The Story of Rocky and Philadelphia- Going the Distance by Mike Sielski

 Going the Distance: Stallone, Philly, and the Story of Rocky by Mike Sielski 

Going the Distance book cover

Author and columnist Mike Sielski

Much like he did with the excellent Magic in the Air, Mike Sielski delves into the history and significance of a cultural phenomenon while examining its Philly roots. Magic in the Air explored the evolution of the dunk and its contributions to basketball, while exploring the Philly/PA connection through some of the city’s best showmen. It’s a great read for any basketball fan or Philly denizen to learn more not just about the game, but about the cultural significance of one of basketball’s most exciting plays. He takes a similar approach to a more Philly-centric phenomenon right as it approaches its 50^th anniversary: the development and release of the Academy Award winning film Rocky, which has nine films in its story and has evolved from the story of an unlikely fighter going the distance to encompass something much more. Whether you’re a fan of all of the Rocky films or not, it’s hard not to root for The Italian Stallion, and Sielski, who is also a sports columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer and hosts a radio show in WIP on Saturdays, unpacks the unlikely journey of Sylvester Stallone and his own Philly roots to explore how this unlikely underdog went the distance and has sustained success in Hollywood in the book Going the Distance: Stallone, Philly, and the Story of Rocky. Sielski, in his thorough reporting and research, leaves no stone (or rocky-y) unturned, exploring Stallone’s adolescent years in Philly that helped him hone his grit and determination, as well as his challenges with breaking into show business, and how his ultimate gamble on himself provided a big payoff in capturing the Academy Award for best picture, although the best actor and screenplay awards eluded him. In this book, Sielski explores the complexity of Stallone, whose on screen persona as a tough action hero doesn’t always capture the sensitive, creative and stubborn artist that brought Rocky to screens and won audiences’ hearts 50 years ago. I really appreciated how despite his limited participation in the book through emails, Stallone emerges as both the creative force driving this film, but also someone who feels slighted and bitter over the lack of recognition he seemed to receive for the film. It’s a fascinating study of not only the significance of the film Rocky, but also the challenges of creating characters and films in a system that banks on trends and reliability more than artistic risks.

Sielski organizes the book into different parts of Stallone’s journey from a troubled teen to a bankable movie star, with chapters exploring Stallone’s experience growing up in Philadelphia and the challenges he had fitting in and finding his place at Lincoln high in the Northeast; his attempts to break into acting and films after taking parts in plays during college; his feverish attempts to create screenplays, often writing for himself, which eventually leads to Rocky; the production and filming of Rocky and all of the challenges it faced while filming on a limited budget in a city where movies just weren’t made; and the surprising success of Rocky and its endearing legacy, both for Philly and Stallone. I knew that Stallone lived in Philly for some time, but I didn’t realize how long and troubled his experience was growing up in Philly. It was also interesting to learn more about how Stallone got into acting, playing Biff in a Death of a Salesman production in Switzerland. Sielski’s reporting about Stallone’s time in the American College of Switzerland was really interesting because it not only explored how he got into acting, but it also showed his hustle to survive and make money through his inventiveness, creating a burger stand where he repurposed objects (and some meat) around him to cook and store this American staple for his European classmates (and one of Haile Selassie’s grandkids). This kind of hustle and craftiness is a theme throughout Stallone’s early days when he tries to make his way in the entertainment industry.

I really enjoyed learning more about Stallone’s time after college, where he attended University of Miami, and ended up in NYC trying to break into theater and film. Sielski shares some interesting productions that Stallone took part in, including experimental theater that seems a far cry from John Rambo, Barney Ross, or Marion Cobretti. Sielski details the kind of struggles, both financial and professional, that Stallone experienced as he hustled to find roles that moved beyond his appearance. He even struggled to find roles of gangsters and thugs, where some directors didn’t feel that he was intimidating enough. These kinds of casting challenges lead to Stallone creating roles of his own from his many later attempts at crafting screenplays, which eventually led to Rocky. While I knew a little about how Stallone bet on himself for Rocky, I didn’t realize how much he struggled to find parts and roles to support his dream of becoming an actor. Furthermore, to see how much Stallone struggled as an adolescent to fit in and not act out, it’s amazing that he was able to find some purpose and meaning in acting.

The second part of Stallone’s quest for acting parts sees him and his wife move out to LA to chase other parts after he won a starring role in Lords of Flatbush and became friends with Henry Winkler and enemies with Richard Gere. Again, I loved learning more about these little tidbits of Stallone’s professional career, and how people seem to have polarized reactions to him. In LA, Stallone seemed to grow increasingly desperate to find work, which led to him cranking out screenplays at a machinelike pace. Sielski provides some of the more interesting stories, and how he eventually crafted and revised the story of Rocky, which was most likely based on Chuck Wepner, a heavy weight journeyman from NJ who went 15 rounds with Ali and knocked him down in the 9^th. Sielski has an entire chapter devoted to Wepner’s story, which most likely served as one of the inspirations for Rocky. It’s among the great subject focused chapters found throughout the book. While the book is primarily focused on Rocky, Sielski also has chapters that provide more details about the director John Avildsen, who won the best director Academy Award for Rocky and also directed The Karate Kid, Burt Young,  who played Paulie, Rocky’s friend and Adrienne’s brother (his chapter was among the most entertaining), and Burgess Meredith, who played Mickey, Rocky’s trainer. There are other chapters on Talia Shire, who played Adrienne and how she developed that role, Bill Conti, the composer of the music for Rocky, including the iconic “Gonna Fly Now”, and a chapter on Carl Weathers, who played Apollo Creed. It was fascinating to learn more about Carl Weathers too, and how he also did not get along with Stallone. There was so much to learn about the production of the film, and how the crew ended up using Philadelphia as not just the setting for the story, but also as another character, the kind of city that always seems to be in the shadow of New York and Chicago, and in the 1970s, was experiencing the kind of urban flight and deindustrialization that was plaguing much of America at the time. Sielski’s writing about the Philadelphia backdrop, not just the economic, but the political cultural surrounding Mayor Frank Rizzo, provides cultural and social context that emphasized the “evolving and eroding Philadelphia” “already in the midst of its demise.” As someone familiar with not only sports but the vicissitudes of the city of Brotherly Love, Sielski provides an unvarnished, objective portrait of the city in all its 70’s grit and grime. While some may see this as slight to the city, I think most Philadelphians will recognize the emphasis not only on the toughness of the city, but also on its revitalization and evolution from that time.

