https://open.spotify.com/episode/5TUJ0j575IHXMYpFv3U6SI?si=62f58122ff4c4bbb
Tag Archives: J.D. Salinger
Salinger [2013)
I read every book J.D. Salinger ever wrote.
This was, of course, due to The Catcher in the Rye.
If my memory serves me, it was the first book I ever enjoyed reading.
The first book that ever made me laugh.
[what a concept!]
And so I made it through the other three books published during the author’s lifetime.
None of them made the same impression upon me as had Catcher, yet I knew this was a special, special writer.
One story did, however, stick with me for unrelated reasons.
That story was “A Perfect Day for Bananafish”.
And the connection was Richard Manuel (of The Band)…who died in a similar way (and in Florida, near enough in my mind…city notwithstanding) to the protagonist of that haunting little tale.
But I am not obsessed with J.D. Salinger.
Indeed, I had not given thought to him in quite some time.
His writing affected me deeply, but it was not the kind of stuff that I wished to revisit.
Once was enough.
But still…
Perhaps his greatest work…was his strange, mysterious life.
THAT is what fascinated me!
Long after the books ended.
In my literary pantheon, there is one very small category which holds but two authors: Salinger and Pynchon.
The recluses.
And so, in the final estimation, Salinger was the consummate artist.
A genius of public relations as much as a weaver of phrases.
Well, dear friends…if you relate to any of the above, then you absolutely must see the documentary Salinger.
What is particularly fascinating is that our author was in counterintelligence.
Yes, by this I mean to infer that Salinger’s self-imposed exile was very much a calculated move from the mind of a trained spook (for lack of a better word).
But there’s more to the story…
Salinger likewise was a soldier.
World War II.
Voluntary.
From D-Day through V-E Day.
299 days (as director Shane Salerno makes wonderfully clear).
But if this has not piqued your curiosity about this mammoth of 20th-century literature, consider the pithy, icy story of how Salinger was jilted, while at war (!), to the benefit of an Englishman [wait for it] living in America…
Yes, his girlfriend married Charlie Chaplin.
While J.D. was seeing men die in France and Germany to push back and defeat the Nazis.
And the cherry on top of that bitter sundae?
His erstwhile girlfriend was the daughter of America’s only Nobel-prize-winning dramatist: Eugene O’Neill.
This is the kind of stuff any documentarian would drool over.
But likewise, portraying the delicate enigma of Salinger is a task which could have resulted in crumbling failure with any faux pas (in its literal sense).
Shane Salerno (any relation to Nadja…Sonnenberg?) crafted a thoroughly engrossing document of Salinger’s richly-fabriced life.
But the coup comes at the end (and it is not too much of a spoiler to reveal this).
Salinger appears to be the primary source (if Wikipedia is to be even marginally trusted) concerning the forthcoming publication of Salinger’s fruits of reclusion.
We have a timetable: 2015-2020.
40% has come and gone.
You know, I never thought I’d live to see the day when a “new” Salinger book hit the shelves.
And I won’t believe it till I see it.
But one thing is for sure: I’m buying.
Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Salinger.
He passed away in 2010.
What a special gift he had!
What joy he shared with the world!!
It was the real thing.
The masses, after all, CAN (in the final estimation) tell the difference between shit and Shinola.
And to all the critics who ever panned J.D. out of jealousy, a big “Fuck you” is in order.
One more thing…
This review is dedicated to all those who travelled up to Cornish, New Hampshire hoping to catch a glimpse of the man…
All those who left a note…
All those whose pleas fell on deaf ears…
I know your dedication.
My hero is Jean-Luc Godard.
I know.
I know letters.
I know the long-distance call.
My Cornish, New Hampshire just happens to be Rolle, Switzerland.
But I know.
And I want to make this very clear.
You are not dupes.
You had the open hearts to dream.
And you let an author into your lives.
Perhaps J.D. Salinger was incapable of expressing his gratitude for all of you.
Perhaps out of some kind of self-hate.
But I’m bold enough to speak for the man.
He loves you.
Always did.
Always will.
Else, he never would have given you Holden in the first place.
-PD
Masculin feminin: 15 faits precis [1966)
I don’t write about the film, I write about me. I don’t write about the film, I write about the world. No. I write about the film the best I can. I am on a mission to start every sentence with I…from now to the end of eternity. Not quite.
