It's an oft-stated truism that specificity can make drama feel more universal. Hollywood studios like to sand the edges off characters and turn them into bland Everypeople. Paradoxically, this makes them less realistic and therefore less relatable. More idiosyncratic characters feel more true to life.
Having watched "Three Days of the Condor," though, I'm not sure that detail is as helpful for political allegories. "Condor" frequently gets mentioned in the same breath as "The Parallax View," another '70s thriller released in the wake of Watergate. But "Parallax" is a classic, while "Condor" feels faintly (though enjoyably) ridiculous.
On paper, though, "Parallax" should be the sillier movie. Its plot sounds lifted from the rantings of the mentally ill: a mysterious corporation recruits and trains young men to assassinate troublesome politicians. But the workings of the Parallax Corporation are left so opaque that it's hard to poke holes in the plot. That forces viewers to dwell on the unsettling implications of the story.
"Condor," in contrast, is based in a world much closer to our own. The conspiracy in question operates inside the CIA, and its strategies and objectives are more or less revealed over the course of the film. But this opens "Condor" up for easy ridicule.
"What if there was a secret CIA...inside the CIA?" Robert Redford asks at one point. It's an unintentionally hilarious line. Partly because it's terribly written, but also because the idea of a "rogue operation" within the rigid hierarchy of that organization feels silly. Redford also proves to Faye Dunaway that he works for the CIA by showing her his business card, which is for a fake company. The number on the card is the same as the number for the CIA in the phone book. Also, the card is for a different company than what's shown on the building where he works. Nice cover story, CIA!
I could go on, but you get the idea. "Parallax" has a more ridiculous premise, but it feels like a cousin of "1984." "Condor" seems more like the serious older brother of James Bond.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
To Rise Again At A Decent Hour
I have a love-hate relationship with contemporary American fiction. I can get wrapped up in a book. But I tend to like books that are set in the here and now and comment on our times. (Science fiction and fantasy can do this, but I generally find that they function more as timeless parables, or, worse, fetishizations of distant lands and magical peoples.) The trouble is that most authors who write in the here and now can see nothing but the here and now. The worlds they create are identical to our own. They end up writing about the same old things: struggling marriages, tumultuous relationships with parents, lasting friendships.
Joshua Ferris does not have this problem. He knows how to take our world, look at it from a slightly different angle, and find a fresh perspective. He's still best known, justifiably, for his debut novel, "Then We Came to the End," a book about an office written in first person plural. His second book, "The Unnamed," concerned a man who suddenly began going into trances, walking for miles with no purpose.
His latest, "To Rise Again At A Decent Hour," follows Paul O'Rourke, a dentist whose identity is "stolen" online. Someone creates a website for Paul's business. Then creates a Facebook page. Then a Twitter account. Then an e-mail address.
There are a lot of interesting things one could do with this conceit. Curiously, though, Ferris seems to lose interest in it. Of course, the ironies of e-mailing to yourself are not lost on him. But he's more concerned with his protagonist than his predicament. O'Rourke seems to be in the midst of an existential crisis. He's a dentist who's struggling to convince himself that it matters whether his patients floss. As the book flows along, it becomes increasingly clear that he's the perfect target for a cult, which appears to be what's behind the appropriation of his identity.
But Ferris zigs when you expect him to zag. There's a minor character in the book, Pete Mercer, who happens to be a billionaire. I figured this would come in handy at some point, that O'Rourke would need assistance from someone with unlimited funds. But Mercer's money is just a demonstration of his own crisis; he can do whatever he wants, except come up with a reason to do it.
Ferris sets the book entirely in O'Rourke's head, and there's not much in the way of incident. Things can drag a little; Ferris is basically driving the book purely with his own intellect. But along the way, he finds a nuanced take on the search for meaning and faith in the modern age.
Joshua Ferris does not have this problem. He knows how to take our world, look at it from a slightly different angle, and find a fresh perspective. He's still best known, justifiably, for his debut novel, "Then We Came to the End," a book about an office written in first person plural. His second book, "The Unnamed," concerned a man who suddenly began going into trances, walking for miles with no purpose.
His latest, "To Rise Again At A Decent Hour," follows Paul O'Rourke, a dentist whose identity is "stolen" online. Someone creates a website for Paul's business. Then creates a Facebook page. Then a Twitter account. Then an e-mail address.
There are a lot of interesting things one could do with this conceit. Curiously, though, Ferris seems to lose interest in it. Of course, the ironies of e-mailing to yourself are not lost on him. But he's more concerned with his protagonist than his predicament. O'Rourke seems to be in the midst of an existential crisis. He's a dentist who's struggling to convince himself that it matters whether his patients floss. As the book flows along, it becomes increasingly clear that he's the perfect target for a cult, which appears to be what's behind the appropriation of his identity.
But Ferris zigs when you expect him to zag. There's a minor character in the book, Pete Mercer, who happens to be a billionaire. I figured this would come in handy at some point, that O'Rourke would need assistance from someone with unlimited funds. But Mercer's money is just a demonstration of his own crisis; he can do whatever he wants, except come up with a reason to do it.
Ferris sets the book entirely in O'Rourke's head, and there's not much in the way of incident. Things can drag a little; Ferris is basically driving the book purely with his own intellect. But along the way, he finds a nuanced take on the search for meaning and faith in the modern age.
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