Good friend and fine writer Patricia McNair started a new series on her blog in which she features a different writer each Monday. I was honored to kick off the series. It's pretty cool. Check it out HERE.

Iron Man Rusted Out

If I read a dog of a book, I won’t write about it. Books are hard enough to sell without bloggers piling on. But I don’t have any problem trashing the waste of celluloid that is Iron Man 3 because this little post won’t register a blip.

This first two Iron Man installments were briskly paced and suspenseful and well written, so my hopes were high. But this most recent effort is a mess.

I’m going to give away surprises, dumb as they may be, so fair warning.

Iron Man this time around suffers from insomnia and panic attacks. Why, I’m not sure. To humanize him? His banter and witty asides accomplished this pretty well in the first two movies. Okay, so he suffers panic and post-traumatic stress; let’s see where this goes. As it turns out, his attacks come only during down times! Let the guy freak out in the middle of a battle.

Speaking of banter, this time it’s overdone and poorly written and nearly always forced. The rare instance where the banter is even remotely endearing is when Tony Stark (Iron Man) bluntly says goodbye to a boy who has saved his ass. The kid expects the usual adult advice, but Stark pretty much tells him to stop feeling sorry himself. The moment is ruined at the end, however, when Stark arranges to have the kid’s garage souped up with tools and gadgets and a new car that he won’t be able to drive for a few years. It’s a touching gesture, but only until you recall that the kid’s father left him six years ago. The kid needs guidance and time, not some rich guy’s charity.

The bad guys are pretty bad, but it’s hard to understand why they’re so indestructible. They begin as regular old humans but their DNA is manipulated and they rapidly evolve, but they become iron sturdy for some reason—and also superheated, on command no less. You never quite know what their superpower is.

In terms of Iron Man’s superpowers, he can now control the iron suit remotely. Why would he ever suit up and risk his life if he can do this? And we find out by the end that he’s built an army of these suits and sics them on the bad guys, which makes for an unevenly matched battle and effectively drains the drama. All we have left is the individual battles, and I’m okay with that. But even here, the good guys use some ultimate swipes or press some backup remote thing, which makes you wonder why they didn’t simply use those backup things in the first place. And why Iron Man decides to don or slip out of his iron suit is mostly incomprehensible—other than when he has to charge the suit. I’ll buy that. But why does he need to charge the suit if he has all these reserve suits that come out in the end?

The special effects are okay. But when the rest of the movie is dumb, the effects become only mildly entertaining.

The only true highlight: Ben Kingsley. His role could easily be a forgettable one, but he ranges from sinister to amusing to clueless. The guy is brilliant.

So how much money has this movie made? Save yours.

As I plowed through the 467 pages of Bruce by Peter Ames Carlin, I wondered if readers who are not fans of the Boss would enjoy this book as much as I did. I’m still not sure, but I think so. The writing is excellent, the insights are deep and earned, and the balance is even. Carlin had access to Springsteen but was free to write what he wanted. The result is a compelling story of a driven neighborhood guy with talent up the wazoo and his own unique set of issues.

Sometimes when the unattractive underbelly of a person is revealed, the warts taint the reader’s admiration, which happened when I read bios of Kurt Vonnegut and Frank Sinatra. By the end, I’d had enough of those guys. But with Bruce, the flaws, thorny as they are at times, only serve to highlight Springsteen’s unwavering commitment to his music. It’s downright inspiring.

Here’s what I mean. Usually when I read biographies, I’m intrigued by turning points. If Paul had never met John, that’s that. No Beatles. No pandemonium. They may have enjoyed moderate success as musicians in clubs or wherever. But with Springsteen, you get the overwhelming impression that key turning points didn’t matter. If this producer had not given him some break, then some other one would. I’m not talking about fate or karma or anything of that nature. I’m referring to drive and talent and an original voice, meaning lyrical too, that must be heard. Someone could argue that he still needed certain conditions in order to thrive. For instance, his mother took out a loan to buy Springsteen his first guitar. She took out a loan! But I would counter that his insistence was more critical. He wore her down. And if she hadn’t relented, he would have gotten the guitar through other means.

A couple of examples of his single-mindedness. About a year after the success of his seminal album Born to Run, he’s standing outside a bar, unable to scrounge from his pocket the $3 cover charge. He’s so immersed in composing and performing that mundane concerns over money barely faze him. Typically, when he finishes a show, he’d rather move on to the next city than to lounge around. Lounging around means he’s one step removed from the music.

Reading the two pages about his speech at the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas, is worth the price of the book. The speech reminds me of the kind of graduation speech we never hear but should.

If you’ve never been to a Springsteen concert—first of all, what’s wrong with you?—you may wonder if this biographer’s praise of his performances is overblown. I’d suggest you find out for yourself. Go to a concert. Become a convert. Then you’ll want to read this book. If you are a fan, you’ve probably already read this book. If not, what’s wrong with you?

The World of a Few Minutes Ago
 Jack Driscoll

Why have I never heard of Jack Driscoll before now? This is a remarkable collection of short stories full of characters struggling to navigate the world. The characters remind me of the ones you might find in a Raymond Carver story, but Driscoll imbues them with more nuance. And his endings are more satisfying than Carver’s—which is great praise because I love those Carver stories. Probably a more apt comparison might be with Ethan Canin, another guy who knows a little about writing. It came as no surprise when I discovered that Driscoll also writes poetry. The language in these stories is rich and precise and always moving.

When Captain Flint Was Still a Good Man
Nick Dybek


This book might be the most ambitious of the four. The novel spans only a few years in the life of the narrator, who becomes an unwitting custodian of an imprisoned man. But the scope seems much grander, as haunting as some Shakespearian drama. I think this is Dybek’s first novel, so you can expect to hear much more from him.

The Lighthouse Road
Peter Geye

This is another ambitious book, the action shifting from one generation to another. I hesitate to call this a historical novel because it’s driven mainly by character, but this feels historical because the details are so precise, and the language seems to emerge from some deep place, as if the author immersed himself so completely with the past that the very language he uses evokes the rhythm of how people actually spoke in Minnesota in the 1890s and the 1920s. I love this book, which turns out to be a book about the indelible ties that bind families. The ending is earned and poignant and wholly satisfying.

     

Are You Happy Now?
Richard Babcock

This is a Chicago book through and through, written by a Chicago guy who knows the city well. The characters are endearing, the setting is gritty and evocative, the plot is engaging—a real page-turner. Of all the books, this one, for me, evoked the most emotion by the end. I was really rooting for this down-on-his-luck publisher searching for his big break, only to find that maybe other outcomes might be more important. Oh, and it’s mainly a love story!