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... in Afghanistan or at home.
Why Do They Hate Us?
It has everything to do with U.S. policy.
Qatar stops making sense.
Creeping Authoritarianism.
Back Talk
Y'all enjoying the war?
Appall-o-Meter
With "economic stimulus," Republicans reward their most loyal constituents.
Arms reduction doesn't mask race toward missile defense.
Arrested Development
Brits crack down on civil liberties.
Truth Before Freedom
Death Row inmate turns down state's attorney's offer
In Person
Diane Wilson: An unreasonable woman.
Art and lies.
Words for an Afterlife
Tahar Djaout's Last Summer of Reason.
Art and Shadow
Death and painting in Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul.
Salman Rushdie does New York.
Lost in Transit
V.S. Naipaul's comic journey.
The Corrections of Jonathan Franzen.
The Lonely Tribune
Victor Serge's revolution.
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November 21, 2001
Mad About the City
t wasnt so long ago that New York City seemed to throb with an indefatigable
pulse of trivial ephemera, but reading Fury, Salman Rushdies eighth novel,
makes that city feel ever more distant. Yet if youre feeling sentimental
about the New York that once wasand will never be again, as some have
gloomily declaredbeware that Fury wont take you back to a fun, blitzed-out
version of the city that never sleeps. Actually, it doesnt sum up New
York at all, unless you think the Big Apple is merely and only a vibrantly vapid,
regurgitative and derivative mess. Professor Malik Solanka, creator of a popular animated BBC program featuring
a group of lofty-minded, intellectually curious dolls (the princess of them
dubbed Little Brain), has escaped to New York, leaving behind a
patient-to-saintly-proportions wife and idolizing son. He prays for New York
to swallow him whole with its furious media obsession and caustic anonymity.
Its a fury not unlike the nameless one that sent him fleeing his comfortable
London surroundings; Solanka awoke startled one night holding a knife above
his wife and child. Feeling he was no longer in control of his behavior, he
left with little explanation. Rushdie draws many parallels between Solankas creations, which eventually
spin out of his control due to rampant success, and Solankas lack of control
over himself, or more precisely, his varied reinventions of self. First, Malik,
or Solly, was full ivory-tower material, then he became a family
man, and, finally, attained mainstream success, antipode of his former self.
How to reconcile the needs of all three? Running away from them seems to be
Solankas cowardly but sympathetic response. ut Rushdie ultimately abandons this war of the self in favor of chasing the
tail of something far more ubiquitous yet even more elusive. For one, he tries
to pin down the very nature of pop culture, prompting readers all over the world
to cover their eyes and wait for the inevitable collision: Its typically
not a pretty thing when a literary writer of a certain stripe tries to discern
the popular vagaries of P. Diddy or Lara Croft. And Rushdie is no different,
especially considering he seems to completely disdain them. But could it be,
as they say, that hate is the closest emotion to love? It appears the author behind such works as Midnights Children and The
Satanic Verses brought pop culture into the mix to sneer at its woeful insipidness
and short-term memory while also borrowing some of its best tricks. Rushdie
doesnt know whether to condemn the culture and our fascination with it
as intellectually bankrupt, or to throw up his hands and pronounce it merely
all good fun. Some of the names, events (large and small) and whateverisms that
Rushdie name-drops in an attempt to create a uniquely American tapestry: Jar
Jar Binks, Max Headroom, Charlie Rose, Tiger Woods, SUVs, Zagats, I Cant
Believe Its Not Butter, Amazon.com, plus a whole host of other stars so
famous we know them on a first-name basis (Gwynnie, Tom and Nic, et cetera). Its not unreasonable to suggest that most of us read to escape just the
type of torrential maelstrom Rushdie inflicts upon us throughout Fury. While
an author should feel no hesitation to pull in any influence, whether deemed
high or low, if Andrew Cunanan and Monica Lewinsky are going to storm the set
of a novel, they better be there for a damn good reason. But Rushdie never makes
a good case for why these blighted characters need to be on the scene. He seems
to have them on hand chiefly to impress us that he can be part of the literary
set and know what the kids like, too. Worst of all, he tries to find genuine parallels between his creation and tabloid
fascinations like Elián González: Solanka felt more than
ever like a refugee in a small boat, caught between surging tides: reason and
unreason, war and peace, the future and the past. Or like a boy in a rubber
ring who watched his mother slip under the black water and drown. It may
be an impressive hat trick to empty two years worth of People magazine into
your novel, but is it worth it? ushdie seems so inspired by pop cultures way of juggling several middling
crises and curiosities at once that he clogged Fury with several middling and
curious subplots. And some quite good ones that you wish couldve been
salvaged for their own book: In the best one, Solanka meets his match in Mila
Milo, a dead ringer for his star creation, Little Brain. Mila is one of the
books most fully realized characters; manipulative and icily intelligent,
she is Rushdies most successful attempt to elucidate the clutches of pop
culture. This young woman who hangs around on stoops in Solankas Manhattan
neighborhood actually convinces the reader of her media savvy, though her dialogue
is still harangued by a sense of overcompensation. (I am privileged to
lead the most fashion-forward geek posse in New York, and when I say geek, Professor,
I mean genius. These kids are the coolest, and when I say cool I mean hot.) Mila is most interesting because of her role as muse, daughter and phantom
lover in Solankas life. She tells Solanka about her powers of rehabilitationSome
people do up houses. I renovate people. And he takes her up on the offer.
Solanka is not only being attacked by the citys relentless furies and
his own inward ones, his anger has manifested itself in bursts of invective
and limited but frightening exhibitions of violencewhich he cant
remember. Whats particularly disturbing about Solankas violent blackouts
is that New York has been recently plagued by a series of murders perpetrated
by a mysterious, concrete-block-wielding madman who slinks around the city in
a Panama hat and linen suit, much as Solanka does. Its the books
most fascinating subplot: Could this man have reinvented himself to the point
of self-isolation and, ultimately, self-alienation? Could the very nature of
his personality, his innate goodness, despite acknowledged traits of hypocrisy
and cowardice, have frayed so badly as to expose the heart and soul of a psychopath? But just as Mila seems to be getting down to the nitty-gritty of whats
eating Solanka, and were at the top of our concern for his well-being,
Rushdie squelches it in favor of chasing down yet another character and subplot.
This particular entry in Fury is downright embarrassing: Enter Neela Mahendra,
a thinly veiled stand-in for Rushdies real-life girlfriend, Padma Lakshmi,
a stunning Indian model/actress/bestselling cookbook author with a scar on her
arm (theres a real-life ex-wife and son back in England, too). Likewise,
Neela is a stunning, scarred, multi-talented beauty, and Rushdie wont
let us forget her awesome and completely transfixing powers, as he reduces men
in her company to bumbling fools prone to stutters and traffic accidents. If this slapstick hyperbole was the tone for the whole of Fury, it might still
be indulgent but pardonable. Instead its only awkward, especially once
Neela is transformed into a martyr while documenting the struggles for independence
in her fictitious Third World homeland. This is where Solanka notes the local
obsession with all things American and how success is measured by whether youre
known in the Western world. American success, Rushdie writes, had
become the only real validation of ones worth. Whatever American success may mean, it seems Rushdie let a certain definition
of it get the best of his efforts. Fury ultimately drowns in the very thing
it seems to critique. Margaret Wappler also writes for Venus magazine and the Chicago
alternative weekly Newcity. |