Edgar Allan Poe's detective fiction

"Dupin was a very inferior fellow...by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine" - Sherlock Holmes on C. Auguste Dupin

It's interesting that Arthur Conan Doyle chose to have Sherlock Holmes make such a remark in his very first outing. When you compare the Holmes canon to Edgar Allan Poe's C. Auguste Dupin trilogy, the comments come across as a defense mechanism against comparisons between the two detectives. After all, Poe's 'The Murder in the Rue Morgue' first appeared in 1841 - almost fifty years before A Study in Scarlet was published in Beeton's Christmas Annual 1887 - and established a template that Conan Doyle clearly paid close attention to: after all, the narrator of Poe's detective fiction is a prototype-Watson, a loyal companion who is unable to perceive that which, to Dupin, is both obvious and integral. Dupin, meanwhile, is possessed of the kind of analytical genius and cold logic that makes him seem somewhat detached from reality - a description that suits Holmes perfectly as well.

Conan Doyle's debt to Poe is clear - he may have had his character dismiss Dupin, but Conan Doyle certainly wasn't of the same mind, commenting that "each story is a root from which a whole literature has developed...where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?" Yet in popular culture, it is Holmes who has persevered, both in literary terms and as the subject of a great number of adaptations. That isn't much of a surprise - Dupin appeared in only three short stories, whereas Holmes featured in four novels and fifty-six short stories. His popularity became a burden to Conan Doyle - famously, the outcry was so vociferous when the author killed Holmes off that he felt he had no option but to bring him back. He remained shackled to the character throughout his life, unable to expand his literary outlook for the fear of alienating his audience. How he must have envied Poe, a visionary who was effectively responsible for the creation of several genres.

"We existed within ourselves alone"

In 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue,' we're introduced to Dupin by his friend, the unnamed narrator who recounts his exploits, and they're immediately cast in an interesting light - the two live as recluses, having essentially cut off contact with the outside world, concerning themselves with "that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford." Their attention is captured by a newspaper acoount of the gruesome murders of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter, Camille, in their own home - the mother having been horribly disfigured, and the daughter strangled and forced up the chimney. The newspaper reports that "a murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris...there is not the shadow of a clue apparent," but of course, Dupin is immediately able to formulate the information into a possible explanation; a visit to the scene of the crime is enough for him to be certain of what took place. Though only an amateur sleuth, he is possessed of a singular brilliance that puts the police force to shame. There is something especially satisfying about Dupin's certainty - in such a narrative, a capacity for failure is not expected; the reader wants to see justice served, and the skill with which Dupin handles things is a wonderful trait.

That said, the conclusion of the story can hardly be described as particularly satisfying - 'the monkey did it' is something of a narrative cop-out that reads as though Poe crafted his unsolvable mystery and then couldn't solve it himself, settling for an ending that eliminates any sense of motive; as critic Hervey Allen wrote, "the moral issue is entirely dodged by making the criminal an ape; thus a double horror was invoked without the necessity of blame." Furthermore, narrative convention dictates that the reader should be able to take the clues presented and arrive at the solution themselves - the twist ending makes it impossible to do so, which has to be considered a failing.

"The atrocity of the murder, the youth and beauty of the victim, and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians"

'The Mystery of Marie Roget' is generally considered to be the weakest of the trilogy and, upon reading it, it is easy to see why. The story is obsessed with Dupin's methodology, at the expense of spinning an interesting narrative - the vast majority of the piece is given over to Dupin picking holes in the newspaper accounts of the murder, doing so in a manner that doesn't really rate as entertainment. The deductive brilliance of Dupin has already been established; Poe needn't have gone to such lengths to assure us of the character's genius. Not only that, but the story completely peters out - as soon as a clue worth investigating is discovered, the narrator ceases to recount the case, instead offering a coda that stresses the importance of "truth in detail," a point which is integral to the success of any great detective, but one the audience hardly needs lecturing on any further, considering that the entire raison d'etre of the story is to establish exactly that via the thoroughness of Dupin's methods.

"If it is any point requiring reflection we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark"

The third story in the trilogy, 'The Purloined Letter,' perfectly highlights Dupin's major fault - he is a man of contemplation rather than action, which doesn't make for the most fascinating reading. One of the staples of detective fiction is a sense of adventure - you go into the genre expecting a caper, as it were, whereas Dupin offers a canter at best, being entirely reluctant to leave his own home. Consequently, the stories really aren't that compelling when you compare them to what followed. The narrative of 'The Purloined Letter' essentially amounts to 'Dupin is smarter than the French police force,' and as such merits no further comment - it is a minor work.

One of the costs of pioneering a particular genre is that you rarely get to be the one to perfect it - over time, someone will usually come along and expand upon the original idea with greater success than its initial proponent. Given more time with Dupin, perhaps Poe would have further developed the character and the genre, but he preferred to broaden his scope, which is why he is remembered with such reverence. His horror stories are far superior to the Dupin tales, as is his poetry, but the character still retains a great sense of importance when you consider exactly how significant detective novels and pulp fiction became. The likes of Georges Simenon, Raymond Chandler and Paul Auster have all taken cues from the Dupin trilogy, and it's difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes existing were it not for Poe.

