Book Review - "One Day" by David Nicholls

The novel “One Day” centers on two characters, Dexter and Emma, over the course of a 20 year span of July 15ths starting in 1988. I believe that “One Day” was conceived as a “star-crossed” love story—with the intent for the reader possibly to murmur “seize the day” as they close the book with a sniffle and a sigh. Sure, Dexter drinks like a fish as he pursues a reality show host career and sleeps around, while Emma wrestles with her self-esteem issues and tacky restaurants for far more years than seems humanly tolerable… but we are still supposed to feel their connection as they write notes and miss each other in weirdly passive ways for modern day folk, a la Jane Austen.

The book club I belong to had a split decision on the only question, for me, worth asking about this book. Did this couple really have a deep spiritual connection that transcended time and place, or were they just each others default “fall” position for frequent stumbles in lives that neither of them seemed to want? The ladies on the “deep spiritual connection” side of the split decision voiced the belief that the couple would have certainly lost touch if there wasn’t something spectacular about their relationship to each other. They said that to maintain the thread of a relationship over that length of time, to seek each other out, something transcendent must have occurred between them. The evidence of this level of depth is implied rather than shown, as their correspondence and contact with each other doesn’t seem to consist of more than reporting news of the past year. This led us to a discussion of how some of us had become swept up in dramas with deeply narcissistic persons (like Dexter) that had lasted for years, resulting in broken engagements and hearts, but seemed “karmic” and major and necessary on some level. The rest of us (OK I was on this side) felt that Dexter and Emma were exceptionally skilled at skimming the surface of their experiences and lazily relied on the other as an excuse not to turn up the flame on whatever they were cooking in their present day life. By page 158, I was cursing at the book and hopelessly haunted with images of Ryan Seacrest from American Idol and Renee Zellwigger as Bridget Jones, cast in a Shakespearean tragedy. Of course I have no idea what Ryan Seacrest is really like, but if he is like Dexter, he gets very annoying by page 158 and for me, Bridget really is more fun when she’s wearing a Christmas sweater at her mother’s in a film. I did have to disqualify my opinion a bit, as I had done the unthinkable for serious book clubbers, I had read ahead, and so noted the plot twists that either a.) made the story more real, or b.) were cheap dramas to save us from the insufferable natures of the two main characters. Regardless… I think I mostly lost the argument about deep personal relationships, but as someone who has kept threads of relationships over long periods of time for no apparent reason, I think I can speak from experience on the compelling quality of laziness….

Anyhow, the book is fairly well written and generated some good discussion and juicy personal storytelling from book club members. Carpe diem, sigh.

Inception - Movie

I was sold on seeing the movie “Inception” because of a short clip. In it, Leonardo DiCaprio (“Cobb”) speaks about entering dreams in a soft monotone to actress Ellen Page (“Ariadne”) as the street and buildings around their café table explode, break up and flutter away like loose paper. (Fabulous!) The movie’s premise, a corporate super-spy (DiCaprio) who has perfected the art of entering dreams to steal ideas, is hired to pull off the “heist” of a lifetime by a mysterious Asian businessman (Ken Watanabe) who operates out of a spectacularly lit ballroom. This “heist” has a twist. Cobb is supposed to implant an idea destructive to maintaining the corporate enemy’s monopoly, after mining the unsolved father/son angst for usable reasoning. This is apparently much more difficult than stealing the secret plans to say, a car engine. The reward, strangely like that of Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz, is a promised trip “home,” which for Cobb is more difficult than for some because he’s had some bad press there, and also, has been dreaming so long he's not sure where his lifetime is anymore. We are also never sure, like with the wizard, how his powerful client can make good on his promise, but Cobb takes a “leap of faith,” or maybe desperation, and trusts him with his muddled mind, and the lives of his team. He agrees to take the job. Enter--- defenses, memory bits, or (maybe unconscious rage?) disguised as Cobb’s dead wife “Mal” (Marion Cotillard) in a glam dress to sabotage his mission every which way. I excitedly picked up the references that “mal” means “bad” in French, and in mythology, Ariadne was the goddess of weaving, or the maze. Unfortunately I lost more of the references than I got, but even lovely Leo seems to have developed a line down the center of his forehead trying to wrap his mind around the content of the movie. Even so, what psychological type like me doesn’t love the idea of worlds peopled with unconscious “projections” there for the scrutinizing? And who doesn’t want to know what happens when a cute little student presses “B” for “basement” in the elevator of her mentor’s subconscious? Of course, the sheer beauty of the cinematography almost makes me understand why the film editor left the endless shooting scenes in. Almost.

