The Lost Corey

Around 2004 I decided The Two Coreys (Haim and Feldman) were due for a major comeback. I’d seen Lucas, The Goonies and The Lost Boys, but all I really knew was that they were 80’s child stars, too famous too early, who fell into trouble with drugs and money. And, they were still out there.

I began watching some of their old movies and I became interested in Haim because he seemed to burn out quickest and most thoroughly. He was a Toronto kid who rocketed to fame fast, but many of his movies are barely watchable. It seemed that the bulk of his work consisted of disposable comedies like National Lampoon’s Last Resort, License to Drive and Dream A Little Dream. *

It’s tricky to unweave impressions of actors from the roles they play, but I figured there must be more to Haim than met the eye. I wanted to write a feature-length comedy that played with this notion. I wanted Haim to play himself, an actor struggling in the wake of former success.

I thought my script was funny. It was about a twenty-something layabout, motivated to find himself when Corey Haim crashes into his car. My protagonist had preconceived notions of Haim as a slacking party animal and slowly learns that Haim isn’t just a goof-off, but a desperate actor clawing his way through a ruthless industry.

A producer friend pointed out that if you’re going to bring back Corey Haim, you have to bring Feldman back too. I agreed. I wrote another draft of the script, changing things drastically: now it had The Two Coreys, and also Corey Hart for good measure, each in the shadow of their decades-past legacy and trying to make something of themselves in a world where their images ensure they are never taken seriously. My script was called The Last Corey. Again, I thought it was funny.

We found their agent (The Two Coreys shared an agent at the time) and gave him the script. A month or two went by and we heard nothing, so we contacted him. He said they’d pass. We asked what he thought of the script and he told us he stopped reading it after the first ten pages, feeling I’d made Haim out to look like a slacking party animal. This irked me because that was exactly point, and my script redeemed Haim in the end.

We asked the agent to read further and he came back and said fine, they’d do it, but only for a million bucks per Corey. My friend and I quietly laughed and gave up. Meanwhile, news about Corey Haim wasn’t promising. He was broke, living with his mother, and had tried to sell a pulled tooth on Ebay.

A couple years later I browsed through my script and it made me laugh. I thought it was a great opportunity we had missed, and I was surprised that we had actually made contact; only a dollar figure had stood in our way. But I couldn’t imagine going through with it and actually working with Haim, and I realized fittingly that this was because of the media-images I had absorbed of him in terrible movies.

So I thought it might be funny to make a movie about me trying to make a movie about Corey Haim: A fictitious writer named Eric Schiller, for his own strange reasons, has written a movie about Corey Haim, and he intends to cast Haim as himself. The journey to find Haim and convince him to spoof himself would be the bulk of the action. It could be hilarious. So I wrote a synopsis. It was called The Lost Corey.

About a year or two had passed since we spoke to The Coreys’ agent, and we hadn’t even considered showing him this idea. Then, like a slap in the face, A&E announced that The Coreys would reunite in a reality-style show. Someone must have agreed that they were due for a comeback. I was deflated. I never watched the show, and I basically forgot about my scripts.

Then, on March 10, 2010, Corey Haim died. “Natural causes” were cited despite suspicious drug activity leading up to his death. A representative said Haim had been drug free for about two weeks, ignoring that ”Haim had used aliases to procure 553 prescription pills in the 32 days prior to his death, having ‘doctor-shopped’ seven different physicians and used seven pharmacies to obtain the supply, which included 195 Valium, 149 Vicodin, 194 Soma and 15 Xanax.”

Looking back, I’m glad we never got to make these movies. Haim’s issues were still too raw. Both Feldman and Haim were victims of the worst part of Hollywood. Feldman claims he and Haim were given drugs and sexually molested by at least one prominent Hollywood mogul in the early years. The Oscar “In Memoriam” segment made no mention of Haim the year he died. And the body of work he left behind consisted of a few decent goofball comedies, and a lot of depressing filler.

Corey Haim’s career is the perfect example of how fame can destroy people. It’s easy to imagine how easily a child might be manipulated by promises of money and fame. In his prime Haim really was a star; before a slump in the 90s he appeared in a half-dozen major motion pictures and his face was all over teen idol magazines. In retrospect we can see the price he paid. Hollywood completely exploited and discarded him before he reached 20.

