Baller, Book 3 in the Eucalyptus Lane series, arrives later this spring from Outcast Press. This is the first snippet I’m sharing from that, and I’ll be back soon sharing work from my fellow writers! Click here to see the video.
Bedtime Noir #13: Percocet Summer
It's still summertime here in the US, but going by fast, so I'm sharing a sample of Paige Johnson's summer-themed transgressive poetry to try and help capture some of these last lanquid days of the season in a bottle (or pill bottle, as it were). Click below for a fix from Percocet Summer.
You can find & follow Paige on Twtter @OutcastPress1
Bedtime Noir #9: Murder in Greasepaint
I’m so glad to be back to Bedtime Noir! After a few weeks hiatus we’ll kick off the summer with Whiskey Leavins’ genre bending/ blending detective novel with clowns a-poppin’ and a femme fatale (with special talents) like you’ve never seen (or heard) before. Click here for the video, and for more about Whiskey Leavins and his other work, check out his web site here.
Bedtime Noir #8
Noir and transgressive fiction often intersect; I know it does in my writing! Tonight I'm sharing a snippet from the first Outcast Press anthology, In Filth It Shall Be Found. The snippet is from “Sugar Baby,” by CT Marie. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #6: Reading from My New Novel, Cracker!
Tonight, I’m sharing a passage from the latest book in my Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. Cracker picks up where the first book, Poser, leaves off. Much more about Cracker soon, some exciting news about upcoming publications and events (!) & more posts about film, writing, reading and life. But for now—here are a couple of scenes between Jessica and Ambrose (and Beau!) from Cracker. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #5: Mediterranean Noir
This week I’m reading a short passage from Garlic, Mint, & Sweet Basil, a book of essays by Jean-Claude Izzo. He writes beautifully about Marseilles, the orgins of the noir novel, and with his Marseilles trilogy (Total Chaos, Chourmo, and Solea), is credited as the founder of modern Mediterranean noir. The bite-size little essays in the book are amazing, with lovely description. Whether you consider them short essays or flash non-fiction, each chapter only made me want to visit Marseilles that much more! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir #4: Dead Dogs by Manny Torres
Reading from Manny Torres's debut novel. Manny has some other novels as well, including Father Was A Rat King, and Perras Malas. He’s also an accomplished visual artist. I interviewed Manny for Deep South Magazine last year, so if you’d like to know more about Chuck and Phobos from Dead Dogs, and Manny’s other work, click here for the interview.
Click here to watch my short reading from Dead Dogs.
Bedtime Noir #3: Meet Sonny Haynes
Tonight I’m reading from Brian Townsley's book of short stories, Outlaw Ballads, featuring detective Sonny Haynes. If you like southern California settings, tough guys-and women-and classic noir, you’re in for a treat! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir 2: Valentine's Edition
Tonight, a short selection from Cracker, the next book in my neo-noir Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. And, meet Mitzi!
Source: http://www.nevada-mcpherson.com/
Slim Pickens & My Mid-Century Modern Apocalyptic Wet Dream
“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” --R.E.M.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had the sense of being caught between two generations, like the gears of a clock. The youngest in an older crowd, I grew up in a small Georgia town that was suspended in a kind of time warp, and as I got older, my appreciation for the antique, retro and vintage increased. I remember summers spent at my great-aunt’s house in Macon, drawing, reading YA novels and flipping through volumes of This Fabulous Century, the Time-Life set of books that provided a photographic chronicle of each decade of the Twentieth Century. While I liked the 1920’s with its pictures of flappers, dead gangsters and deco magazine covers, the volumes I returned to most frequently were the 1940’s through 1960’s. Why?
Of course there were major historical events unfolding, and those iconic Life Magazine photos of key moments, but maybe it was the look of everyday life as well. Something about the interior décor of those years as it evolved from solid earthbound into space-age futuristic. The cars, streamlined and elegant, even with the flambouyant fins of the 1950’s. Black & white TV shows, movies and advertising showed a world as yet uncluttered by plastic bottles, styrofoam and the other detritus of disposable everything. Everyday objects like telephones, ashtrays, coffee pots, cups & saucers, took up more space, had weight & depth. People dressed up to travel, go to town, and clean the house. I was fascinated by the youth culture & style of the years that gave birth to the Beats, Charlie Parker, rock & roll, Elvis, and Janis Joplin. Guys in t-shirts and jeans, smoking cigarettes, riding in cars, girls in Bobby socks, the diners, the popular cartoons (Bill Mauldin’s Army, They’ll Do It Every Time), and the comedians: Jack Benny, Shelley Be9rman, Lenny Bruce. Mid-twentieth century was also the time of an unprecedented and profound worldwide shift.