What I found disappointing about “Inception,” was that Director Christopher Nolan didn’t seem to trust that the suspense of a psychological puzzle or the internal worlds of the characters would be compelling enough to drive this movie. If you’re going to whip up a premise like “Inception” and use a word for the title that most people have to crack a dictionary open for, why fall back on matrix-y regurgitations and camera tricks? Beautiful details like the characters’ totems, meaningful dialogue, character development or associations with the fascinating images got lost in the “shoot ‘em up” noisy action formula that invaded the story like—well—a bad dream. The jumble of fantastic images and the mere potential for a great story still make the movie worth seeing, but unfortunately not much to discuss except “so what do you think happened?”

a.m. and the afterlife

Some friends of mine lost their brother in law recently and I sent them the lyrics to Dan Fogelberg’s Netherlands (“from this rocky perch, I continue to search, for the wind and the snow and the sky…”). Knowing that they are agnostic, I thought maybe I had “gaffed” in implying some life after death experience and was over-thinking my intuitive response. This (as usual) occurred during an early morning walk in my yard with my dog, after a thunderstorm had just broken an intense heat wave. She was foraging around for apples in the grass and I could almost hear plants slurping leftover rain. A slight breeze animated the grape arbor vines.

These friends had often said that they thought, “After you go, that’s it. Cease to exist.” My response has always been, “Well I guess I won’t have the ability to be disappointed then.” But this morning the conversation in my head moved on for a moment, as the dog scampered after a tennis ball and then refused to pick it up because it was too wet. I answered, “How does one cease to exist? Exactly what form is ‘nothing’?” Is “nothing” wind, or earth, or rain? As our little consciousness joins the elements, does it move into some larger form—does it have the capacity to know things? This thought was fleeting, because, from the house, a bowl of chicken and sweet potato called to my dog and a cup of coffee called to me. It was only 7:00a.m. after all.

"Precious" based on the book by Sapphire

The movie "Precious," based on the book by Sapphire, is filmed in bright primary colors offset by the warm browns of its characters' skin and the grays of Harlem streets and stairwells. Clarice "Precious" Jones has suffered unimaginable abuse from the mother and father who must have given her this ironic name, and the initial scenes invite us both into this abuse, and Clarice's fantasies of being a pop diva. The beautiful photography, acting and dialogue got me through the constant overwhelming "issue" piling that the plot wades through. With all the gory details available for perusal, it's easy to get side-tracked from the film's main theme, which, I think, is resilience. Clarice necessarily sleep walks through her life, but has one eye open long enough to capture a moment with a principal who sends her to an alternative school to meet Miss Blue Rain, some quirky classmates and a vegetarian male nurse who become her family.

Clarice's mother hangs on to her--probably for her state check--OR MAYBE because she has an inkling that Clarice has something "precious," an ability to connect with others, to give and receive love which is the core of real survival. Clarice's mother has pop diva dreams too, we learn, as she dances awkwardly in a multi-colored unitard in front of the TV and wonders who will love her when she isn't slinging pots at her daughter's head or frauding the state. Again, the complexity of this character almost gets submerged in the sheer volume of bad behavior written into the script--her repulsiveness sometimes diminishes the more subtle points--the jealousy and powerlessness she feels around her daughter. In another darker story, maybe mother and daughter would be the same before and after character? Luckily, we are off the hook for that tale--Precious, for all it's horror, wants us to feel a happy ending. Not because she is saved by social workers--portrayed as nice but mostly ineffectual, and annoyingly unwilling to answer questions about themselves. Mariah Carey--a real pop diva, in no make-up and a New York accent--portrays this convincingly,a refreshing reminder for me in my work as a therapist that there is no saving and curing, that therapists often have little to offer except a place to examine reality, and need to get over the bizzarre freudian training that still permeates the field and take opportunities to be "real" . Clarice steals her file away, instinctually knowing that it is her story, and that she has to own it to re-write it.