Haim’s life was much more serious and tragic than I expected. I can’t scoff at him any more; as frivolous and funny as his failures were, they now seem like symptoms of psychological torture inflicted on a child at his most vulnerable. His life is a great cautionary tale and could make a decent biopic. Justin Bieber could play Haim (it’s amazing how alike they look). Maybe if Bieber got deep enough into character he’d resolve to show the world the difference between a serious entertainer and his media image. If nothing else, it might put a redemptive twist on Haim’s life.

 

* The most fascinating product in Haim’s catalog is called Me, Myself and I (1989), a postmodern nightmare happening in Haim’s own mind. We follow him on a “typical day” where he plays hockey and baseball, records music, and fields interview questions from himself, assuring fans and the industry that he’s straightened out and ready to work. But he’s glazed over, stoned, and talking nonsense. It is truly bizarre, very funny, and retrospectively, very sad. You can watch the entire thing on YouTube.

 

Frequency

Moving to a new place throughout the holiday season has left me with little time for writing. It’s made me reflect on this blog, and the frequency with which I post. I’m coming up on 150 posts now and I’ve decided for 2015 to slow down on the blog and make more time for fiction

If I post a couple times a month, maybe, just maybe, the posts will be that much more worthwhile. It’s no secret that some weeks I’ve stretched for content, and I’d rather post fewer pieces of better quality*.

* Not a quality guarantee

 

Movie Review: Inherent Vice

Inherent ViceWatching Inherent Vice, it’s easy to see Paul Thomas Anderson loves his source material, his actors, and 70s-era LA. Anderson’s take on Thomas Pynchon’s 2009 novel is an entertaining ride, suffusing melancholic nostalgia with druggy irreverence. But the film is likely to fall just short for fans the novel.

Aside from some changes to the central plot, the movie is like a really stripped-down version of the book. The most prominent and interesting departure Anderson makes is his use of a minor character as the novel’s omniscient narrator. This lets him deliver some of Pynchon’s prose verbatim, a trick he gets away with because, goofily enough, the character is a psychic.

The plot is a bit of a quagmire, introducing a new, memorable character in almost every scene and somehow connecting it all to Larry ‘Doc’ Sportello’s pot-fueled investigation of his ex-old lady’s new lover. The lover, prominent land-developer Mickey Wolfmann, seems to have a finger in every pie; his name comes up in connection with Black Panthers, Neo-Nazis, a consortium of dentists, a heroin cartel, and a New Age spiritual retreat.

Joaquin Phoenix plays a loveable, faithful version of Doc, sporting big Neil Young chops and hair he styles per occasion (whether it’s his “straight banker” wig or his failed attempt at an afro). But within this levity is a weight of sadness, felt from the first scene in which Doc’s ex-lover Shasta surprises him with a visit. That sadness can be ignored for a while (weed helps), but comes tumbling back inevitably as Doc witnesses the utopian 60s crumble around him, and the cold reality of the 70s rears its head.

The face of the new era is Doc’s nemesis, detective ‘Bigfoot’ Bjornsen, played to the hilt by Josh Brolin. Brolin knocks this role out of the park, with a performance that’s somehow hilarious and frightening in every scene. Phoenix and Brolin are great foils for each other, and the rest of the cast just sizzles. Owen Wilson, Benicio Del Toro, Reese Witherspoon, Katharine Waterston, Martin Short, Michael Kenneth Williams, Eric Roberts and Maya Rudolph fill out the panorama with fantastic nonsense.

This is the first major adaptation of a Pynchon book. As I see it, the main reason for trepidation in adapting his work (other than potentially pissing off a giant) is that Pynchon’s books are incredibly complex, have so many connections, and have such a distinct feel and atmosphere, that some of his paranoid complexity must get left behind on film.

The biggest disappointment I experienced with Inherent Vice is that Anderson seems to have left much of the book’s atmosphere to the wayside. Pynchon’s novel is rife with beach culture, surf music, urgent, stoned phone calls about late-night television, Manson-trial references, and midnight meals on Gordita Beach. But the movie has ignored most of this flavor to economically handle the sprawling, spider-webbed plot.