Sielski further emphasizes this evolution at the end of the book, when Stallone is invited back to the city to help open The Linc in 2003 (even though the Eagles were shut out in the opener). Prior to his appearance, Stallone might have seemed ambivalent towards the city, which Sielski documents their struggles to find a place for the infamous Rocky statue. Most Philadelphians have questioned this statue to a fictional character, and why it has become so prominent when other homegrown boxing heroes like Joe Frazier or Bernard Hopkins have never had the same kind of cultural recognition. Sielski also interrogates this point, reminding readers about Joe Frazier’s possible influence on Rocky as well. Nevertheless, Sielski’s writing, reporting, and analysis presents the multitudes of Sylvester Stallone, who before Cop Land, I always thought of as kind of a one-dimensional action hero. This book presents a much different side of Stallone, not only as an actor, but also as a writer, artist, and hustler looking to make his mark and go the distance. It’s amazing to think how he has sustained such a successful career, especially in a field and genre where youth is often preferred over experience and age. If anything, Stallone has helped to expand some of the ideas of what action heroes and these kinds of underdog movies can be. Although he hasn’t been in the later Creed movies, it’s interesting to see how his role has shifted to a kind of mentor/trainer.

There’s so much more I could praise about this book, but I don’t want to give too much away. I loved learning more about Stallone’s contentious post-Rocky relationships, where he challenged the contributions of others. It’s a little confusing, but as Sielski reports, this was his personal project, and he risked everything to maintain control over the film. I’m not sure that a major studio would give that much creative control to a first-time screenwriter, who was also the star of the film. I also loved learning more about Garret Brown’s innovative use of the Steadicam, which was invented in Philly and used in Rocky for many of the iconic training scenes, including the famous Art Museum stairs scene. Sielski shares some of the challenges that Brown faced in developing his camera, as well as trying to run up the stairs with Stallone during this iconic scene. Going the Distance is one of those books, like Rocky, that will appeal to a broad audience. It’s an essential Philly story, but one that movie lovers will also appreciate. It’s an underdog story of a man who bet on himself, overcoming the odds to achieve great and sustained success in a harsh business. Furthermore, it’s a book that presents the complexities of Stallone, celebrating him, while also acknowledging the dismissiveness of his collaborators in making Rocky. Going the Distance isn’t a sports story, like some of Sielski’s other books, but it is a love story, to borrow Stallone’s characterization, about how an audience learned to fall in love with the underdog, and how Philadelphians have learned to love the legacy of this iconic film. Highly recommended! Many thanks to St. Martin’s Press and NetGalley for the advanced copy of this amazing book! 

Lady Mechanika Volume 0: La Dama de la Muerte

Lady Mechanika Volume 0: La Dama de la Muerte by Joe Benitez with artwork by Joe Benitez and Peter Steigerwald

Lady Mechanika cover

Author and illustrator Joe Benitez

Artist Peter Steigerwald

I was not familiar with the comic Lady Mechanika, but the cover artwork depicting a woman in Dia de la Muertos make-up immediately attracted me to this story. This comic includes issues from a mini-series titled La Dama de la Muerte. The story revolves around Mechanika who visits a remote Mexican village where she tries to escape from a painful loss of her beloved Dallas. We don’t learn much about Dallas, but Mechanika gradually reveals his presence in her life when she is persuaded to partake in the local Dia de la Muertos celebration. The artwork throughout this story is amazing, truly capturing the colors and styles of this iconic holiday. Furthermore, this is a great action/revenge story where Lady Mechanika gradually feels like she belongs to a new community, only to experience tragedy once again. I don’t want to give too much away, but the story is compelling, violent, and thrilling. However, it’s the artwork from Joe Benitez (who also wrote the story) and Peter Steigerwald that stands out the most in this collection of issues from this miniseries. Not only does it represent the colorful and bold styles of Dia de la Muerte, but there are also some really cool images from the jungles of Mexico, which seemingly capture some of the indigenous artwork and styles of Aztec people. There are mentions of Mictecacihuatl, the Aztec queen of the underworld, along with other symbols and themes relating to Aztec culture. I really appreciated the artwork and hope to find some of the other Lady Mechanika stories. Highly recommended! Many thanks to Image Comics and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of this great graphic novel/collection.