In the 1950’s, shows like The Twilight Zone revealed the fears and anxieties of the first generation living in the shadow of the atomic bomb through brilliant short narratives, and even through set design. Among the sleek, modern lines of furniture, appliances and cars, are visual cues that reflect an awareness of humanity’s ability to toy with its collective mortality. In the “Third From the Sun” episode, where a middle class family grapples with the imminent threat of annihilation (and yes, there’s a twist), odd, misshapen objects d’art are seen in the background and foreground: figurines of animals and people, part representative, part abstract: art intended to unsettle.
Today, the hot nuclear threat that had waned into Cold War rhetoric waxes again, and like mid-twentieth century’s increasing fascination with plastic and “better living through chemistry,” more widespread technology and faster production (with fewer workers) isn’t advancing the cause of humanity. A world at tipping point on several fronts such as higher temperatures (ie "scorchers"), melting icecaps and mass extinctions, doesn’t require a nuclear war to destroy it; we’re doing a fine job of that on our own, thank you very much. It’s the logical outcome of a “disposable” society where, in the eyes of the powers that be, goods, people and animals are, as ex- newsman-turned-“mad prophet” of the airwaves, Howard Beale, claims in Network (1976), “alike as bottles of beer, and as replaceable as piston rods.”
While some world leaders wreak bloody havoc, and others wring their hands in a state of dithering incompetence, “preppers,” have written off earth's future altogether, building rockets to launch themselves into space. The Brave New World only belongs to those who can afford it, whether it’s a space ship to Mars, or plane to a posh resort that still has clean air & water, and maybe a drive-through zoo called “Last Chance to See!” housing the last of members of over a thousand animal species.
And what about the rest of us? Instead of popping milltowns, we doom scroll on social media, slipping into a solipsistic stupor, numb out on the ‘Net (the lack of which will drive many of us mad when the grid goes dark), and binge-watch TV. Not you, you say? Excellent! Then what are you doing? If you're somehow trying to make the world better, ignoring the wags who mutter about rearranging deck furniture on the Titanic, more power to you. We must arrange these deck chairs (words, notes or brush strokes, etc.) just so, if for no other reason than that somewhere in the universe there's a snapshot for the ages, and somehow, someone or something will know we were doing our best when the doomsday clock hit midnight, or high noon, whichever the case may be. That energy out there in the collective unconsciousness is seeking expression through your work. You have a duty to fulfill.
Creating art is an act of faith in the face of disaster. Again, as seen in The Twilight Zone episode, "The Midnight Sun," Norma (Lois Nettleton) continually paints the sun over the city as an earth thrown off its normal orbit hurtles toward the ever-expanding orb, slowly increasing the temperature to the point of driving the only neighbor she has left (and the radio announcer who broadcasts grim daily reports) to a nervous breakdown and eventual heat stroke and Norna herself to the edge of sanity. The only thing holding her back from the brink is her art.
In a recent re-watching of Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film, Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, it occurred to me that today a more apt subtitle might be “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Watch It Burn.” While the world’s richest escape the pull of earth's gravity, the rest of us sit astride a falling bomb with Major T.J. Kong, played by Slim Pickens, whose no-holds barred cowboy swagger, all-American can-do attitude and yes, earnestness, are weirdly refreshing after the semen-obsessed macho posturing and whacko military theories being bandied about in the War Room.
In my bomb-riding fantasy, Kong smells of sweat and delirious enthusiasm as I grip tighter around his chest, holding on for dear life as he fearlessly whoops and hollers (like the former rodeo star Pickens himself was), waving his hat in a state of sheer exhilaration as ground zero rushes to meet us. True, riding a bomb while holding on for dear life is a paradox, but so is the fact that in a post-post-modern world where possibilities are endless, we drag our feet when it comes to our own self-preservation and the very survival of earth itself. Can’t something be done to save us? Yes, but focus and a sense of urgency are required, and again (here in America), hand wringing & dithering incompetence too often come into play, along with denial and endless debate over facts already in evidence.
In Dr. Strangelove, mass murder on a global scale is discussed by the numbers in the exquisitely designed War Room, and so today are various forms of negligent homicide, whether in the board room, private dining room, or anywhere else the world’s richest and most powerful gather to decide the fate of the future. For all our mid-century space-age futuristic ambitions, we're instead experiencing the reactionary vibe of Baron von Metternich, which for most of us is not a good thing. Fear and greed are the two most destructive forces in the world, but even as they run rampant, it helps to remember that from a Marx-ist perspective (Brothers, that is), there’s subversive power in comedy, and in laughter, a certain kind of hope.
Before I slip into the silvery shadows of my beloved black & white TV shows (Perry Mason, et al), and the dark corners of noir films where fate crouches, waiting to grab the next unsuspecting sucker by the ankle, I would ask you to consider Kierkegaard’s advice: "The only intelligent tactical response to life's horror is to laugh defiantly at it."