And even the plot underwent significant alterations on its way to the screen. Several great characters and significant storylines have been cleanly nixed, though a viewer unfamiliar with the book might not believe it considering the density of what remains.

Anderson’s directorial style is solid throughout, and his actors really sink their teeth in. Long, single-take scenes give the performers room to breath and explore, and Anderson kept me fully engaged even as I puzzled over the screenplay decisions. His soundtrack (opening perfectly with Can’s “Vitamin C”) is great, and conjures the feeling of the era.

I get the feeling that Anderson loves the novel so much he was afraid to make it his own. He goes to great lengths to capture the dialogue, even much of Pynchon’s prose, but I sense he was afraid to change anything too greatly, so his alterations are tentative, like he’s hemming a suit instead of making one from whole cloth.

I can’t help but feel a tinge of dissatisfaction from this adaptation. The movie was enjoyable throughout, but captures the novel in only broad strokes, and I’m not sure it stands as a fully realized separate piece. Run-time constraints trimmed many of the relationships from the book into just a few scenes that fail to capture the weight necessary to pull off their own dramatic purposes. Doc’s connection to undercover sax player Coy Harlingen comes to mind here, but most prominently abridged is Doc’s love/hate relationship with Bigfoot.

One of the most striking omissions from the novel is the glut of surf music that paints the background of Doc’s existence. In the book, he can hardly escape it. But outside of a brief visit to the house of notorious surf band The Boards (with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo from The Growlers), surf music is completely ignored. If you ask me, the movie should have been drenched in surf. I’ll take the Can though.

Whether you’re a Pynchon fan or not, Inherent Vice is a really good movie. I’ll watch it again. Someone had to be the first to adapt Pynchon, and I’m glad it was Anderson. He picked the most adaptable of the author’s novels (by a long shot) and gave us something interesting, unique and engaging. It’s funny, well acted, beautifully shot, and there isn’t a movie like it.

Up Your Music Game

One thing I’ve learned from a lifetime of music appreciation is that everyone listens his or her own way. Think of the last time you listened to music. What was it? How did you listen to it? Were you paying attention to individual instruments, lyrics, or do you remember how it felt?

In my experience, musicians tend to hear individual instruments; they can tell you what instruments are being played, and they can hear what each is doing and explain it to you. Listening in his mode makes it easy to hear each type of sound as an extension of the person playing the instrument, and appreciate the creativity and skill, or lack thereof. Musicians can break apart a song and explain it rationally.

But it seems to me the average listener hears the song as a whole; they have a connection to how a song feels, but couldn’t tell you what went into making it, and they tend to remember the vocal melody and lyrics before the instrumentation.

Here’s an experiment: if you’re the type who hears individual instruments, try to turn that off for a while and listen to the song as a whole. Pay attention to how it feels. If you’re the type who listens to songs “as a whole,” try to delineate what instruments are making what noises, and pay attention to what each is doing (this might take a few listens). Switching back and forth and listening to songs different ways can lead to surprising changes in opinion.

You can listen any number of ways. Listen to the rhythm section. Listen to the amount of reverb on the vocals or the distance of the mike from the drums. Listen to the lyrics and pay attention to their meaning. Manipulating your own consciousness around the music can be an interesting experience.

You might realize that you disliked a song your entire life because there is one small aspect of it that rubs you the wrong way. For instance, once you muscle through the totally bizarre opening two minutes of “Aja” by Steely Dan, the song is unstoppable, and the last minute is mind-blowing.

You might also find out one of your favorite songs is actually terrible. That’s not a fun discovery, but do you really want to listen to garbage your whole life just because you lost your virginity to Def Leopard?

Convergences

Reading Vineland or Inherent Vice, you can really feel Thomas Pynchon’s love for surf music. His books stoked my interest in the genre, but it was my brother who introduced me to The Growlers. They’re one of my favorite current acts, and it was a trip to learn they appear in P. T. Anderson’s adaptation of Pynchon’s novel Inherent Vice.

