On the Road - A Film Review by Bruce P. Grether

Many citizens of the USA have a romantic fixation concerning the landscape of this vast nation, its variety, and the cultural differences of regions, such as the East, West, North, South and the Middle, all imbued with their own character, beauty, and mystique. The classic novel by Jack Kerouac, On the Road, touches into all of these, as well as depicting a rich assortment of human characters.

Like many readers and writers, I have waited a long time for On the Road to come to the screen. One major challenge to such a visual adaptation is that Kerouac’s beautiful, quirky and inspired prose in the novel is not easy to translate visually. There is a kind of poetry and heart to his best writing that must be heard and felt, as much as seen. Still, the film offers exquisite cinematography, and fine performances by the entire cast. Though I appreciate the choice to use Kerouac’s fictional character names, this may confuse some viewers unless they research on Wikipedia.

As with the novel, the major focus is what we now call a classic “bromance” between the narrator (the character Kerouac based on himself) and his good friend and inspiration based on that famous wild man Neal Cassady. There are several layers of romantic fixation going on here, for Kerouac crafted most of his works by recording his own life and friendships through a kind of romanticized filter. His novels ended up as accounts of how he wanted to see things, and often quite different from how others viewed events.

This beautiful film mostly honors Kerouac’s version of things, though there are touches of biography added that are not so flattering, such as the wonderful performance of Kirsten Dunst, as the woman who married Cassady’s character. Though her role is relatively small, she achieves special luminosity and poignance. Also exceptional are Garrett Hedlund as the Cassady character, who brilliantly convinces with his rakish charm. The unexpected casting of Viggo Mortensen as the character inspired by William S. Burroughs, is a brilliant vignette, and quite true to life.

No doubt my view of the film is colored by my own fascination with the Beat Generation, whose works and lives I’ve studied for decades. My partner who is not so fixated said, “The film seems to be about three things: substance abuse, male bonding, and abuse of women.” Though I cannot disagree, to me the film, like the novel, provides a depiction of how certain people can light up other’s lives with enthusiasm and inspiration; this may even translate into the creation of writing and art.

Though creativity does not require irresponsible behavior, the other side of the equation is the free spirits that defy convention, and question external authority. For anyone interested in the literary and cultural history of modern times, On the Road is definitely worthwhile. I’m less certain what I feel about how the film ends, and yet in a real sense, that conclusion was only the beginning of much else.

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt: Gorgeous Prose and a Harrowing Story

A review by Bruce P. Grether

The Goldfinch, is a remarkable story in which I truly lived and felt compelled to keep reading through the long narrative, though sections of the book were difficult to live through. The writing is superb throughout, and Tartt has written a totally plausible account of the emotionally walking wounded, her narrator a boy traumatized by a horrific tragedy, yet graced by the endowment of a mysterious gift, as well.

Though the narrator of the novel, Theo Decker, (fictionally) takes custody of the actual painting, The Goldfinch, painted by Carel Fabritius in 1654, the painting itself is not the legacy he believes it to be. In fact, he does not steal the painting in the ordinary sense, and yet to him it becomes more valuable than its incalculable “resale” value. Rather than plant too many spoilers in this review, let me simply say that Theo’s life after the initial loss his mother is challenging, sometimes tortured and even horrific. In fact, his self-destructive behavior can be an ordeal for the reader, and yet it makes sense that he would behave thus—all too much sense!

This is a lengthy book, at 771 pages, and yet I regretted it ending. It contains a treasure chest of choice characters with layers of plausible depth and living, breathing reality, particularly Pippa, Mrs. Barbour, Hobie, and the wild, rather dangerous though basically decent Boris. Theo’s path is circuitous and obsessive, beset with sudden catastrophes, and sometimes, coincidences, yet these are not implausible; any life fully lived has plenty of such significant unexpected connections, meetings and surprises.

Something I could not much identify with and often found harrowing, was the abundance of heavy drinking and drug use in much of the book, and yet in retrospect this is also understandable because of Theo’s horrific history. Curiously, his wild and crazy, beloved friend Boris has a very different attitude and response to his own traumatic history. These close friends have a relationship of admirable complexity and the kind of nuances and contradictions of behavior we actually experience. Also, though I understand why some have said the novel is somewhat “Dickensian,” it exists solidly in the current world of iPhones and laptops, which gives it a sharp and even dangerous contemporary edge.

I definitely came to love and admire Mrs. Barbour, Hobie, and even Boris, more than Theo himself, who remained deeply flawed throughout, though he finally grew and changed somewhat eventually, if not a great deal. Something quite fascinating in retrospect is that within the “reality frame” of the novel, Theo as narrator must be just as talented a writer as Donna Tartt. It’s entirely told in first person, and the concluding pages provide a succession of stunning grace notes without any phony salvation involved.

One more intriguing element here is the fact that the actual painting, The Goldfinch, presented with some true backstory, is also given a detailed fictional history for over a decade of its existence, a kind of alternate timeline to “this,” and finally it provides that delicate, mysterious and profound interplay between art and life, which in lesser hands could seem trite. In fact, art and life converge perfectly here!

I consider this novel, like the titular painting, to be a genuine masterwork.

A Legacy of Love and Lions

We who dream of the stars and examine Mars

From here on this swirled blue sphere

Forget to park the shoes of our minds by the temple’s door.

We still don’t have flying cars—

Yet we peer into the Earth’s deep core

And into the atom’s heart

And our own hand remains

An unsolved mystery.

All it takes to embrace and to totally love

These last lions on the planet’s face

Is: overcome fear of yourself

And your connection with everything.

Grow up, human race!

Accept Creation’s

Gratuitous grace.

And what you easily miss is this:

The unexpected gift of exponential change’s kiss.

When the overloaded senses grow dull

The mind paces forth and back in the skull

Then the overloaded senses grow dull.

Our iLife evolves so rapidly now

No one can anticipate how strange

Those vivid clouds upon the horizon

May in truth become—for evolution

Is not simply improvement,

As imagined by some:

It is adaptation.

It is Ancient Egypt’s naked face

In orbital space—

Arms open wide
And Sacred Heart ablaze in the chest.

It’s this fearless embrace

Of the huge male African lion

It’s a necklace of tropical islands

Afloat on a future of smart matter

That knows and tolerates us…

It’s children and its creators

Just now waking up

To these realities

Of stardust.

A Midwinter Night’s Dream

Days grow tangibly shorter

And daylight more precious

As nights grow longer

Yet the dark provides

It’s protective embrace…

Life grows longer and stronger

With every heartbeat, each breath

As the pathways open their arms before you

Yet the quantum wave function collapses in death.

Don’t forget the Sea God’s Trident—

The summoning conch trumpet;

The Pharos Lighthouse stands

Sentinel before the harbor of your dreams:

Don’t forget.

This Holy Night sprouts antlers

That are golden boughs where mistletoe bristles

Where every whispering Druid plays his part

And remembers that sting of Lord Balder’s murder—

Antlers branch forth from the darkest heart.

Each one stands alone

Within the crimson glow of the four-chambered heart;

Ancestors stand in tender infinity

Of living, shimmering stardust

Empowered by sacred desire

Behind each living, arising form

Within each crown of creation,

Each culminating mystery

Of living atomic fire.

Bruce P. Grether 12.19.13