And finally, having worked many years with families across the continuum of poverty and abuse, I felt vaguely uncomfortable about the synchronization of the abusive family portrait with a black family portrait. I wanted audiences to recognize that families like Precious'--abusive, emotionally, spiritually, sexually and physically--come in all colors and classes. This story is how it looks on a poor black family in Harlem, but Joel Steinberg and Hedda Nussbaum were not far away uptown, and money covers a multitude of sins. So what is the takeaway--? I was recently comforted by a statement made by a war veteran and therapist who stated that studies show that man is not wired to kill. I'm holding on to that idea, and to the "precious" thread that connects one human being to another in a mutually supportive and loving way against terrible odds.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

Just finished reading Muriel Barbery's "The Elegance of the Hedgehog," a mutual monologue by a 54 year old widow/concierge and a 12 year old contemplating suicide. These odd kindred souls contemplate beauty, class/caste and the possible meaninglessness of life in a fashionable building in Paris. Barbery's short poetic chapters told in alternating first person moved quickly, and I was able to read the 325 page book on one rainy Saturday afternoon ("all that rain. where I grew up in winter it used to rain. I have no memories of sunny days: only rain, a weight of mud and cold, a dampness sticking to our clothes and hair.." p. 285) Many of the literary and art references went over my head--not sure what to say about that, except that I wasn't deterred because I was looking ahead for the many sudden explosively beautiful moments like this one, related by Renee, as she explains her last moments with her husband, watching "The Hunt for Red October": "There were no poignant regrets, because he had found peace that way; he placed his trust in what we had said to each other without any need for words, while we watched, together, the bright screen where a story was being told." (p.75) The references to other works often felt like heavy old drapes--their magnificence a little musty out of context, but I wonder if this was intended, as the whole book seemed to be about moving from some standard definition of beauty to the visceral experience.

Renee and Paloma cycle slowly from bracing, and even sometimes boring intellectualism to a more integrated place that, for example, allows Leo, an overweight cat, and Neptune, a passionate cocker spaniel who sees nothing wrong with licking his balls in public to co-exist with them. Renee and Paloma who begin the tale as invisible as the animals, evolve fully on their path to discovery and are found by a warm collector of art and beauty, their new neighbor, Monsieur Ozu.

For me, The Elegance of the Hedgehog is about the integration of one's true nature, the mind, heart, body and soul--that true beauty incorporates some magical combination of these. Paloma's older sister Colombe is a philosophy major who pursues knowledge for knowledge's sake, unable to find her little sister "useful," and therefore remains inaccessible, unhealable and unloved by her. Monsieur Ozu, on the other hand, is remarkably congruent, sees beauty in all things, as evidenced by his quirky toilet, which plays Mozart's Requiem upon flushing.

I felt most comforted by the presence of the animals, "...I take the measure of how the ridiculous superflous cats wander through our lives with all the placidity and indifference of an imbecile are in fact guardians of life's good and joyful moments, and of it's happy web, even beneath the canopy of misfortune." (p. 317) I have a ginger cocker spaniel myself--Punkin-- who, like Neptune, would do just about anything for a turnip and as I write this is sliding her butt along the rug in that endearing way dogs have....(not). Lately, like Paloma and Renee, I have been integrating my animal nature into the brain that has called most of the shots in my life. This has involved long afternoons digging phenomenal flowers from weeds and early morning walks in no make up and bad hair, exploring the morning light, poised for Punkin's random squats with a paper towel and plastic bag. Like Renee, I feel that I have entered a less glamorous phase of my life, while I'm at the same time developing a consciousness of my beauty. Like Paloma, I still occasionally feel like a little girl in ponytails, glasses and a pink sweatshirt, angry at those I "can't heal."

And last of all, I won't give away Barbery's last two chapters, they really sing. Enjoy.