I assume The Growlers are playing the notorious cult/surf band The Boards, because it would be perfect. The timeline of a) my rising interest in surf music; b) reading Pynchon; and c) getting into The Growlers makes me feel like this cameo came to being just to give me a thrill. It’s just great timing.

Assuming the universe caters to my interests, it makes sense that the return of Twin Peaks should feature some of the other music I’ve been listening to these days. Two groups that stand out, probably because they seem to have been heavily influenced by Angelo Badalamenti’s enveloping original score, are Beach House and Bohren & Der Club of Gore.

Check out this ridiculous Beach House video with another interesting artistic convergence.

If you’re feeling darker, drape yourself in this thick cloak of a tune from Bohren.

Or maybe David Lynch will offer up some of his own work. He’s released a number of projects on Sacred Bones Records, including The Air Is On Fire, which plays like the soundscape of one of his films (think Eraserhead OST, but much more sophisticated and subtle).

This one requires headphones, volume, twelve minutes and a dark room.

Inherent Vice: Are You In Or Out?

Inherent ViceWith the movie adaptation set for release Christmas day in Toronto, I used my California vacation as an opportunity to re-read Inherent Vice, Thomas Pynchon’s cannabis-infused detective story and elegy to 1960’s California. I originally read it upon its release in 2009, shortly after his epic tome Against The Day, and by contrast Inherent Vice seemed light and breezy, fully enjoyable but almost a throw-away effort.

But like all of Pynchon’s work, a second reading exposes layers of detail and meaning not obvious the first time through. Inherent Vice is essentially a novel of ideas that kept me so entertained it only felt like it was dashed off. Pynchon’s funniest novel to date follows Larry “Doc” Sportello, a comically stoned, pseudo-hippy private investigator who is one of Pynchon’s most loveable protagonists.

The 60’s have just ended and Doc stands between two worlds. He is, by nature, a typical 60’s pothead, smoking joints like they’re cigarettes and theorizing abstractly about Gilligan’s Island, mixing freely with surfers and musicians, flirting harmlessly with the bikini-clad beach bunnies of Gordita Beach, and a lineup of his friends and associates would make The Big Lebowski bust a gut.

Conversely, Doc is a real PI—a surprisingly straight occupation for a man of his habits—who cuts deals and shares info with cops, including his counterpart and nemesis Bigfoot Bjornsen. Doc is a next-generation Philip Marlow, when shifting cultural paradigms replaced whiskey with weed. Like Marlow, Doc follows his own code, and goes about his business with a sense of humour, generally—not always—staying just sober enough to get his job done.

When his ex shows up concerned for her new boyfriend, the affluent, married land developer Mickey Wolfmann, Doc can’t help himself; without any real prospect of payment, he takes the job. In no time, Wolfmann goes missing and Doc is knocked unconscious and framed for the murder of Wolfmann’s bodyguard, only to be set free under close supervision by Bjornsen and the Feds.

Doc’s investigations lead him into an intricate and deranged plot involving The Golden Fang, which might be a boat, a heroin cartel, a dental office, or a PCP-induced Anubis-like apparition, threatening to escort Doc to the land of the dead. Pynchon plots are sometimes vague and don’t necessarily promise resolution, and while Inherent Vice escalates and complicates Doc’s predicament in every scene—often introducing a cavalcade of bizarre characters with preposterous names—Pynchon somehow weaves the multitude of threads together to make this a surprisingly fast and coherent read.

The only lull in the plot comes about three-quarters through, while Doc is wading deep in chaos and getting thoughtful. The Wolfmann plot that started it all seems to resolve itself, only after tangles of subplots and sub-subplots have developed and gained momentum. And when Wolfmann reappears, Doc is there to see him, only in passing, without directly contributing to his return.

Doc begins to realize the world is much more complicated than it used to be, and in this way he embodies the main theme of Inherent Vice. It’s 1970; the Manson trial is on everyone’s television, and the end of an era is making itself felt. The hippies sought exemption from straight society, sought to “Turn on, tune in, and Drop Out,” while straight society kept on moving, watching with a chip on its shoulder. But illusions dissolved, and the boundaries of those safe and distinct pockets of society had already begun to break.