 

Body and Blood: Catholic Horror in America

 Body and Blood: Catholic Horror in America by Matthew J. Cressler, Jack Lee Downey, Kathleen Holscher, and Michael Paquier

Body and Blood book cover

Is there any other kind of horror more terrifying than Catholic horror? Maybe not for those who were raised in other Christian denominations or other faiths, but as someone who attended Catholic school throughout elementary and high school and who served as an altar boy, I find Catholic horror, especially supernatural Catholic horror to be some of the most frightening and soul-searching kinds of horror around. I’ve always loved The Exorcist, and Body and Blood: Catholic Horror in America provides me with more reasons and ideas as to why this powerful film (and novel), which is allegedly based on a true story, remains one of the most frightening films of all time. Yet, the authors of this book, all academics, also explore how the film remains ultimately a Catholic recruiting tool, as it presents a message about good triumphing over evil and how good Catholics, even those who remain skeptical in an increasingly secular world, can return to the faith and possibly even make the ultimate sacrifice to help out someone else in need. Like Eleanor Johnson’s Scream With Me, a reevaluation of classic American horror films through a post-Dobbs feminist lens, Body and Blood invites readers and horror aficionados to reexamine some of these classic films and consider the implications of the events in our current times.

I really enjoyed Body and Blood especially since it allowed me to reconsider and reevaluate the meaning, symbolism, and themes in some of my all-time favorite horror movies. Furthermore, the authors also highlighted some other movies (and books) that I’ve been able to include on my to watch (and to read) list. However, what I enjoyed most about this book was their approach to contextualizing the horrors from these films socially, historically, and stylistically. Each chapter focuses on different elements of Catholic horror which include themes like demons and possession, haunted spaces, death, bodies, tradition, rites, and burial, and pain, martyrdom, and suffering. Each chapter also includes an interlude that focuses on the history, events, and figures who all have influenced these themes, symbols, and approaches to portraying Catholicism in films and novels. One of the elements I found most interesting about each chapter was the reminders about how Catholics were frequently suspected of evil or backwards, traditional practices, sometimes facing severe social ostracism, violence, and even death for their practices. While Catholics notably also participated in later persecutions during the European witch hunts of later medieval times, the book serves as a reminder of how frequently these elements of Catholicism were often portrayed as the other, a complex and arcane religion that bordered on superstitious and was often the subject of derision and fear mongering. Nevertheless, the authors remind readers how Catholic horror aligns well with many gothic elements to create some of the most well-regarded horror in literature and film, whether it’s the Monk, Dracula, or more recent entries like The Exorcist, The Nun, or The Conjuring films that feature demonologists Ed and Lorraine Warren. The authors explore the varieties of these stories, and how their settings, characters, and events all incorporate elements of Catholic horror, and how these themes have evolved from one of critiquing a religious group to one that seeks to potentially represent social and cultural fears and anxieties playing out in current society. In the early chapter that focuses on how the Catholic practice and interest in corpses and dead bodies are often displayed after death, the authors examine how this is often portrayed in films, where they spend some time examining Psycho, with Norman’s interest in taxidermy and how his mother’s corpse might reflect a Catholic belief. It was an interesting chapter to read about the practices in Catholicism that I grew up with without questioning too much, especially with practices like veneration of the body parts of saints or seeing the preserved bodies of other religious figures. The authors also discuss how zombie films that show the living dead walking among us might also represent some of the Catholic fears and anxieties, especially around the apocalypse and the end of the world. It was also fascinating to read the last chapter which details the Catholic idea of physical suffering, punishment, and pain, and how The Passion of the Christ is actually more of a horror film than anything else. Again, having grown up with the image of suffering and gruesome deaths of martyrs, it’s not something I really questioned until I began to meet others who were not raised Catholic. On a recent trip to Europe, I had to explain to my family about some of the more gruesome artwork representing the lives of saints in museums and cathedrals. I also recently rewatched Ken Russell’s The Devils, which is also featured throughout the book, and seeing some of the body horror and torture that is apparent in this film made me rethink the ideas of suffering and brutality that appear to be so much of certain brands of Catholicism.

Body and Blood is a fascinating book, especially for fans of horror who may have attended Catholic school. The authors, all scholars of literature or religion, present novel interpretations of horror, both older and modern, to allow readers and viewers to reconsider the influence of religion, especially Catholic religion, on horror. I found their interpretations and ideas fascinating and intriguing, allowing me to consider some of my favorite films and stories in a new light. Many thanks to NYU Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy. Highly recommended! 

Portrait of an Artist as a Scientologist: The Last Temptation of Beck

 The Last Temptation of Beck: The Untold Story of a Pop Messiah by Josephine Riesman

