I finished Ayn Rand’s Anthem over the weekend.

My opinion — and I say this as a guy with a shelf full of Ayn Rand’s writing, with no political axe to grind and with a generally favorable opinion of her work — is that it’s terrible. Embarassingly terrible. If Rand was any older than 15 when she wrote this, she has no excuse. When the protagonist renames himself “Prometheus,” you’ll literally be checking the margins for scribbled notes to Suzy and scratches of “AR + FO” surrounded by little hearts.

If you’re unfamiliar with Anthem, it’s a slim novella set in a dystopian alternate history where the State has fully embraced collectivism to the point that society has actually moved backwards, though without any observed (by the reader) violence. It’s a parable, if you will. Ayn Rand’s nice way of saying that without individualism we’ll all have numbers for names and use candles for light since the collective cannot agree on the benefits of electricity. It’s her 1984, her Animal Farm, her Fahrenheit 451 — sorta.

That I see it on Back to School Reading List displays at bookstores each year only confirms my long-held bias that what they have you read in schools is shit. And makes me want to go back to Animal Farm and Fahrenheit 451 and see if they really were as crappy as I figure they were. (I’ve never read 1984 but Monty read it recently and told me it was pretty stupid.)

Anthem is a sample chapter of a larger work. It needs fleshing out or throwing away. There are no characters. There is no plot, no drama. There is no depth. Just an idea. And it’s an idea that conflicts with its own presentation.

What I mean is: Rand barely develops her idea of the individual against the state through her first-person narrator before the events of her novel twist it. The protagonist gives at least a chapter’s worth of the usual Rand egoism speech (John Galt-light here) before he’s moving into someone else’s abandoned house and reading all their books. Man, that self-sufficiency didn’t last long.

A much more interesting route to take would be to read the narrator’s developing understanding of how individualism benefits a society. How the individual freedom of men and women actually benefits the world at large. How collectivism hampers the progress of the very society it claims to uphold. How collectivism isn’t really about doing good but about power. Plain and brutal power.

Rand can’t develop that idea because she’s just spent a significant amount of space having this guy decry the entire world outside himself. Everything is bad, he figures, except the individual. Her protagonist discovers a whole world of innovation but he simply appropriates it as his own under a philosophy he’s just barely started exploring. It reminds me of that line in the much more intellectually-challenging Jurassic Park when Malcolm makes the statement about Hammond’s scientists. Something along the lines that they didn’t do the research that led to their discovery so they don’t have any respect for it.

That’s Rand’s protagonist right there. What’s going to happen in a year after he’s lived in a house he didn’t build made of material he doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe? There’s your damn novel. That’s interesting. The stuff of Anthem is child’s play next to that kind of conflict.

Watching Casino Royale makes it clear that there are really two schools of Bond movies split along the lines of the character’s greatest actors: Connery and Moore. Ask anyone who is the quintessential Bond and the answer inevitably comes back: Connery. But Moore was a Bond for his time — a foppish, kind of twatish Bond and as one of my peers in a literary theory class put it years ago “much more condescending than Connery.” He was, though it pains me to say it, basically a ridiculously-dressed jerk. Yet oddly acceptable in the role.

With the benefit of hindsight we can see Lazenby was of the Connery school (as there was no other school at the time). Bond in the 60s was stern yet charming. He was the cruel, cold agent that Ian Fleming created. Timothy Dalton, for all his faults (which were largely the faults of the movies themselves), was also of the Connery school.

Brosnan, it pains me none to say, was of the Moore school. I might accept the argument that he was a Connery actor trapped in Moore films, but that doesn’t change the fact that he drove an invisible car, pronounced asinine one-liners and goofed-off with a Q who once taught a nation to walk silly.

The opening sequence of Casino Royale immediately had this Connery fan hoping against hope that he was about to witness the return of the old school. Yet as the movie progressed along those old school lines, I became irritated with a new thought: why the hell didn’t they do this ten years ago? Why did it take four basically stupid Brosnan films for us to wind up with the Bond we all knew we should have seen in 1995?