With respect to the coming era, as for the Wolfmann story, Doc is simultaneously present and exempt. He is down in the trenches, living first-hand the hippy ideology, yet somehow the cultural movement has passed him by. He can’t help but feel a bit impotent, like merely an observer. He is both there and not there, physically present, yet stoned and abstract, a real person and a ghost (“bilocation” is a theme Pynchon also explored in Against The Day). The TV show Dark Shadows offers us a hint at what Pynchon is getting at.

            “This was around the point in the Collins family saga when the story line had begun to get heavily into something called ‘parallel time,’ which was confounding the viewing audience nationwide, even those who remained with their wits about them, although many dopers found no problem at all in following it. It seemed basically to mean that the same actors were playing two different roles, but if you’d gotten absorbed enough, you tended to forget that these people were actors.”

This theme is played out in many of the tangents and subplots that develop along the way, including acid-born theories on Lemuria, a continent long-lost beneath the Pacific, gone but ever present, and seeking to return. The climax of Inherent Vice comes as Doc is captured and into smoking enough PCP to down an elephant.

“After a while Doc finds himself walking along beside himself in the street, or maybe a long corridor. ‘Hi!’ sez Doc….It seemed there were these two Docs, Visible Doc, which was approximately his body, and Invisible Doc, which was his mind, and from what he could make out, the two were in some kind of ill-tempered struggle which had been going on for a while…Fortunately for both Docs, over the years they had been sent out on enough of these unsought journeys to have picked up a useful kit of paranoid skills. Even these days, though occasionally surprised by some prankster with a straight-looking nose inhaler full of amyl nitrate or a rose-cheeked subadolescent offering a bite of a peyote-bud ice cream cone, Doc knew he could count on the humiliation if nothing else to pilot him, and his adversary Doc, safely through any trip, however disagreeable.”

Though I failed to realize it on my initial reading, these themes are laid out on the back cover: “…Pynchon, working in an unaccustomed genre, provides a classic illustration of the principle that if you can remember the sixties, you weren’t there…or…if you were there, then you…or, wait, is it…”

Inherent Vice is an exploration of an era and its ethos, but it remains engaging, funny and strange, full of psychedelic colours and a hilarious cast of dozens. Pynchon’s style and the difficulty of his writing can be off-putting for some, but this might be the perfect introduction to his oeuvre, especially for those excited for the film.

How Science Empowers Philosophy

It’s pretty amazing that we can still understand Plato 2400 years later. Our world would be unrecognizable to him, yet a lot of his ideas make intuitive sense. But we know vastly more about the world, the universe, and the forces that govern things than he did. If we want, we can go back, nitpick, and make almost any philosopher look like a quack. But science is changing that.

Touching A Nerve: Our Brains, Our SelvesRecently I picked up Touching A Nerve: Our Brains, Our Selves by Patricia S. Churchland. It is a philosophy book through and through, but her approach to philosophy is modern, empirical, and diverse. She draws heavily from neuroscience, psychology, sociology and evolution to answer questions on the soul, morality, and free will with minimal assumptions. When she makes a claim, she provides factual evidence to back it up, showing why she thinks the way she does, often with citations for more curious readers.

I’ve read some philosophy from different periods of history for pleasure, but it gets old. It’s hard to read Kant these days without getting frustrated; so many underlying assumptions, perfectly common in his time, now seem groundless and misleading. Without any recourse to empirical proofs, we’re left trying to sort through his assumptions and figure out why he thought the way he did. His reasoning is correct in spots however, and it’s easy to get caught up in the flow an accept propositions because they sound right, even when they’re totally wrong.

The Ptolemaic universe probably made perfect sense to ancient world, but Copernicus showed it was false. Newtonian physics probably clicked for many people, but Einstein proved it wrong. When the next revolution in philosophy comes, we’ll be able to go back to philosophers like Churchland and Dan Dennett and precisely analyze the basis of their claims. If future science disproves or modifies a finding, we’ll see plainly how this changes the philosophical propositions resting on it.

