On the Glorious Alex Garland

Like many readers of a certain disposition, I love Alex Garland. The fact that he is responsible for a stunningly high percentage of my nightmares does not make me love him less, but more.

I have just re-read The Beach. I vividly remember the first time I read it, as a skinny teenager who hung out in strip malls. I couldn’t relate to the book at all, not then, not now. I am neither a traveller nor an adventurer. I am, on most days of the year, a tourist.

It is this inability to relate that allowed me to initially keep the narrative at an arm’s length. I marveled at Richard’s fucked-up antics from a safe distance (Richard being the protagonist, of course). But the story nipped at my subconscious. Richard nipped at me. I wouldn’t say I came to the point of hallucinating him, but I did find myself carrying on conversations with him in my head.

Set in Thailand, The Beach has been criticized by painting a flat, one-dimensional portrait of Thais. However, what people seem to have missed is the fact that this was a very deliberate move on Garland’s part. Many backpackers, even some folks whose intentions are basically pure, do not view “the natives” as fully human. This fundamental disconnect is one of the main reasons why the “paradise” discovered by Richard and his fellow traveling companions is, at its core, a rotten sham. Though then again, Garland is not preachy. The happy times spent times on the beach are as genuine as the horror that follows.

There are many parallels to be drawn between The Beach and Lord of the Flies, or The Beach and “Apocalypse Now.” But what this book makes me think about is actually Milton and “Paradise Lost.” I think about Adam and Eve getting chucked out on their asses from Eden, and I see The Beach as documenting that desperate, sweaty, human elbow-jostling to get back in.

I like the references that Garland makes in his work. People have slammed him for being “unoriginal,” but I rather see him as extremely perceptive, drawing on rich source material of cultural experience, tipping his hat to everyone from Graham Greene to George Romero, but doing it in such a way that a gesture is sublimated into a thing of startling beauty. There’s nothing sly or gimmicky about him when he does this.

“28 Days Later” wrecked me. Andrew O’Heir wrote something about how it was lame, and how “Day of the Dead” was so much better, and I could not have disagreed more. There are many similarities between the frenzied violence of that film and of Richard’s ruminations on danger and death. Richard is someone who craves horror, and “28 Days Later” says, “be careful what you wish for, Richard, my lad.”

I see that movie everywhere. There’s a particular shot of people running in the video clip for My Chemical Romance’s “Teenagers,” and that’s a “28 Days Later” type of shot, and puts the song in a completely different perspective for me.

There was some guy who kicked my cab last night (I have no idea what that was about), and that strange outburst snapped me back to “28 Days Later,” and my palms began to sweat. If that’s not a testament to Garland’s creep-tastic genius, I don’t know what is.

If the Comments on the Alternet Piece About Sex-Worker Rights Represent Feminism, It Isn’t Any Branch That I Associate With

The piece itself is good. But do scroll down to view your typical slut-shaming disguised as feminism. Just in case you’re prone to yelling “strawfeminist!!!” whenever someone points out that there are serious divisions and, yes, problems within the feminist community.

On her blog, Renegade mentions a man who referred to the body of a murdered prostitute as stolen property. Back in Charlotte, North Carolina (a great town, do visit, in spite of what I am about to tell you), when someone was going around killing prostitutes, I overheard a guy at a gas station tell another guy that “[he doesn’t] understand what the hoopla is about. It’s just a bunch of hookers. It’s like pest control.” (hur hur hur) Of course, the victims were also not exactly white. Double whammy!

An acquaintance of mine who lived in Brooklyn once got into a big, big fight with her neighbor when she [the acquaintance] called an ambulance for a prostitute that someone beat up and pretty much left for dead on the steps of their building. The neighbor was irritated by the flashing lights and loud siren and the paramedics yelling and the cops stomping around asking questions. In her words, “why all the excitement for a hooker?” The neighbor told my buddy that, next time, she should just leave the person lying there. Maybe drag her outside so she doesn’t dirty up the stairwell. That would “teach her a lesson.”

But people, people who call themselves PROGRESSIVE, are still wondering why we need sex-worker rights. In their minds, we should all just wait for Teh Great Feminist revolution, where there will be no problems, and no differences of opinion, and everyone will hold hands, and the lion from Narnia will run around giving everyone hugs and free granola.