Perhaps, like our political pendulum swinging from tax-and-spender to tax-cutter-and-spender, or Van Halen’s lead singer pendulum swinging from goofball to douchebag, our Bond actors need to swing from Connery to Moore archetype with each generation. Or perhaps, and this is just a shot in the dark, the powers-that-be are idiots just like us.

Regardless, Casino Royale never falls prey to the temptation to ham it up. Nor does its star Daniel Craig. If anything, he’s almost robotic, a Terminator with an understandable accent. There is no Q. There are no cartoonish sex scenes. There are no quips. It’s almost weird. When Bond brings a airport fueling truck to a screeching halt a few feet from a new airliner, I truly expected to hear him offer the pilot a “top-off.”

Casino Royale also pulls off something unseen since the Connery days: it actually pulls from its source material. And I don’t mean the Woody Allen movie. Unfortunately for me, a fan of Fleming’s novels, the movie is not simply a cinematic retelling of the novel (which would have been fantastic). Instead they’ve squished the action of the novel into the middle of a big, huge bang-up of an action movie. The novel is much quieter and creepier. In the film, the creepiest detail is seeing Bond and Le Chiffre playing Texas Hold ‘Em. I shudder to imagine such a scene in a Brosnan movie where Joe Don Baker would inevitably appear in a ten-gallon hat to say something like, “Bond, you wily old coot, lemme buy you a sasparilla!” I still get chills thinking of it.

Except for a confusing, too-chaotic ending that is still satisfactory, Casino Royale delivers everything we’ve ever wanted in a Bond film and more importantly excludes all the bullshit that the Moore school of films canonized. It leaves the Bond fan with one question:

Why in the effing, bloody hell would they not dye Craig’s hair black for the role?

Bond is not a blonde.

The movie has ruffled the feathers of Kazakhstan’s president and only highlighted that country’s illiberal treatment of media. But portraying the movie as somehow anti-Kazakhstani ignores how hilariously anti-American it is. In other words, both cultures get a proper skewering. In fact, one could argue that the Americans get skewered more since the scenes in “Kazakhstan” weren’t even shot there and it’s plain that those scenes are fictitious while the scenes of Borat interacting with Americans blur the lines between reality and fiction with clever edits and set-ups. Even when you’re pretty sure you’re watching something that’s been set-up (the American prostitute, for example), the edits and the tone of the film work to keep you guessing.

So much of the film’s comedy relies on the surprise at seeing him do or say something completely out of the realm of good taste that it’s difficult to discuss the film. I don’t want to give anything away. Simply put, it makes Team America look like a training video on multi-cultural tolerance.

In an age when cultural sensitivity has been taken to a ruthless extreme, it’s shocking to watch a movie that isn’t in the least bit aware of political correctness. But that’s the film Cohen has made. One whose comedy shocks the breath out of you.

[cross-posted at Nashville Independent]

This afternoon, I randomly dropped Tall Hands’s untitled EP into my CD player. And started loving it immediately. They’ve got all the reverb of the Kicks and Walkmen but they play actual songs. The tangible kind. The kind of songs that you can hang onto. Even sing along with.

Imagine an American Supergrass (circa the self-titled album) and you’ll get the gist of Tall Hands — organic sounds, pretty melodies, and something a little anachronistic that you can’t place. Highly enjoyable.

After nearly ten years, Glossary are as close to being an institution in whatever-you-want-to-call-the-college-rock-scene as any band could be. With their fourth long-player, For What I Don’t Become, they officially part ways with any indie-rock trappings – the record is as pure and solid an alt-country record as one could imagine. And the band jells as they never have on record before. Having weathered several lineup changes over the past few years, the new record reflects the live band sound better than previous efforts.

It’s easy to compare Glossary’s somewhat messy roots rock to Uncle Tupelo and early Wilco but there’s also a Mellencamp vibe to the proceedings –- a broad, down-home perspective that makes much of their small-town (well, Murfreesboro) living while aiming for popular appeal. “Shaking Like a Flame” and “Poor Boy” — in addition to being two of the most rocking songs on the record –- capture that spirit with their crackling electric guitars and drawled vocals.

