing girlfriends and the preening rejection of weed. It’s certainly unusual, but that can be said about much of Richman’s catalog.