The Last Temptation of Beck cover

Author Josephine Riesman

Like the author, Josephine Riesman, and many of the other fans featured in the intriguing book The Last Temptation of Beck: The Untold Story of a Pop Messiah, I was an early adherent of Beck. I fell in love with his strange visions, loving the sound of “Loser” and “Beercan”. However, once I began to listen to his b-sides for these songs, I absolutely loved his work. Songs like “Soul Sucking Jerk”, “Got No Mind”, “Corvette Bummer”, and especially “Fume” really spoke to my adolescence as well as my interest in expanding the confines of alternative music. Beck’s music was strange, funny, and unique, standing out among a crowded music store filled with crunchy grunge power chords and riffs. Although I loved his experimentation, I especially loved his acoustic work on One Foot in the Grave, Stereopathic Soulmanure, and A Western Harvest Field by Moonlight. I loved how raw and experimental they were, allowing listeners into the odd process that Beck used to construct (or maybe de-construct) these idiosyncratic songs. The first section of Riesman’s book takes us through these thrilling times to see how Beck not only developed his musicianship, but also how he evolved from a strange hip-hop loving folk and blues musician into the party boy who had two turntables and a microphone. Riesman’s reporting, though, doesn’t just focus on Beck’s life and career. Rather, she takes the fans’ perspectives, reminding readers how exciting and different Beck’s music was, and how it spoke to those who were different, those who didn’t fit in with the typical crowds in schools or who were searching for new and different sounds. She introduces us Truck and Donna, two fans who ended up creating Beck fanzines and websites in the early days of the internet. It was amazing to learn how both of these fans eventually gained access to Beck, although in different ways. Riesman’s reporting allows us to see not only how indifferent Beck initially was to success, but also how uncomfortable he was to fame and attention. I actually liked how Riesman includes multiple narratives that detail Beck’s biography and career development with his fan’s perspectives and interests. Also included in these chapters are a focus on Beck’s family, including his mother, his Scientologist and musical father, and his Fluxus-performance artist grandfather, Al Hansen, whose own life seemed to be shaped more by myth and memory than reality and history. Riesman skillfully constructs chapters with these competing narratives to allow readers to learn more about the enigmatic Beck, and how guarded his background is. While Riesman indicates part of this was due to Beck’s discomfort with the limelight initially, she also suggests that his eventual engagement with the Church of Scientology also has something to do with his changing public persona that remained cautiously guarded.

Although I don’t know much about Scientology except from Lawrence Wright’s incredible book Going Clear (which was cited throughout some of the chapters), it’s clear that Scientology has had a disruptive impact on many people’s lives. Riesman provides some background about the origins of Scientology, as well as their growth from a strange sci-fi group to an IRS recognized religion, without getting into the strange and sordid details. I was actually impressed with how concise her reporting is. Although there have been rumors about Beck’s involvement with Scientology and some evidence provided from Riesman, no of it seems to indicate a definitive explanation for Beck’s later music nor his personal life. I too agree that Beck’s music, especially after Sea Change seemed to become somewhat vapid, with occasional good songs here and there. Nothing ever reached the consistent whole album of records like Odelay or Mutations. It can be difficult to continuously reinvent oneself or find ways to keep music fresh and appealing. We’ve seen this with many other artists who struggle with remaining relevant while still trying to maintain creative control from record labels. Could it be that Beck was under pressure to craft more hit singles rather than pursue his passion and interest in exploring new sounds? Was the record label looking for more of the same, banking on safe, formulaic music rather than exciting experimentation? Riesman seems to suggest that Beck’s father, David Campbell, and other Scientologists were more to blame, as Beck began to be viewed as a pop music messiah who might also be able to recruit new members with his infectious and popular music. She cites the role of actors like Tom Cruise who attribute their popularity and success to Scientology’s principles. It’s an interesting premise, but one that Riesman is never able to completely nail. Much of the evidence she relies on is based on events, interviews with friends of friends, and other kinds of speculation that I found somewhat questionable. At the center of the Riesman’s claims are the tragic deaths of Jeremy Blake and Theresa Duncan, two artists who had connections to Beck. Jeremy Blake, a digital artist, worked with Beck on the cover for Sea Change, while his partner Theresa Duncan proposed that Beck star in a movie she was planning to direct that was a 1970s set in NYC take on Alice in Wonderland. Duncan and Blake both died at their own hands in July 2007, and there’s been speculation that their deaths were the result of harassment by Scientology, with Riesman implicitly blaming Beck for their deaths. It was pretty shocking to read since there was no clear evidence of harassment. Riesman documents that Blake and Duncan grew increasingly conspiratorial and paranoid, eventually withdrawing into a strange apartment in NYC. While Duncan blamed Beck’s eventually exit from the planned film for the project’s failure, it looked to me like the possibility of the changing tastes in films. Films like these are especially hard to find funding for, and I would imagine that a first time female director might face additional challenges to making a 1970s remake of Alice in Wonderland set in NYC. I wondered if possibly Duncan and Riesman were attributing the obstacles that this project faced to other outside forces. This also made the implications of Beck’s involvement in their deaths even more frustrating since there was no clear evidence to show this. While Scientology does have a history of harassing its perceived enemies, and Riesman provides examples and the kinds of labeling that the organization uses for those who pose a threat, it’s not clear why Beck or Scientology would mark Blake and Duncan as suppressive persons or why they were considered fair game especially when they didn’t really seem to attack Beck. Riesman does suggest that Beck possibly wanted out, but was pulled back in to Scientology, but again, there’s not real definitive evidence.

This kind of hearsay was also used to document Beck’s breakup with his longtime partner Leigh Limon, who helped style Beck during his transformation from urban slacker to a retro-styled entertainer. As Riesman documents, Limon eventually grew distant from Beck as he continued to tour the world and she remained at home. She made attempts to spend more time with him, but he remained aloof and distant. Riesman notes how Beck’s father and mother became more of a presence in his life as he became more famous, and suggests that this was the reason for Beck’s distance from Limon. However, as Riesman also noted with pre-fame Beck, he was always aloof and distant, struggling to interact with others and often seeming spacy or disengaged. I wondered too how much fame and the pressure to maintain hit records and tour constantly may have challenged him and affected his relationships with those he was close with. He seemed like he was unconcerned about fame, and listening to some of his earlier independent releases, he didn’t seem like he wanted to make pop music, but rather pursued his own idiosyncratic passions and interests. We also have to remember that this was around the time of Kurt Kobain’s death, where alternative music was experiencing a kind of identity crisis, with calls to keep things real and not sell out. Could Beck’s success also have created his own identity crisis? Riesman’s reporting says that Beck accused Limon of cheating and substance abuse, apparently fed to him by other Scientologists while he was touring Japan. While this is also a possibility, I wondered why Beck would believe accusations like this, especially about a loved one, without verifying. I ended up empathizing with Limon, whose job, home, car, and other possessions were all owned by Beck. She was swiftly evicted and struggled to get back on her feet. Riesman didn’t interview her, but provides details about what she is currently up to and how she saw Beck at a concert, but didn’t talk to him. Limon’s experience, as well as those of some of Beck’s other early supporters, were troubling and sad, yet it’s not completely clear whether Scientology factored into these breaks or not. Even if they did, I don’t necessarily think they caused the deaths of Blake and Duncan. I would need to review more of the facts to make any clear indication, and while Riesman creates a compelling narrative, it seemed like the facts operate more around correlation than causation.