“Days Go By” was the first song Joey Kneiser started for the record. “The song is about being envious of those who have their own concrete ideology,” Kneiser says. “Maybe life is easier when you know there’s a God in heaven; when you feel like your life has a clear path.” If there’s a theme that defines Glossary’s sound, it’s that search for life’s purpose. It’s fitting that the band considers their records as “documentation on this journey.”

Most of Glossary’s material is slow to mid-tempo – an easy-going interpretation of country rock that dwells in sadness without ever directly expressing it. Kneiser’s voice and lyrics paint melancholy scenes that are visually rich (“Telephone poles lift out of the earth like a crucifix”) and add to the small-town feel of the band. As Kneiser explains, “the songs are an attempt to find out what’s worth waking up for, and once you’re up, where your happiness comes from.”

One wonders if Glossary could cross over to a wider audience, perhaps even mainstream country’s. After all, they’re certainly more genuine than much of the genre and For What I Don’t Become is an earnest embrace of their roots and the best quality recording they’ve done. Till greater success comes, Glossary will be content playing “anywhere people listen.‿

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King Dork concerns a very strange year in Tom Henderson’s high school life. He begins the year as the self-proclaimed “King Dork” — an outcast whose only friend is the guy whose name immediately preceeds Tom’s in the roll: Sam Hellerman. A series of bizarre events begins to unfold as Tom and Sam continually rename their imaginary band and Tom searches for clues about his father’s death. Tom is only marginally able to capitalize upon these events. The result –a deepening mystery in which Tom finds himself alone and questioning his own sanity — is an apt an allegory for adolescence as could be.

Portman’s writing is direct and colorful, tempering the turmoil of teenage boyhood with the wit of one who survived it. The language is contemporary without being fadish. Directly and indirectly, Portman uses rock ‘n’ roll’s storied slang and his character’s obsession with its history to season his prose. For those familiar with the references, Portman gives us another layer to the story without making it mysterious.

In the end, the mysteries of the plot resolve without Tom’s direction (though he certainly influences the resolution). It’s a risky proposition — a protagonist without the slightest grip on his own destiny (especially for a sorta mystery novel) — but Portman has painted such a realistic portrait of the high school outcast that the conclusion to the story puts a perfect comic spin on everything. Of course things would work out this way. Of course, because adolescence is already absurd.

With King Dork, an absolute tour de force of literary and musical references, cryptography and teenage obsession, Portman — or Dr. Frank as he’s known to fans of his pop-punk band, the Mr. T Experience (MTX) — proves himself to be a wonderful guide to one of the most ridiculous adventures we’ll ever experience: youth.

As for the obligatory photo of me reading the book…

Enthralled.

As he did in Napolean Dynamite, director Jared Hess creates another world for Nacho Libre — almost a cartoon universe of ridiculous priests, disgusting gruel, skeletal sidekicks, greasy children and a beautiful nun. To paint that picture more clearly, the filmmakers have created a farcical language of Spanish and English spoken in exaggerated accents. Nacho’s lines are deliberate pronouncements (and mispronouncements) that pause for a beat after delivery. At times, it slows the pace, but usually it draws a laugh. The goal being — I suppose — to make sure potential fans of the film have time to absorb each one for future repetition.

There isn’t much in the way of character development or plot (unlikely misfit hatches plot to save other misfits) or even climax (unlikely misfit participates in feat of strength against cruel champion). But there’s something endearing about the unabashed innocence of the movie. It is, at times, puerile but never to the point of relying on its childishness for its comedy. Because it never loses its innocence, it’s easy to get caught up in Nacho’s world and root for him. And though it may lack real belly laughs, the film earns many chuckles for those willing to play along.