Ok, ya’ll keep waiting. Meanwhile, people will continue getting beaten up and killed, while you sit on the sidelines and urge them to “examine [their] choices” and complain about funfeminism ruining the ozone layer, or whatever.

To the Idiot Who Wrongly Classified My Page on StumbleUpon

Screw you. Seriously, screw you. And not in the way you’ve been thinking of either.

I know your game. You were googling Slavic-themed p.(or).n, and you came here.

I hate assumptions. I hate assumptions made about sex-workers just as much as I hate assumptions made about me based on my Slavic name.

PETA’s “Worst Dressed List” – About as progressive as Rush Limbaugh’s big toe

Every year, PETA, the darling of clueless celebrities everywhere (dear actors & pop stars of the known universe, don’t just check with your publicist if the PETA people are “nice,” or whatever, do research), puts us through the hypocritical indignities of their sanctimonious “Worst Dressed List.”

Of course, PETA is that classy organization that once compared Holocaust victims to chickens, so what the hell can you expect?

Still, the language of the “Worst Dressed List” continues to astound me. Last year, PETA was gleefully making fun of Nicole Ritchie’s suspected eating disorder, and guffawing about Christina Ricci’s big forehead (my forehead is big too, and I will personally eat a big juicy steak in honour of PETA’s third-grade lunchroom tactics).

Now they’ve compared Eva Longoria to a “streetwalker” and made fun of Aretha Franklin’s weight. Because, you see, to encourage people to think progressively you must first attack them in a fashion that would make Rush Limbaugh proud.

Ever notice how PETA reserve most of their venom for women? I don’t usually hear about PETA activists insulting, say, a biker gang in public. Why? Because old ladies in fur coats make for easier targets, of course. And hey, sexist language, fat-shaming, and other such insults will surely inspire people to be kinder and more thoughtful.

This is all beside PETA’s tragic hipness, of course. That holier-than-thou, fundamentalist cause célèbre packaged as enlightenment.

Note, I am not picking on individual members. I just hate the overall sentiment.

Like many people, I have serious problems with the fur and leather industry and the food industry. Having said that, I am not vegetarian, and I don’t have any immediate plans to become one. I don’t believe that humane pet ownership translates into pet slavery either. I think a balance can be struck between higher industry standards and evolving lifestyle choices.

I think good synthetic meat, fur, and leather are the way to go for the future. I put faith in science. I can only hope science will be sufficiently touched by such a statement, and makes my dreams come true. Have at it, science.

But that’s just me.

Bottom line? PETA, you suck.

Speaking of Horror: Trailer for “The Ruins” Is Up!

You can see it here.

I read the book, by Scott Smith (in case you don’t know who he is, “A Simple Plan” might sound familiar), on a long flight from JFK to Kiev Borispol last year.

I have to say, my reaction to the trailer, at this point, is mixed. It seems promising, but there is that whole “Touristas” vibe there as well, you know?

The book revolves around a group of hapless tourists that are attacked by deadly, carnivorous plants. Sounds stupid, right? Well, just you wait… This is no “Little Shop of Horrors.” Because these plants release their spores quite effortlessly, effectively “infecting” a potential host, nearby villagers surround the area and will not let the tourists escape. And the plants themselves have a terrifying self-awareness that makes them much creepier than your average Venus Flytrap on steroids. The plants can torture, both physically and psychologically.

It’s a spectacularly spooky read, and it’s also one of those stories that’s incredibly easy to screw-up. If you really too much on the gross-out factor, you destroy Smith’s hoodoo, that queasy build-up of dread and hopelessness that made The Ruins such a fabulous read. I hate flying, but I was glad to be up in the air while reading this book – away from menacing plant life. Even after I got into Kiev, I eyed my grandmother’s potted violets with suspicion for most of my vacation.

Will the movie be able to properly capture the book?

Well, Jena Malone is in this, and I think she’s terrific. Carter Smith, the director, has said that he’s a big fan of the book’s incredible bleakness, and therefore, I have hope. It also seems as though the ending won’t be changed.

I’m not sure if the film will have a wide international release (and I’ll probably be abroad when it comes out), but it seems like one of those things that could really work. And by “work,” I mean invade my dreams for more than one night.