Review: Just Kids

Books, Music

In “Just Kids” Patti Smith shares how she and Robert Mapplethorpe grew into artists in New York City. The work is partially a biography—it shares a batch of childhood memories before depositing her, penniless, on the streets of New York. But the bulk of it revolves around her relationship with Mapplethorpe, who was her early lover, long-time muse and lifelong friend.

After a couple chance meetings in the city, the two “kids” are off, aspiring together through hunger pangs and rented rooms. While Smith is best known for her music—the hook that drew me into the book—that takes up little space here. We pass through her first performance with Lenny Kaye, speed through the formation of her band, but music is hardly a focus.

Instead, the book is more concerned with other art. Smith dabbles with drawing and poetry as Mapplethorpe explores found art and finally photography. They fall short on rent, soak up inspiration from their fellow dreamers at the Chelsea Hotel and Max’s. Finally they catch on with patrons who fund them to success.

The setting is rich, but Smith captures it only in outlines. The characters they encounter are defined mostly through what they wear or how they decorate their place. “Just Kids” is almost a journal—then I went to France, then Robert got the studio, then I started seeing Jim Carroll. It doesn’t illuminate its subjects or completely draw them into the larger narrative of Smith and Mapplethorpe’s evolution.

In a strange failing for a poet, the prose is relatively flat. When Smith does aim for transcendence, she settles on a kind of New Age affirmation instead, listing mystic signs and signals that augured their rise like some kind of pretentious pre-modern.

Even the hard times Smith lays out seem almost quaint today. They were hungry because they didn’t want to work. They dedicated themselves nearly full time to art while living in New York City. Smith inhabits an apartment paid for by Blue Oyster Cult keyboardist Allen Lanier; many of her meals were picked up by the wealthy Sam Wagstaff, who also bought Mapplethorpe a loft to work in.

None of this is to condemn Smith’s art. But it’s frustrating that she’s unable to evoke her self-creation in her own memoir. She comes off as an instinctual artist, and maybe it’s that lack of introspection that enabled her to achieve what she did. But she also remains at arm’s reach in her own story, pushing off understanding with the details of another lunch.

Review: Masterpiece Comics

Books, Comics, Humor

R. Sikoryak’s “Masterpiece Comics” is an inspired mash-up, combining classic works of literature with classic comic book and comic strip characters. At their best, the stories unite shared themes underlying each work. “Blond Eve” settles the Bumsteads in the Garden of Eden, where Dagwood’s open gluttony and Blondie’s innocent curves subject them to the raging wrath of Mr. Dithers.

It’s fun to watch Sikoryak connect the dots. Garfield’s selfishness takes a sinister turn as he tempts Jon Arbuckle into damnation in a retelling of Faust. Superman sneers through his downfall for “shooting an Arab” in Action Camus. Batman—complete with an axe on his chest in place of his traditional symbol (Sikoryak is careful with trademarks)—rationalizes the murder of his pawnbroker.

Each tale is paired with painstaking execution, as Sikoryak’s adaptable style lets him showcase the grace notes of the artists he mimics. His Little Nemo/Dorian Gray spoof showcases Winsor McCay’s immaculate detail; his pairing of Charlie Brown and “Metamorphosis” employs Charles Schulz’s simple, evocative lines.

A few of the stories seem more like retelling than reinvention, namely his Tales from the Crypt take on “Wuthering Heights” and his pairing of Little Lulu with “The Scarlet Letter.” Unfortunately, these are two of the longer stories in the book, and they come off as stylized recaps.

But most of the stories work, and all of them are inspired. For fans of classic works in both mediums, “Masterpiece Comics” offers plenty of smiles and some smug recognition as well.

Review:The Men Who Stare at Goats

Humor, Movies

In the wake of flower power, a branch of the U.S. Army dedicates itself to ESP and new-age warfare. That’s the concept behind “The Men Who Stare at Goats,” and it’s a good one. The premise opens up a lot of avenues for humor. There’s the juxtaposition of hard-ass military men with bead-and-crystal burnouts. Would-be warriors are growing their hair long and giving themselves over to naked hot-tub encounters, dance sessions and hallucinogens. The jokes practically write themselves.

Unfortunately, that’s the problem. Despite a great cast, too many of the laughs are mined from the premise instead of the plot. The structure’s too loose to channel the humor, moving between the anything-goes 80s and Iraq at the onset of the most recent war there. The latter is a tough stage for hijinks. You can see the temptation to puncture the blind certainties that led to the U.S. occupation—it could be a neat parallel to the deranged intensity backing astral projection and Dim Mak. But the real pain of recent history there undercuts the slapstick kidnappings and contractor-on-contractor firefights.

The cast gives itself over the material. Jeff Bridges rechannels the Dude—always fun—and George Clooney somehow lends clipped plausibility to every line about “the Jedi warriors.” Ewan McGregor’s naïve young reporter has to spool out a big thread of narration, but he still remains plausible as our disbelieving everyman. Kevin Spacey has a fun eel’s role as a psychic looking to capitalize on the paranormal.

The movie has its laughs, but it’s also loose and rambling. It’s best anticipated as a series of set pieces mugging about the supernatural. In that vein, it’s enjoyable.

The Only Game in Town

Games

S.L. Price has an excellent, heartrending article in the latest issue of Sports Illustrated highlighting the abandoned American communities whose only product seems to be the athletes lucky enough to make it out. “The Heart of Football Beats in Aliquippa” details a football-mad Pittsburgh suburb that continues to embrace the game even as it population crumbles.

The home of Mike Ditka, Tony Dorsett and Darelle Revis, Aliquippa has replaced lost steel mill jobs with the violence of the drug trade. Shootings are commonplace and high school players turn to dealing in the face of absentee parents. It’s an honest portrait of a community beset by joblessness and squandered potential. At the same time, it’s community that continues to exert a hold on those lucky enough to have left.