Despite these fallacies, Riesman has crafted an exciting book about an enigmatic figure in the music world who has undergone many transformations (or Mutations) not only musically but also stylistically. I loved learning more about Beck’s early beginnings in LA and New York, and how his strange blend of folk music and hip-hop gradually evolved to become such a fascinating mix of styles. I also loved learning about his family, especially his grandfather and mother, who each participated in the art world that possibly shaped Beck’s own vision and styles. Nevertheless, Riesman also reports on some of the questionable behavior from Beck that led to fallouts, estrangements, and other breaks that seemed to come from nowhere without warning. Whether it was scientology or some other variable, Riesman seems to have her mind made up. I appreciated her reporting, but I had my own questions about these claims. Nevertheless, this was a fascinating read, and it spurred my renewed interest in Beck’s music and life. Highly recommended! Many thanks to Atria Books and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy. 

The Exorcism at Buckingham Palace

 The Exorcism at Buckingham Palace by Hannah Rose May with artwork by Kelsey Ramsay

The Exorcism at Buckingham Palace cover

Author Hannah Rose May

Artist Kelsey Ramsay

Almost anytime I find an exorcism story, I’m going to read it. I was excited to find The Exorcism at Buckingham Palace mainly because it looked like a cool story about the royal family of England and demonic possession written by Hannah Rose May, who also penned The Exorcism at 1600 Penn, which I still haven’t read. The story starts with a mysterious boat accident where a number of the royal family who are next in line for the crown end up disappearing. Their missing boat causes a crisis at Buckingham Palace, as the elderly and infirm king of England was looking to appoint his successor sooner rather than later. With a sudden break in the lineage, the king turns to the prime minister for advice about how to handle the growing situation. They decide to appoint the king’s grandson, Theo, who brings his own backage to the palace. Theo’s mother, Odette, died under mysterious circumstances when he was younger, and she always warned Theo about the shadow that seemed to follow the royal family. Furthermore, Theo has battled his own demons, notably addiction, which played out publicly for many years. Although he’s sober and newly engaged, Theo seems to be an questionable and somewhat unwilling choice. Nevertheless, the king encourages Theo, convincing him that it is not only good for the country, but it is also his duty to carry on the royal line. While Theo agrees, he begins to confront many of the old demons as he struggles with his time in the spotlight. I don’t want to give too much more away, but Theo must eventually grapple with his own demons as he eventually learns how to be the leader that England needs.

While I liked the premise of this story, and Theo’s story from uncertain prince to confident and compelling leader is a nice story, I wish there was more supernatural elements to the story and that the exorcism was a larger part of the story. Much of the story felt political and dealt with the royal family and the concurrent intrigue and challenges that the prime minister faced with the opposing party. I’m not as familiar with British politics and royalty, so this aspect of the story felt a little different. Plus, when I read the title, I assumed that most of the story would be about the exorcism, whereas it mainly took place at the last ¼ of the story. Nevertheless, it was interesting to see how Theo confronted both personal and supernatural demons in his uncertainty and eventual acceptance of the crown. I could see some similarities between him and the Windsor family, especially with the tragic death of a young, beautiful princess, who’s early death left her child haunted and conflicted about the royal legacy. Plus, the artwork was generally interesting for this story. Kelsey Ramsay uses shading and shadows to cast dread and a worrisome feel among those at Buckingham Palace about the uncertainty of the future king. The supernatural elements of the artwork were also dark and menacing, so I enjoyed his element of the story. I also loved the sketches at the back of the comic, as well as some of the images by other artists. I just felt that the story could have focused more on the exorcism and demonic possession and less on British politics. Thanks to IDW Publishing and NetGalley for sharing this advanced copy.

