Philippe, the crater-ridden far side of the moon, is a loser—he works as a telemarketer and still lives in his mother’s apartment while he tries to prove his thesis: that the 1960s space race was an exercise in narcissism.
Forget Jaws—the greatest fish to appear on screen is in the Québécois film Maelström, a good argument against the use of computer-generated images and a testament to the ever-creepy power of the puppet.
As the film begins, the main character, Zia, is listening to a Tom Waits record and cleaning his room in preparation for suicide. Too bad he misses a spot; the last thing he sees before he dies on the bathroom floor is a dust bunny in the corner. So begins the drily humorous Wristcutters. Zia ends up in an afterlife designed only for people who committed suicide, a place “where there’s no smiling, it’s hot as balls and everyone’s an asshole.” In fact, it’s a lot like his life before death: he has a crappy job, a disagreeable roommate and no girlfriend.
Sean Horlor’s debut book of poetry, Made Beautiful by Use (Signature Editions), contains lines that must be read out loud. The line “cologne in glass bottles,” for example, is so simple; but say it, “cologne in glass bottles,” roll it around on your tongue, “cologne in glass bottles,” and it becomes a mantra.
In my life I have only written one fan letter that began: “I have never written a fan letter before.” It was addressed to Shane Rhodes, and I wrote it after reading his poetry collections Holding Pattern (NeWest Press) and The Wireless Room (NeWest Press). What struck me about the work was that the lines begged to be read out loud: to be repeated, to be chanted, to be heard.
What I remember most vividly from Existentialism 101 was nausea—not Sartre’s famous novel, but a classmate of mine who spontaneously vomited during a discussion of Nietzsche.
In the basement of an antiques store around the corner from the Geist office in Vancouver, there is a large bank of antique cabinets, each drawer of which contains a different trinket. You can find magic tricks and hand creams and wind-up toys and soap and candy, but it is the process of opening each drawer, the moment of anticipation and errant discovery that is the draw.
According to Hollywood legend, it was Harry Houdini who gave Buster Keaton the name “Buster” after watching the young Keaton tumble down a flight of stairs. This myth is debunked in Marion Meade’s biography Buster Keaton: Cut to the Chase (Da Capo Press), but the magic of the early film era is intact, and graciously presented.
In his book of poetry, The Cold Panes of Surfaces (Nightwood), Chris Banks takes the incidental moments of our lives and raises them, with stunningly precise language, to the level of the divine. In lines like these: “Today, field crickets with hum-bucking bones/recite whole tribal histories and mythologies/To the tune of an undiagnosed sadness,” Banks demonstrates his unique skill as he crafts his poetry with the precision of a fine tailor.
The cover of Terence Young’s new book of poetry, Moving Day (Signature), features a photograph of a 116-year-old converted barn, where I once attended an enjoyable party. The party, hosted by the Youngs as a celebration for the Victoria School of Writing, featured much revelry, dancing and general merrymaking on the ancient, squeaky (but sturdy) porch of the structure as Young spun records from his extensive collection of classic rock and bubblegum pop hits, pausing only to dismiss the tasteless musical requests of the high-spirited literary crowd.
