Five Minute Interview

For reasons I can't begin to fathom, I have been interviewed by Kathryn Koromilas. She has been posting a series of Five Miniute Interviews with various writers. They were given five questions and had to spend no more than a minute answering each one. The results have been most varied and interesting.

Anyway, you can click here to read my Five Minute Interview.

I maybe should have waited until I was in a better mood before answering the questions... but then we could have all been waiting an awful long time.

While you are at it, why not read the more Five Minute Interviews with legit writers:

• Shelley Marlow
• Stewart Sumner
• Vanessa Gebbie
• Omar Clew
• Myfanwy Collins
• Xujun Eberlein
• Alicia Gifford
• Lydia Theys
• Ed Touchette
• Ellen Meister
• Forrest Trescot
• Roger Morris

Robert Altman 1925-2006

I was greatly saddened to hear about Robert Altman's death on Monday night at the age of 81. He was unique in American cinema, a director who built up stories from mostly improvised and overlapping dialogue. It was a technique that didn't always work but when it did it was wonderful. Besides, he was so prolific that if one of his films didn't succeed then there would be another one along in no time.

I'm not a huge fan of Raymond Carver but I loved Altman's take on his work in Short Cuts. The Player is delightfully vicious, a treat for movie buffs with an ingenious twist at the end. I wish all period dramas were as entertaining and engrossing as Gosford Park. And then there is M*A*S*H, Nashville, McCabe & Mrs. Miller, The Long Goodbye...

So, thank you, Bob, for all the great films you gave us. Rest well - you've earned it.

"Aw, it's a pity, really. I thought it was a good idea to have someone in the house who is actually sorry he's dead."
- Constance Trentham (Maggie Smith), Gosford Park

NaNot

I had intended to take part in National Novel Writing Month again this year, really I did; but here we are, a third of the way through November and I ain't written a single bleedin' word. I haven't even got any ideas, not for a novel, not even for a short story. Mind's a blank.

I'm not especially bothered by this: I often go through prolonged periods of creative drought. It's not so bad, though, because it means I get a lot of reading done. I am nearing the end of Christopher Priest's The Prestige. My chum Jai introduced me to Priest earlier this year by recommending The Affirmation, a wonderful book that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, raises questions of identity, and can also be read as an insightful description of schizophrenia. Then I heard that The Prestige was being adapted for the screen by Christopher Nolan, he of Following, Memento and Batman Begins fame. I wanted to read more of Priest's work and, as I usually like to read the novel before I see the film, I got myself a copy of The Prestige. Like The Affirmation, The Prestige starts off in a deceptively straightforward way but Priest is a master of confounding your expectations. Just when you think you know exactly what is going on, he turns everything on its head and makes you question everything that has gone before. I have about 40 pages left to read and I am itching to see how it all ends.

I was excited to hear that Christopher Nolan would be tackling a Priest novel. Nolan has proved with his first four films that he is a most intelligent director fascinated by messing with the perceptions of the audience. Interestingly, the reviews for Nolan's movie have been pretty evenly split between those who have praised it as a superior piece of cinematic sleight-of-hand and those who have condemned it as an interminably boring piece of garbage. So I really don't know what to expect: will it be a step forward for one of the most interesting young directors working today that faithfully transfers the spirit of Priest's writing to the big screen or has Nolan fluffed it and produced his first dud movie? I shall find out soon... but only once I have finished the novel, obviously.

Paul Auster: art is useless

Paul Auster, writing in today's Observer, neatly sums up my own feelings about writing and the creation of art in general:

In other words, art is useless, at least when compared, say, to the work of a plumber, or a doctor, or a railroad engineer. But is uselessness a bad thing? Does a lack of practical purpose mean that books and paintings and string quartets are simply a waste of our time? Many people think so. But I would argue that it is the very uselessness of art that gives it its value and that the making of art is what distinguishes us from all other creatures who inhabit this planet, that it is, essentially, what defines us as human beings.

This put me in mind of the words of Oscar Wilde:

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite uselss.

You can read the full Auster article here.