Get on the Bus for Mr. Graham Jones's Wild Ride: Off the Reservation

 Off the Reservation by Stephen Graham Jones

Off the Reservation book cover

Author Stephen Graham Jones

I don’t often recommend reading the acknowledgements first, but in the case of Stephen Graham Jones’s ambitious and wildly imaginative follow up to The Only Good Indians it might provide some context in understanding this surreal road-trip and possession horror novel that not only confronts many of the myths and stereotypes surrounding Indians, but he also offers insights and the inspirations that influenced this sequel to The Only Good Indians. Beyond textual evidence, Graham Jones also offers insight into his writing process, which informs this multi-layered novel that inhabits the perspectives of several complex characters who shift and evolve throughout the course of the novel and road trip. As Graham Jones notes “Put me in a group, at a dinner, a reception, and I usually hunch my shoulders and hide, stay quiet, always snaking looks at the door. Put me at the keyboard, though, and I come alive.” He discusses how part of the novel was written in an Applebee’s while he was on the road, and another chapter was written in the back of a car, where he risked motion sickness to put his vision on paper (or computer). He also thanks (sarcastically) a passenger who sat in front of him during a flight who pushed the seat back and nearly caused an ocular migraine while Graham Jones was continuing to work on this novel. It’s a fascinating look at the writing process for one of the most inventive and distinct voices in horror today, and it helped me better understand some of the events and significance of the characters and the action throughout the novel. Plus, he also offers sine background about the chapter “He Stood Dying”, which is pretty much a chapter about Nate going to the bathroom. It’s a fascinating chapter that left me wondering more about why so much of the chapter was dedicated to this process; it serves an important function later on in the story, which I don’t want to spoil, and the acknowledgement also reveals some of the motivation behind this focus. So depending on whether a reader wants to try to navigate this complex, surreal story on their own to attempt to make meaning, or whether they would prefer to hear from the author about motivations and meaning, it might help. I found myself both engaged and perplexed by Graham Jones’s unique style that features both truly gross and graphic horror as well as long, complex, stream-of-consciousness sentences that extend for several lines and capture details of the surrounding environment, the characters’ thoughts and feelings, and sometimes the author’s own interjections. One example from the pee chapter starts “He was a stoic Indian, though, didn’t even show it, excerpt maybe in how fast his fingertips kept galloping over the laminated table of the Sundancer’s abbreviated booth of a dining table, Mooch laying down solitaire cards across from him, his overfilled blader a stretched-tight drum skin picking up every single one of those thunderous impacts of varnished paper meeting laminated tabletop.” I found myself re-reading sections to better grasp what was happening, and I was constantly reminded of Toni Morrison’s famous retort to Oprah about the need to re-read “That, my dear, is called reading.” Off the Reservation has something for everyone, whether it is graphic and gross body horror, symbolic metaphors to counter the stereotypes and racism that Indians experience and to challenge the myths of America’s westward expansion, and the distinct voice of literary horror’s most inventive stylist. However, this is probably not a book for everyone, but it is a rewarding book if readers are willing to re-read and work to make meaning of the depth of Graham Jones’s surreal and metaphorical vision.

Off the Reservation is much different from The Only Good Indians even though it features some of the same characters. Where The Only Good Indians also featured multiple characters, whose stories were told in different sections, Off the Reservation also features multiple distinct characters whose stories intersect as they are all taking part on a road trip mission in an old Sundancer Camper RV to travel from Montana to Carlisle, Pa., site of the notorious Carlisle Indian School, whose founder, Richard Henry Pratt, explained the mission of the school to “Kill the Indian, save the man”, and as it’s been found out, the school often took this motto literally with over 200 marked and unmarked graves found around the school grounds. The Only Good Indians felt a lot like It to me as there were several friends who experienced a kind of trauma when they were younger that eventually came to haunt them. Off the Reservation feels like something else entirely. At first, I thought that with the road trip in the RV, there where hints of Doctor Sleep’s True Knot, but a kind of inverse to Crow Daddy, since these Indians were all attempting to repatriate the bones of a boy who died at the Carlisle Indian School, not take the lifeforce from younger kids. However, Off the Reservation also reminded me of Sherman Alexie’s excellent short story “This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona” where the trip becomes more than just travelling, but it functions as a way to reconnect with indigenous culture and heritage while also confronting stereotypes and racism. Maybe I’m just looking too much into these similarities since these were not books that Graham Jones mentioned in the acknowledgement section, but I loved the way the road trip played out. Beyond these literary connections, Off the Reservation’s horror is what really sets it apart from other books. I also loved The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, and that book also included some graphic details, but it was framed as a kind of vampire novel, whereas Off the Reservation features a demonic spirit that ends up possessing members of the trip and causing extreme instances of body horror. Other characters, notably Christiana/Christian, experience their own violence and body horror, with a brutal attack at a rest stop that leaves them without a tongue, which is eventually replaced by a synthetic tongue that is attached by magnets, which Christiana/Christian keeps in a hollowed-out bible to help with finding their voice. This might be my favorite character in the book, and they are definitely one of the more symbolic characters, who loses their voice to a kind of settler violence, and struggles to communicate throughout the rest of the book. Although one could argue that it’s the other characters and us who struggle to understand them, and that Christiana/Christian have developed their own language despite the efforts of others to try to silence them or replace their voice with a synthetic facsimile kept in a Christian box. There’s many of these kinds of symbolic incidents throughout the novel, whether it is characters questioning the cleanliness of blankets and refusing to use them or even the voice of Russell Means showing up to talk through the body of Nurse Seine (I also loved Graham Jones’s aside “It was the same clipped-but-controlled delivery from the 1989 Senate hearings that he always showed class, to try to foment what might need fomenting. Eighteen minutes of prepared remarks: restrained but angry, persuasive but demanding, eloquent but in that reservation accent, AIMing (my emphasis) for the bullseye and hitting it line after line- a hero if there ever was one.”). Although Nurse Seine has her own motivations for bringing Nate out to the Carlisle Indian School, I felt bad for everything that she experiences throughout the novel. She’s repeatedly punished through the possession, and it reminded me a lot of the Evil Dead movies where there is horror, gore, but also a bit of surreal slapstick and over-the-top body horror. Graham Jones definitely puts her through the wringer throughout this book.