For those with their hands on the levers of power, the world by the purse strings, and egos bigger than Jupiter, the only fate worse than death is to be mocked. Laughter, like the sublime yawp of the rodeo star, like Molly Bloom's final "yes," is a ray of sun slicing through hopeless gloom.
The court jesters were unafraid to speak truth to power, to tell the King what he didn't want to hear and laugh while doing it. Truth-telling is a risky business that can get one fired, divorced, executed, assassinated, etc., but one we need desperately if this century we're in now has any shot at being "fabulous." Will it get its own set of Time-Life books?
Possibly. If we can hold it together long enough.
Book Review: Anxious Nothings, Vol. 1
Anxious Nothings, Volume 1 (Anxiety Press) is a collection of short fiction, non-fiction, poems about sex, and, as the title suggests, the attendant anxiety often surrounding it in all its forms. The introduction by editor and publisher Cody Sexton, places the collection into context with an explanation of what inspired this volume, involving a teen’s discovery of Hustler Magazine, among other things. It’s dedicated to Larry Flynt and porn impresario Al Goldstein, and while the works collected here are wide ranging in tone and topic, the intro makes for a center the way a metal framework within a clay sculpture holds it all together.
Before I read this book, I’d stumbled onto The People Vs. Larry Flynt on cable, the scene where Larry (played by Woody Harrelson) returns to the offices of Flynt Publications for the first time following his shooting. He wheels into his office, much to the chagrin of the suits looking to tone things down, and instructs the receptionist to announce on the loudspeaker, “The pervert is in the building.” This book seems to suggest the pervert is indeed in the building, and to paraphrase Walt Kelly’s comic possum, Pogo, “We have met the pervert, and he is us.”
If sexuality is an integral part of being human, and if it really does take all kinds to make the world go around, every one of us could be considered perverts to some degree, seen through the lenses (or technological keyholes) of the censorious forces present in society, especially in the U.S., which has a much more puritanical culture than the land of “freedom and liberty” is usually willing to admit.
Depending on one’s personality and mindset, these works may prompt laughter, (Grayson Lagrange’s “Feeding the Ducks” and Jason Gerrish’s “Slaw”), a sense of horror or dread (Paula Deckard’s “Girl’s End”), disgust (Sebastian Vice’s “Ass Eating”), and even pity tempered with cool satisfaction that the bad guys/chicks in the story got what was coming to them (Paige Johnson’s “Ruffled Feathers” and Kristin Garth’s “Jungle Rules”). Snacking on this collection of literate pornographic bon-bons is a liberating experience in many ways, acknowledging the pervert within one’s own psyche, and meeting it with a high five of recognition thus subverting any authority threatened by the anarchic freedom of thinking for oneself, reading what one pleases, and engaging in life, liberty and the pursuit of pleasure between two—or more—consenting adults.
The transgressive behavior found in Anxious Nothings is unfiltered and unadulterated save what judgements the reader brings to it, which gives each piece in the collection certain qualities of a Rorschach test administered in a quiet corner at a wild party. No therapist here, though, only the intermittent palate-clearing snippets of sage words by the likes of the Marquis de Sade, Karl Marx, Mark Twain, and Gertrude Stein, with text graphics for these made to look like cut-out ransom notes, heightening the illicit nature of the content and grounding it within the wisdom that there is nothing that threatens you from between these covers, only modern stories, poems and essays about age-old cornerstones of human nature. The characters herein may be anxious, but you, dear reader, need not be. You are in good hands. You are human. Fear not.
However.
Right before I wrapped up this review, I was flipping through channels and again stumbled upon The People Vs. Larry Flynt. This time, it was near the ending, where Larry wants to take his case against Jerry Falwell to the U.S. Supreme Court. Larry’s lawyer, Alan Isaacson (played by Edward Norton), resists, afraid that Larry will make a mockery out of an appearance in front of such of an august institution, but Isaacson finally acquiesces, and prevails. In light of recent rulings, I have to wonder what the future now holds for free speech in America, and for other freedoms most have long taken for granted.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt famously said that we have “nothing to fear, but fear itself,” yet now more than ever we seem to be a nation in the grip of fear and loathing. Writing hobbled by fear, tempered by prevailing opinion about what is “acceptable” makes for a lukewarm experience through which nothing is learned, gained, no fun is had, and time is wasted. This one is worth the time, whether as a left-handed bon-bon of ballsy entertainment or thought-provoking starting point for a conversation with yourself about why something makes you feel the way it does. This is a strange, bold book for even stranger times, a post-modern Whitman’s Sampler of fearless writing. It is a literary anthology that contains unapologetic, unvarnished, explicit sexual content. You may love it, or you may be offended, but if books like this get banned, you’ll never know.
Be bold. Be fearless and support others who are.
Freedom depends on it.
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.
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.
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
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.
Gates of Hell sculpture at Stanford. A pivotal scene from Poser takes place near here.
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!
