Joker, Joker, Damn. A Devil
The last musical I sat through was far better, though Xanadu was possessed of a more ambiguous ending, brilliantly presaging that darling trope of the indie set. Here, extended dance sequences and backlit hero framings, excessive solo cello and muted color pallets can’t define an origin story that is incapable of getting out of its own way. And, the movie ends at what should be minute twenty of the inevitable sequel—a new approach to pre-marketing?
Why the psychosis, the sociopathic trajectory? Is it the untreated mental illness? The abuse we later find out about? The head injury we find out about subsequent to that? Does one cause the other? Both? A combination thereof? Do all of these things a Joker make?
Phoenix’s acting is adequate, making more of the writing than is there (and though I’m surely not the first to notice this, it would seem that at first sight of his appearance on the DeNiro show that he’s turned himself into Bill Hader). The photography isn’t frenetic enough. The lighting makes you sad. Or sleepy (one of my nephews snored through a central seventy minutes or so). The tension that never gets resolved adequately reflects the unfulfilled anticipation that heads into the trash with your almost-empty popcorn bucket, the build-up for this film overwrought for a final product we knew but didn’t want to believe would be disappointing. Anticipation’s half the magic of Hollywood. The other half we go to the movies for doesn’t live in this weak offering. But rest assured, with the next two in the sequence, it will. Or so they’d have you tell yourself. Don’t stop believin’. 🎥
Honored and deeply moved to be the recipient of the 2019 Tillie Olsen Award for Creative Writing:
Tillie Olsen Award for Creative Writing (two awards)
Sacred Smokes by Theodore C. Van Alst Jr.
“Sacred Smokes is profane and filled with drugs and violence—in other words, an authentic representation of working-class urban life in the 1970s. That’s not all there is to the collection: the narrator’s voice is compelling and unique, maintaining throughout a story-telling approach. Many working-class readers will recognize in these stories the tension between desperate recklessness and the hunger for books and a better life. The collection’s tone-perfect survival humor helps create verisimilitude and keeps readers engaged with the collection despite its often-dark themes. Van Alst has not only written one of the few fictions about urban working-class Natives, he has revealed the deep truths of growing up working class in 1970s America.”
“The combination of authenticity, poetic musings, and gritty realism in of the author’s voice makes this book extraordinary. Theodore Van Alst’s ability to put the reader inside the head of the protagonist is remarkable. It shows the humanity and texture of life among those in the poverty/working class who actually enjoy being there, despite the many drawbacks and dangers. This book also illuminates an important, overlooked corner of working-class studies: American Indian experience in inner-city working-class neighborhoods.”
Sacred Smokes — wonderful review.
This amazing review of Sacred Smokes was published in today’s Chicago Tribune, a newspaper I grew up with. After reading, it took me a few minutes to pull myself together. Wow.
Still on sale over at Amazon or find it wherever you normally get your books.
I’m still moved. Thank you.
Honored to have been included here along with the first blurb for Sacred Smokes.
New authors over at BookRiot:
If you ever (and still) called the L the Jackson Park or the Englewood, or the O’Hare or the Ravenswood, ate a Polish on Maxwell Street, ate at a Harold’s, lost someone you loved, gained someone you hated, smelled the subway downtown in August, wished the Sox were on instead of the Cubs (but maybe you were little and still watched the Cubs, ‘cause, baseball), knew that early morning summer air a few blocks from the lake, that air right before it gets humid and the city buzzes to life, thought about those old friends from the neighborhood every now and then (or for real every single damn day), walked by the shelter with the big cross on Wabash and wished you could just eat at Miller’s one time, and you like James Alan MacPherson, or Walter Mosley, or Denis Johnson, or maybe just really good stories well told by someone who makes you feel like you missed that class where they taught excellent writing but this author is going to give you his notes, then buy this Chicago book that illuminates the universal, spend some time On the Nine. Tony Bowers has put together a collection of stories the way you want to read them, the way I love to read them, at your own pace, all so good you can pick up anywhere in the book and read in any direction you want, every one paced and plotted just so, each piece created with heart that beats right out of real places, with real faces, bringing light and joy and pain to all those spaces we grew up to and in and around, our neighborhoods and their stories made real, with love, and with hope.
New work on Native lit and Sherman Alexie and other matters up at Electric Literature.