Although I’ve written a good amount about this book, I haven’t even really addressed the plot of the book, and it’s a little challenging since this book starts out with Nate and his friend Sebby looking to burglarize a kind of lake vacation home, only to end up in a car accident. Prior to the accident, Nate sees what he thinks are tiny deer that may have been recording the burglary, which he later witnesses on a videotape of the film War Party, which apparently is a real film that takes place on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. I also loved how this locally made film ends up playing a kind of surreal role where Nate struggles to understand the truth of history and the fictions of the myths that many believe. The film plays on a loop throughout their road trip, and Nate witnesses changes in the film, whether it’s Sebby’s sudden appearance in the film or seeing the moments before the accident that heavily damaged Nate’s skull and sent Sebby into a coma. While recuperating in the hospital, Nate’s nurse, Nurse Seine, ends up helping him with his recovery, and eventually encouraging him to join the road trip to Carlisle and eventually join the Dakota pipeline protests on their way back to Montana (I think). The story shifts from Nate and Sebby’s antics to start the novel, to Nate’s difficult recovery, and eventually the long journey out to Carlisle, and while the group of Indians in the Sundancer RV cover many miles in their journey, most of the action takes place within the RV, with some occasional rest stops and when they eventually reach their destination of Carlisle. I can’t really give more details about this incredible book without really spoiling too much of it; however, the story shifts to a possession story, which apparently Graham Jones was learning the rules of with his grad seminar on possession stories (which I would have loved to take- this sounds like an amazing course; hopefully he at least releases the syllabus). I’m still trying to make sense of the book and many of the wild events that took place after they reach Carlisle, but if readers appreciate unique stories that take common tropes and reinvent them, then they will most likely appreciate this inventive and original book. It is a challenging read, mostly because of Graham Jones’s unique style, with his long, complex sentences and stream-of-consciousness narration of multiple characters who are in the RV. It’s a rewarding read for those who want to venture Off the Reservation and challenge themselves, but it may not be for everyone. Much like he did with The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, Graham Jones experiments with form and style, taking horror staples like the vampire or demons who look for a human host to create a unique and original story that reinvents monsters and challenges stereotypes and historical myths. Graham Jones has created a wild road trip that I didn’t want to end, but I really enjoyed the ride. Highly recommended! Many thanks to Saga Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of this amazing book! 

Race, Robots, and Popular Culture: We Radiant Things by Franny Choi

 We Radiant Things: Notes on Being Alien and Becoming Cyborg by Franny Choi

We Radiant Things book cover

Author and Poet Franny Choi

I recently read David Treuer’s The Savage Mind, which is a fascinating book that asks us to reconsider the ideas of savagery and civilization throughout American history. Treuer referred to literary critic Northrop Frye in a part of the book that resonated with me. Treuer emphasized the differences between a historian and a poet by noting that “history (and historians) tackle what has happened. But poets (and poetry) look at ‘a kind of thing that might happen’…The poet’s job is not to tell you what happened, but what happens: not what did take place, but the kind of thing that always does take place. [She} gives you the typical, recurring, or what Aristotle calls the universal event.” I really liked this distinction, as it is a reminder of not only the importance of artists to complement the historical record, but also how important their perspectives and deep, personal understanding is for interpreting and making meaning to events, whether they are well-known or experienced by individuals. Franny Choi’s excellent new collection of essays We Radiant Things: Notes on Being Alien and Becoming Cyborg made me think again about Treuer’s points about the role of poets in providing more context and a more nuanced look at events, especially as we are continually inundated with various perspectives of different events, media and entertainment. Choi, who is also a poet, provides interesting perspectives on a wide range of topics, frequently critiquing how robots, aliens, cyborgs and other popular figures in sci-fi and horror are often coded as representations of Asian, and particularly Asian females. She examines popular films, shows, and even music to explore these representations, how they have impacted her own identity and how others perceive her, as well as how these representations are not necessarily new, but rather an evolution in the racialized portrayals of Asians that have led to exploitative practices and treatment in labor, employment, education, relationships, and sex. Choi begins the essay with an analysis of Kyoko from 2014’s Ex Machina, examining how Kyoko’s silence and subservient portrayals rely on her racial ambiguity and Japanese name. In an interesting twist, Kyoko ultimately kills the man responsible for her creation, yet Choi explores how Kyoko’s portrayal of a mute, obedient “other” has been shaped by stereotypes and myths about Asian women that have persisted for many years. I’ve only seen Ex Machina once, and I was blown away by the story, but I was more focused on Ava’s role in the story. Choi’s observations and analysis (and apparently a recut of the film with only the scenes of Kyoko) provided a new understanding and perspective, like the kind that Treuer argues poets bring to events. For what it’s worth, Alex Garland, the writer and director of Ex Machina, has worked with Sonoya Mizuno, the actress who plays Kyoko, in a few other projects, notably Devs, where she plays the lead role of Lily Chan, a software engineer trying to uncover the mysterious death of her boyfriend. Regardless, Choi identifies other portrayals of these kinds of racialized portrayals where a future in society is often portrayed as a dystopian Chinatown, like Blade Runner. It’s definitely something I’ve noticed, and with the recent reveal that the coding for The Matrix was taken from a Japanese cookbook, we can see how sci-fi filmmakers have often portrayed the future as an exotic other, like Edward Said’s argument about the West’s portrayal of other cultures, particularly in the Middle East and Asia as distorted and inferior, a portrayal that continues to play out not just in popular culture, but in policies and programs, unfortunately.