I don’t know what pops up in your reader. You know about the reader? Tell me about the reader, Charles… Yes? And??? Right. The reader writes. Correct!
We are some macro-blogging mofos. Four times I wrote it and four times it autocorrected to micro. And so the stupid hyphen. Just like the titles. Diacritical marks are the first to go in totalitarian societies. Then the dollar words. Soon, all words which might express inefficient, ineffective concepts such as tenderness.
Now we are rolling. Give the anarchist a cigarette!
D’accord…
Allors…
Jean-Pierre Léaud was the Jason Schwartzman of the 60s…or vice versa. And while we might think primarily of Truffaut, here we see Léaud in a truly penetrating role.
Chantal Goya. She plays the ice-cold bitch pretty well…completely meretricious, vacuous, etc.
And then we run into red hypertext “links” for Catherine-Isabelle Duport and Michel Debord.
Yeah, we all know: the children of Marx and Coca-Cola. Could have been. Tarzan vs. IBM. Could have been. The ape and the onion. Mercury Rev.
Well, yes: it could have been. Today. Particularly dreary. All week. Usually I embrace it. Pretend like I’m Liam Gallagher in Manchester. But not today. Not this week. Only shadows in the night gets it right.
It’s a bummer. I’m too old to be young. Too perverted to be romantic. Too romantic to live. Etc. Etc. Etc.
And yes: I catch the aspect ratio. I yell Trotskyite. Not really, but parallel. I detest the cowardice…when I myself am a basket-case. It’s ok. We are human.
We remember Marx and Coca-Cola, but we forget James Bond and Vietnam. We forget the military-industrial complex.
Let me tell you how it happened. I lay down as always with my sea-foam-green (eau-de-nil) headphones ready to continue my reflection on the great oeuvre. And my computer doesn’t cooperate. It’s as if I have conjured the spirit of JLG. The sound outraces the picture. Chaplin-fast to Notre Musique-slow. The waves come crashing in. Ingmar is hijacked and ridiculized.
Translation: my computer won’t play the disc. After 15 minutes of relatively good play, it jerks and stops and pauses and reloads in an endless loop. It’s like as a kid with that De La Soul CD…I’d physically pick up the player an inch and let it drop down. Somehow it would catch. It was just that disc. No, not this time.
I have cared for this film like a child. It is one of many baby Jesuses in my Jodorowsky stable. Manger.
And so I traveled far to rewatch this. Fifteen paces maybe. 15. So what?
Et allors?
Pauvre Wikipedia. Lion-wannabe. Quick! Call Tim Rice and Elton John. Pathetic.
Yes, she keeps abreast of the pop charts. Cashbox. And he likes her type of breasts. Why not say it?
And isn’t there anything else you like about me? Well, Miss 19, there’s not much more to like. A Big Mac and a pair of Nikes and you’re happy.
Yes, Seymour Glass. I’m sure he just backed up too far on the balcony…trying to get all two of them in the picture…in Florida…like Richard Manuel.
Duport eats a bananafish. Marquis de Sade. Such a perfect day. Cassis and mineral water. And Orangina for Marlène Jobert. Perhaps. Who cares.
You can tell a redhead even in black and white. She should have been more famous. Eva Green’s mom.
yé-yé all day long
Mozart
the orchestra is fantastic
clarinet concerto
middle movement
Paul. Again with the Paul. It started tentatively in Vivre sa vie. And then Paul Javal. Contempt. In the name of the father. And now again without Christian name like Le Chiffre. James Bond and Vietnam. Same complex. Inferiority. Military-industrial.
With that I am at 666 words. Ed Sanders decides to consult Harry Smith on how to levitate the Pentagon. Exercise the demons. Nothing like a demon with love handles. Give ’em a good workout.
B-A-C-H. Psychotic fugue on the Mashed Potato. Dee Dee Sharp.
What other kind of fugue is there?!? Jonny Greenwood would surely tell you it’s reversible. Amnesiac.
ménage à quatre
bullshit
intellectual parlor games
Wikipedia
I know. I know. Hawaiian. Quick! Vite!
caméra-couteau
probing, probing
like Tony Parker
pass the goddamn ball
I’m not sure you want to know. I am a lip-reader. Baudelaire. Au lecteur. Samuel Fuller. Les Fleurs du mal. No one under 18 admitted. Strictly no admittance. 778 words and I haven’t gotten to the film.
-PD
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