The Literary Hoax Week in review
It's only Tuesday, but what a week it's been!
Yesterday's New York Times article exposing the whole JT Leroy lah-di-dah only served to kick-start the week, because today, along came a brand new item about James Frey's torrid rehab tale (and Oprah Book Club Favorite) A Million Little Pieces being more of a fiction piece than an actual memoir.
Jayson Blair, eat your heart out. We have two new winners. Or four, actually, if you count all the people allegedly involved with the JT Leroy debacle.
Some would question whether or not this is actually a debacle. Some might say it was a brilliantly-executed coup, almost Warhol-esque. But for me, Denzel Washington's speech in Spike Lee's Malcolm X springs to mind - the part where he's telling the crowd, "You've been hoodwinked! Bamboozled!"
Now, I've not read James Frey's books, so we'll politely steer clear of any musings about him or his literary credibility. But my friend Luke, whom I've known since the 8th grade and who's always been an astute observer and skeptic, mentioned earlier today that he was suspicious from the start about the "reclusive" author, JT Leroy. Hell, I wish he'd warned me. I never saw this one coming. Sure, the wig, hat and sunglasses always struck me as unnecessary and silly, in those rare photographs I'd seen - images of a mysterious blonde androgyne who evoked eerie memories of Boy George in his "Fuck Me Stupid" heroin phase (the first go-round) - and Michael Caine's character in "Dressed To Kill." Seeing these pictures, I remember thinking, "Surely with that bit of money rolling in, you can come up with a better wardrobe than that?"
But no, I've been totally buffaloed by the whole thing - and am also late getting in on the big, not-so-secret joke, apparently. Back in October, New York Magazine printed an article claiming that a musician by the name of Laura Albert was actually the one writing under the pen name of JT Leroy, even going so far as to fake a West Virginia accent during interviews. The New York Times article from yesterday also reported that the person making the rounds as the public JT Leroy was the half-sister of Geoffrey Knoop, partner of Laura Albert.
Despite being unsure of what to make of all this, "Sarah" is still one of the most well-written and disturbingly fabulous books I've ever read - what with the the deified, electrified jackalope and the raccoon penis-bone necklaces, and the colorfully horrific existence of a lot lizard, seen through the eyes of a child who only craves the love of his absent prostitute mother and whose customers drive in from miles away to worship at the altar of his pre-Lolita charm. "Sarah" certainly isn't for everyone, but if you were crazy for those lurid 70's and 80's teen paperbacks like "Go Ask Alice," "Making It," "Run, Shelley, Run!" and "Kathleen, Please Come Home," it picks right up where those left off, only knocking a few years off the protagonists' ages and trebling it, maybe even giving it a big dose of windowpane.
Despite the irony of its title, I'd also love to read "The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things." Asia Argento, the Italian sex bomb and daughter of horror director Dario, even directed a film adaptation of it, which includes Lydia Lunch in a small role. The title has always had a touch of Flannery O'Connor or Tennessee Williams about it, too, which makes these new claims seem even more hideous and painful.
Normally I'd be thinking that this was pretty punk rawk - fabricating a whole literary persona and publishing a few acclaimed books while attracting hordes of fawning celebrities wanting to take me shopping or on monthly trips to Amsterdam - but my opinion of the people who pulled this off is pretty low, mainly because of how they played the HIV and transgender cards, milking those for all they were worth. I mean, really. That's just morally repugnant. Especially when there are already plenty of artists and writers out there who deal with these issues on a daily basis - only without money, medicine, food, a publisher, a solid support system, and famous friends fighting to be the first ones to help out when their writer friend runs into a spot of trouble.
Then again, humorless little me, who the fuck am I? They got their novel published, and they're probably richer than I'll ever be, so screw it.
I can't help but wonder what Mary Karr and Sharon Olds think of their little 'protege' now, though. Inquiring minds want to know.
Yesterday's New York Times article exposing the whole JT Leroy lah-di-dah only served to kick-start the week, because today, along came a brand new item about James Frey's torrid rehab tale (and Oprah Book Club Favorite) A Million Little Pieces being more of a fiction piece than an actual memoir.
Jayson Blair, eat your heart out. We have two new winners. Or four, actually, if you count all the people allegedly involved with the JT Leroy debacle.
Some would question whether or not this is actually a debacle. Some might say it was a brilliantly-executed coup, almost Warhol-esque. But for me, Denzel Washington's speech in Spike Lee's Malcolm X springs to mind - the part where he's telling the crowd, "You've been hoodwinked! Bamboozled!"
Now, I've not read James Frey's books, so we'll politely steer clear of any musings about him or his literary credibility. But my friend Luke, whom I've known since the 8th grade and who's always been an astute observer and skeptic, mentioned earlier today that he was suspicious from the start about the "reclusive" author, JT Leroy. Hell, I wish he'd warned me. I never saw this one coming. Sure, the wig, hat and sunglasses always struck me as unnecessary and silly, in those rare photographs I'd seen - images of a mysterious blonde androgyne who evoked eerie memories of Boy George in his "Fuck Me Stupid" heroin phase (the first go-round) - and Michael Caine's character in "Dressed To Kill." Seeing these pictures, I remember thinking, "Surely with that bit of money rolling in, you can come up with a better wardrobe than that?"
But no, I've been totally buffaloed by the whole thing - and am also late getting in on the big, not-so-secret joke, apparently. Back in October, New York Magazine printed an article claiming that a musician by the name of Laura Albert was actually the one writing under the pen name of JT Leroy, even going so far as to fake a West Virginia accent during interviews. The New York Times article from yesterday also reported that the person making the rounds as the public JT Leroy was the half-sister of Geoffrey Knoop, partner of Laura Albert.
Despite being unsure of what to make of all this, "Sarah" is still one of the most well-written and disturbingly fabulous books I've ever read - what with the the deified, electrified jackalope and the raccoon penis-bone necklaces, and the colorfully horrific existence of a lot lizard, seen through the eyes of a child who only craves the love of his absent prostitute mother and whose customers drive in from miles away to worship at the altar of his pre-Lolita charm. "Sarah" certainly isn't for everyone, but if you were crazy for those lurid 70's and 80's teen paperbacks like "Go Ask Alice," "Making It," "Run, Shelley, Run!" and "Kathleen, Please Come Home," it picks right up where those left off, only knocking a few years off the protagonists' ages and trebling it, maybe even giving it a big dose of windowpane.
Despite the irony of its title, I'd also love to read "The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things." Asia Argento, the Italian sex bomb and daughter of horror director Dario, even directed a film adaptation of it, which includes Lydia Lunch in a small role. The title has always had a touch of Flannery O'Connor or Tennessee Williams about it, too, which makes these new claims seem even more hideous and painful.
Normally I'd be thinking that this was pretty punk rawk - fabricating a whole literary persona and publishing a few acclaimed books while attracting hordes of fawning celebrities wanting to take me shopping or on monthly trips to Amsterdam - but my opinion of the people who pulled this off is pretty low, mainly because of how they played the HIV and transgender cards, milking those for all they were worth. I mean, really. That's just morally repugnant. Especially when there are already plenty of artists and writers out there who deal with these issues on a daily basis - only without money, medicine, food, a publisher, a solid support system, and famous friends fighting to be the first ones to help out when their writer friend runs into a spot of trouble.
Then again, humorless little me, who the fuck am I? They got their novel published, and they're probably richer than I'll ever be, so screw it.
I can't help but wonder what Mary Karr and Sharon Olds think of their little 'protege' now, though. Inquiring minds want to know.
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 12:06 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home