Churchland’s writing is personable and entertaining. She sticks to the issues and draws her material from modern science, providing us a temporal touchstone on the state of philosophy today. I’m really enjoying this book, and wish more public intellectuals had her epistemic standards and clarity.

The Eat Your Feelings Cookbook by Colin J. Fleming

Vacation was a success. California hasn’t fallen into the sea, and I was able to get my head into a rather large writing project. Since the project is sucking up all my good ideas, I’ll direct your attention to “The Eat Your Feelings Cookbook” by Colin J. Fleming.

Colin is a funny, likeable guy, and a friend I’ve traded writing notes with on occasion. He and I both use our middle initial in our byline. His humour piece is currently showcased on CBC’s Punchline. Follow him on Google+ and Twitter.

Going Back to Cali

Inherent ViceAn unseemly hour of departure tomorrow means I have time for few words. My destination is California. My plan is to re-read Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon while I’m there. Most of his books are complicated enough to be more rewarding the second time through, so I plan to have the novel freshly processed before the release of Paul Thomas Anderson’s adaptation. This is not necessary; it’s for pure joy. Inherent Vice is the first Pynchon novel to be adapted for film, and this is the most I’ve looked forward to a P. T. Anderson movie. Check out the trailer. Read the book. Enjoy.

 

 

Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion

waking upSam Harris is the co-founder and CEO of Project Reason, a non-profit organization dedicated to spreading science and secular values. Many of its members speak openly against the dangers and evils of religion, so I find it significant that in 2014 Harris released Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion.

It’s significant because it’s a risk. It doesn’t play to a large audience. According to the jacket, Waking Up is for the “20 percent of Americans who follow no religion but who suspect that important truths can be found in the experiences of such figures as Jesus, the Buddha, Lao Tzu, Rumi, and the other saints and sages of history.”

Most of Harris’ fans are hardline atheists and anti-theists who probably wouldn’t deign to admit that there is such a thing as “spirituality.” Even Harris’ brilliant contemporaries like Daniel Dennett and the late Christopher Hitchens haven’t entertained “spirituality” with much respect, and I suspect that a large number of people simply never will. So this book is not for them, and Harris has risked alienating himself from some of his own team.

There are also a number of other public meditation advocates who portray reason and rational thinking as an enemy to spiritual progress. Shunning reason has left many of these gurus open to absurd beliefs about consciousness and the cosmos. I assume advising against critical thinking is one of the reasons some of them remain so popular.

When I first became interested in meditation, yoga, and various techniques for the manipulation of consciousness, I went to the beginning. I read several ancient Indian yoga books, doing my best to account for cultural differences. I took claims about conquering death and walking on water with an arched eyebrow, and tried let the exercises and proofs of experience speak for themselves.

As I worked my way through history, things clarified slightly, becoming more contemporary and palatable, but even now the amount of pure garbage written about consciousness is staggering and time-consuming. I wish I had found Waking Up years ago when I first began.

Harris’ writing is clear, his claims based on evidence and experience, and he adds no metaphysical nonsense to the completely practical, physical, real-world exercise of meditation. He also expresses many of the philosophical issues about consciousness in a tidy fashion, peppering in humour and sharp skepticism along the way.

Much of the opening explains what he means when he says “spiritual.” Transcendent experiences are valid, he says, and they have long been misinterpreted through the lens of religion. Granted, some people may never have these experiences, and many will confuse transcendence with moments of aesthetic contemplation or ecstatic bliss (both of which may be extremely valuable), but for Harris, transcendence is the subjective experience of consciousness in a state prior to thought, when the illusion of the self is annihilated.

Of course, we’re all thinking all the time, so getting to that state can prove quite difficult. With years of meditation training, a firm grounding in philosophy and a PhD in neuroscience, Harris gives straightforward advice, tips about the snags and traps one can find on the path of meditation, and ample evidence that meditation is for most people an entirely beneficial practice.

Harris has successfully written a brief but engaging overview of meditation from scientific, philosophical, and personal perspectives. At 237 pages, Waking Up provides ample explanations and citations in the endnotes from a wide variety of sources. Waking Up will hopefully serve as an olive branch to people searching for peace without the usual religious baggage.