In a little under a year, How I Became the Bomb has surged out of Murfreesboro with a pulsating, New Wave sound and quickly become one of the most talked about bands in Middle Tennessee. They are about to release their debut EP, Let’s Go!, with a show at the Mercy Lounge. All the Rage caught up with singer Jon Burr, guitarist Denis Deck and keyboardist Adam Richardson to find out what makes the band tick.

HOW DID THE BAND NAME COME ABOUT?
DD: Shane Spresser from Velcro Stars named us, because we couldn’t come up with anything. It feels like maybe the name has helped us find our sound. I don’t know what that means…

HOW DO YOU GUYS WRITE SONGS? DO YOU START WITH THE MUSIC OR THE SUBJECT MATTER?
AR: Most of the time, we start with music and then Jon comes up with subject matter and lyrics later, though there is an exception or two in our set list. I think this reflects our attitude toward most music. Melodies come first. Words come last.

ARE THERE ANY DIRECT INFLUENCES ON THE BAND’S SOUND?
JB: Tons. Just to name a few: ABBA, ELO, Nobuo Uematsu, Jackson 5, Beach Boys, Devo, The Pogues. We all love music, but have pretty different tastes, for the most part.
DD: The sounds that we get out of our keyboards pretty much directly influence what our songs are going to sound like. We’ve been starting there.

CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THE CRAZIEST SHOW YOU’VE PLAYED SO FAR?
DD: At the Temptation Club in Murfreesboro (which is, in fact, a strip club of sorts…) things usually get pretty outta control. This guy in priest’s garb got on stage and started dancing and stepping on my pedals and stuff. Then Jonburr punched me in the head as he got wrestled off stage and the crowd beat him up. We had a good time.

YOU HAVE RECEIVED A LOT OF ATTENTION REALLY QUICKLY — HOW DO YOU INTEND TO SUSTAIN IT?
JB: Irish luck and gypsy spells.

HOW WOULD YOU RANK YOURSELVES AMONG NASHVILLE’S BANDS? BEST? BRIGHTEST? WOULD YOU LIKE TO CHALLENGE ANY LOCAL BANDS TO A “BASS OFF”?
JB: We are the kings. To all other bands, we say “tremble before our works, ye mighty, and despair.” I would like to challenge Ghostfinger to a bass-off, since they don’t have a bass player, although they do have Martin Van Buren on keys.

FINALLY, WHAT’S WITH THE KEYBOARDS?
AR: Synthesizers make people happy and have the potential to unlock gateways into other worlds. See Dolph Lundgren in Masters of the Universe for just one example of this.

How I Became The Bomb plays the Mercy Lounge May 13th with Lazerman and the Nom-Coms and Bad Animal.

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I just finished Paul Murray’s An Evening of Long Goodbyes. Like the protagonist, Charles Hythloday, the novel is incredibly lazy. I’ve been reading it for about a month. Charles is, frankly speaking, a ponce. He chiefly specializes in doing absolutely nothing but daydreaming about restoring the old aristocratic air to his family home. Since it is his voice that narrates the novel, it often moves slowly and a bit unreliably through its plot.

Fantastically-written, it is a literary novel peppered with bits of present-day pop culture that serve to emphasize the protagonist’s discomfort with the modern world. Unsurprisingly, it is the friction between the “real world” and Charles’s imaginary existence that elicits the most laughs. But that’s also where the drama of the book takes place: in that friction. Though it’s difficult to relate to characters whose heads are so far in the clouds, Murray does an excellent job at portraying the tension between the real and unreal that Charles and his family must face.

Neither Charles nor his sister who dreams of being an actress seems capable of leaving the family home. Finances are in a shambles; the housekeeper is going mental and their mother, having returned from a “hospital stay” (wink, wink), seems bent on making their crazy world even more insane when she forces Charles to leave the house and find a (gasp!) job.

Ultimately, it’s an extremely satisfying read as Murray never breaks out of Charles’s voice to tie up the important fragments of the story and one understands that even Charles may have figured out, at least by a decent amount, how to live a real life.

Too serious to be light reading and too light to be serious, it’s a perfect book to finish up on an overcast spring day like today.