Tag: american writing

Film by Jessica Schneider
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Maya Hawke playing American author Flannery O'Connor, in Ethan Hawke's film, "Wildcat".

A Good Biopic Is Hard to Find: Ethan Hawke’s “Wildcat” (2023)

Upon watching Ethan Hawke’s 2023 film Wildcat, which portrays the life of Georgia-born short story writer and novelist Flannery O’Connor, I kept thinking how I have to give Hawke credit for caring enough about his subject to attempt something different. Unlike most Hollywood celebrities who let their fame and materialism drive their egos, Hawke has always had an appreciation for the arts and artists. That is, he seems to genuinely care about past writers of quality, and he has incorporated these tastes into his film career, often taking on more artistic, rather than conventional projects.

Hawke co-wrote this film with Shelby Gaines having had his daughter Maya Hawke in mind for the role. Maya is also the daughter of Uma Thurman, so if you keep thinking you’ve seen her before—that is why. (She also played Jamie Bernstein in Bradley Cooper’s Maestro.) Filled with brooding moods and blue-green lighting, Hawke creates an atmosphere of a 1950s writer’s world where his subject, O’Connor herself, remains on the outside. For those unaware, Flannery O’Connor died at the age of 39 after having spent years suffering from lupus, an autoimmune disease that often affects the joints, kidneys, and other body parts. This film does not shy away from her physical pain, as we see her having to inject hormones into her hip, using a large syringe. ‘This looks like it’s for a farm animal,’ she remarks. […]

Book Review by Laura Woods
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A shot of Kurt Vonnegut next to the cover for his novel, "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater", and stylized dollar bills in the background.

Laughing Bleakly: on Kurt Vonnegut’s “God Bless You, Mr Rosewater”

“I’m going to love these discarded Americans, even though they’re useless and unattractive. That is going to be my work of art.”

So sayeth Eliot Rosewater, dubious hero and titular character of Kurt Vonnegut’s 1965 novel. It’s a philosophy that I think has quite a bit of resonance with Kurt Vonnegut’s own artistic preoccupations—“love” may not seem like an apt way to describe his often scathing takes on the foibles of post-war America, but just as Rosewater devotes his attentions and his copious inheritance to the kinds of people much of the world prefers to ignore, few other writers ever venture near Vonnegut’s pin-pointed observation of the intricacies of banality. For all that his novels are filled with bizarre, quirky and downright caricatured characters and scenarios, it’s his excellent eye for the everyday absurdity emergent from small talk, advertisements and other detritus of daily life that provides some of the biggest laughs and best insights.

This novel is no exception, though it seems a little bit underrated among his works, tucked as it between the peaks of Cat’s Cradle and Slaughterhouse-5, and lacking the tight clockwork cohesion of those works. But it’s a great novel in its own right. A quick synopsis: God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is told largely through a series of vignettes and sketches detailing the exploits of Eliot Rosewater, heir to a colossal family fortune that has been secured under a Foundation, so as to legally weasel out of inheritance tax. Unfortunately for his father, a notorious Conservative senator, Eliot is insane, an alcoholic, and has dedicated his life to aiding the poor. This fact is seized upon by young lawyer Norman Mushari, who works for the law firm that represents the Rosewaters. He smells an opportunity to get his own hands on some of this money by representing the next-in-line to the fortune in a bid to overthrow Eliot as President of the Foundation. We then get a snapshot of the life and surroundings of the distant Rosewater cousin in question, a lower-middle-class life insurance salesman in the wealthy town of Pisquontuit, before the novel builds to an unexpected resolution of Eliot’s mission. The trademark Vonnegut digressions and shenanigans ensue (including allusions to a couple of Kilgore Trout novels, naturally). All of this is the scaffolding for a series of probings into wealth inequality, the American class system, the pitfalls of philanthropy, and the nature of luck. […]

Poetry by Jessica Schneider
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A photo of a young, red-haired Bruce Ario in a hat, eating seafood.

The Revered Rebel: Bruce Ario’s “The Lovely Tree Branches”

It’s not uncommon for the artist to live in search of validation. After all, life’s navigation can be painful, especially when forced to interact with those unable to appreciate or recognize the value in one’s work. Just reading about Vincent Van Gogh and how his many peers thought him a nobody, or how Paul Cézanne’s father would rather his son have become a lawyer or banker—the frustration is evident. Sure, a parent wants his kid to make money, but at what expense? What if Cézanne had instead become Banker Paul rather than Painter Paul? What a loss the world would have suffered.

The life of an artist is one of sacrifice. To pursue it, one must be willing to adapt to the slog of overlooked, lower-rank jobs, and forgo the material. This is not to say that one must inevitably accept a life of poverty, but to expect a high-rank career is highly unrealistic, given such an occupation would likely leave one with little creative time. Yes, Wallace Stevens was president of Hartford Insurance, but he chose that job over an academic career because the work yielded little drain on his brain. While providing him with a comfortable living, selling insurance is far from glamorous. Moreover, Hart Crane was lucky enough to land a job as a copywriter, and Vivian Maier worked as a nanny, affording her the freedom to walk with her employers’ kids and photograph.

And as for me—even while spending several years working in a technical field, I recognized the lack of glamour in such a pursuit, but it paid the bills. This did not, however, stop me from encountering the small-minded and envious individuals who felt the need to reduce my writing talent to a moment of air quotes, dismissively referring to me as a “writer” who “took herself too seriously.” (Must I have the imprimatur of fame?) […]