I found Choi’s analysis of cyborg films to be particularly interesting, as she brings her own personal interest to films like Ghost in the Machine and Terminator 2: Judgement Day. I loved her writing about T2, which I remember seeing in the theater. Choi recounts how this film became a favorite of her father’s and a family staple, but also notes it’s particular connection to Korean immigrant culture with the film’s themes of “good machines” and “bad machines.” Again, I appreciated the perspective she brings to analyzing this film, exploring scenes where Edward Furlong as an adolescent John Connor is trying to teach Arnold Schwartzenegger’s T800 to speak with some slang and idioms, almost like an immigrant learning to use American phrases and idioms. However, as Choi notes, the appearance of Robert Patrick’s T1000, who can mimic other’s appearances and takes the form of a police officer, provides some insight into the struggles of immigrants and other minorities with cultural assimilation. This was definitely not a reading I took when I saw the film as a teen, but I loved reading about how Choi’s viewings of the film have evolved over the years, and how this idea about good machines and bad machines resonated with her own experiences as a child of immigrants. Nevertheless, Choi grounds her understanding of these machines in the historical accounts of immigrant Chinese workers who helped to build the transcontinental railroad and were largely characterized by their machinelike work ethic and lack of complaining or pushback. Choi also explores how this view was often pushed by those who exploited the precarious nature of these immigrants’ work and later ended up implementing the Chinese exclusion act, also based on the portrayal of Asian countries as “the other”, a dangerous kind of image of the West. This was also resonant as we are currently witnessing a calculated and systemic backlash against immigrants, often relying on tired and reckless stereotypes that not only cast immigrant groups as backwards or uncivilized, but also as threatening to American’s jobs and culture. As Treuer noted in The Savage Mind, it’s the ability of these stereotypes that induce fear of the loss of status and culture among other things that leads to violence, whether it is institutional violence through policies or physical violence that Choi also documents against Asian Americans through the brutal murder of Vincent Chin in 1982 in Detroit.

Where Choi’s writing especially stood out to me was in her chapter “Love, Death, and Pink Robots” that explores how the Flaming Lips came to write one of their most iconic albums Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Like Choi, this album also has significant memories for me from the summer of 2002 and beyond. I was struck by the beautiful descriptions of the music for both the song “Fight Test” that opens the album and “Do You Realize”, which still nearly brings me to tears every time I hear it. Choi’s music writing includes some of the most aural elements, fitting for a poet: “The track begins with a simple four-chord progression on acoustic guitar, which warps at the end of each phrase. In the back ground, what sounds like a slide guitar (actually a pitch-bending whammy pedal) evokes cowgirls pining in space.” There are some other amazingly-apt descriptions of the sounds that Coyne and Company evoke throughout their iconic album, like “The key changes, and the strange chorus of Wayne Coyne’s sixteen cloned voices rises to fill the space around my heart again.” While Choi contrasts Yoshimi’s role in the song as a Japanese woman who fights the automation, possibly challenging the stereotypes of the female Asian automaton, she also notes how Yoshimi is relegated to parts of the other songs, without having much to do with any theme of this kind of resistance and challenging stereotypes throughout the entirety of the album. Similarly, she notes the smaller image of Yoshimi on the cover of the album, nearly dwarfed by the pink robots. Choi does share her heartbreaking connection with the song “Do You Realize”, one of the saddest and most beautiful songs about the eventuality of death. I won’t give the details here, I loved the way that Choi explores how the meaning of the song and its heartbreak take her back to different eras of her life from 2003 to 2009 to 2025. While she connects the album to her main themes, it’s also one of the enjoyable connections she makes with these forms of popular media that have influenced her interests in robots and Asian American culture.

Another chapter and observation that stood out to me was “Ghost in the Shell (Intensive Care)” where Choi recounts the last days she spent with her mother, who was hospitalized in Italy after an aneurysm burst, kept alive by a respirator and hooked up to machines. As someone who experienced a dying parent in the hospital, attached to machines, I can relate, and Choi explores how these machines that seem so inhuman and artificial can actually keep us alive and help us perform integral functions. Like her reflection on the Flaming Lips’ song, this is another beautifully written but heart wrenching experience that Choi manages to capture all the confusing and intense emotions that she experienced. Yet, she also envisions her mother as Kusanagi from Ghost in the Machine, and how her cybernetic connection enables her to have a new view of consciousness. In another chapter, she explores how she has a similar conflicted relationship with technology, and how she’s harnessed the power of spreadsheets to be “the bionic arms I use to keep up with the work, to run alongside the assembly line, or maybe, to outpace my alienation and disgust.” Choi explores this complicated relationship and how technology has become like a cybernetic extension of ourselves which we rely on to survive (or maybe it’s feeding off of us, harvesting something from us).

I wasn’t sure what to expect from We Radiant Things. I am fascinated by this idea of cyborgs and robots and their portrayal in popular culture, and Franny Choi’s observations and analysis helped to challenge some of those perceptions, especially in how they are often tied to portrayals of Asians, Asian Americans, and especially Asian women. However, she also draws from her own personal experiences, which create a more intimate, funny, sad, and heartfelt rendering of these portrayals and instances. I really enjoyed learning more about how these portrayals have affected her identity, and how she challenges many of these roles by analyzing them. I would also love to take her class “Race, Robots, and Asian American Literature” or “Poetry and Technology”, since some of the work from these essays probably informs her teaching. This is a wonderful collection that will hopefully provide new insights into looking at the implications of how robots, cyborgs and technology are represented on the screen and in popular culture. Many thanks to Ecco Publishers and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of this wonderful book. Highly recommended!