Georges Perec, Life A User's Manual

"One of the most singular literary personalities in the world, a writer who resembled absolutely no-one else" - Italo Calvino on Georges Perec

Taking inspiration from one of my more organised friends, I'm planning on spending at least part of my summer contemplating my dissertation, so as not to find myself overburdened come next May. However, having had to desperately rush in order to get my preliminary title handed in - in order to meet the deadline - I panicked, which is why 'Experiments in Narrative Structure' is going to be my focus. An interesting topic, to be sure, but one that comes attached with numerous difficulties - at the moment, not only is my outline much too general, but actually selecting texts is no easy feat either.

It was this process that led me to Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual, a novel that fits my own brief perfectly, in that in terms of execution, it is both unconventional and hugely ambitious. Presented as a historical document - complete with index and chronology - it tells the story of the Rue Simon-Crubellier apartment block, and all the people who have ever been a part of the building. Perec takes the reader from room to room, describing everything - fixtures, fittings, furniture and all - in extensive detail in order to set the scene, before relaying the stories - which range from the relatively mundane to the bizarre - of those who have lived there. Indeed, description is a device Perec uses throughout, eschewing dialogue almost completely, a bold move that pays off because Perec crafts such a vivid narrative, leaving little to the imagination, as is appropriate for a novel presented as a definitive account.

It seems somehow fitting that I chose to read this novel the same week I saw Synecdoche, New York. Both pieces share the thematic link of death as a natural consequence of life - as the only possible ending to every story - whilst at the same time managing to celebrate the capacity of the human spirit. Caden Cotard is the sort of obsessive whose vision would have been perfectly at home in Rue Simon-Crubellier; after all, the novel spends a fair amount of its time dealing with obsession, an emotion the very nature of which means that a large number of the tales are devoid of happy endings; as each new story begins, you find yourself waiting for the 'but' that frequently signifies imminent tragedy. Never is this more apparent than in the story of Percival Bartlebooth, a central character of sorts whose fate is emblematic of much of the narrative. A millionaire concerned that his wealth will consign him to a life of idle boredom, he concocts a scheme that is entirely self-defeating, but will serve to keep him occupied for the rest of his days. He spends ten years learning the art of watercolour painting, before heading out on a twenty-year long world tour, during which time he produces five hundred paintings. Upon completion, each one is sent to an expert puzzle-maker, who converts each of them into a seven-hundred-and-fifty-piece jigsaw. Returning from his travels, Bartlebooth begins to put the puzzles back together, with each completed puzzle being converted back into a watercolour painting, before then being sent back to the place where it was created, where it undergoes a process that renders it as nothing more than the blank sheet of paper it once was so long ago.

The nature of this plan means that Bartlebooth, as intended, leaves no visible mark on the world, a desire on his part that is filled with a sense of melancholy and defeatism - after all, is there not within us all a longing to be remembered? In undertaking such a time-consuming yet ultimately useless task, Bartlebooth impresses upon the reader the suggestion that most of us end up leaving no lasting impact on the world whatsoever - he has fully accepted this as truth, and so dedicated his life to something which ends up removing him from society, whilst ostensibly leaving no trace of his existence. Yet that isn't the whole truth; after all, Bartlebooth's influence is felt throughout the novel, and he has clearly had an impact on a great number of people - not just those living within Rue Simon-Crubellier, but those who heard of the man purely by accident, such as the art critic Charles-Albert Beyssandre, whose interference eventually undermines the success of Bartlebooth's plan. The idea that all of the stories within the novel are connected even whilst they appear to be self-contained is crucial to its success, creating a sense of community that illuminates proceedings, and the air of inevitability of failure that hangs over the novel never detracts, because the journeys the characters undertake almost always have meaning, which lessens the impact of their eventual failure, whilst also ensuring that any successful outcome is a cause of great contentment to the reader.

In contemplating Perec, Warren Motte and Jean-Jacques Poucel defined the four directions that the author claimed to have pursued in his writing: "a concern for the everyday and its details; a tendency toward confession and autobiography; an impulse toward formal innovation; and a desire to tell engaging stories." Life A User's Manual is a triumphant blend of all of these elements, and has to be considered one of the most significant twentieth century literary achievements.

Casiotone For The Painfully Alone "Vs. Children"

"The stories are not me. I am just a storyteller, a writer. Sure, my songs are sort of fictionalised accounts; collages of situations that happened to me or to other people. I just feel these are stories worth telling and there's a lot of real emotions behind them, but they're not the real entries" - Owen Ashworth on his songwriting process

It's no surprise that Owen Ashworth spends so much time dealing with questions about how personal his lyrics are. In some respects, he chose one of the most limiting band names imaginable - the name alone makes it easy for people to form preconceived notions of what Casiotone For The Painfully Alone are all about without having even heard a single note. People expect a perma-lonely individual pouring his heart out, and even though to a certain extent that is the truth of things, ultimately, the personal connection he has with his own lyrics is clearly derived from the sense of artistic pride any artist feels towards their own work.

"The stories are what's important: I'm not looking for sympathy. I want to create music that's comforting but it doesn't feel like there's something I need to get off my chest; there's nothing I personally feel I need to say."

These quotes were Ashworth talking ahead of the release of 2006's Etiquette, an album that represented a major leap forward in terms of musicology. The often self-imposed limitations of the three albums that preceded it were replaced by songs that incorporated guitar, bass and drums - a more conventional approach, to be sure, but a hugely successful one into the bargain. In terms of lyrical content, the progression wasn't quite so dramatic - thematically, the songs largely stuck to the 'loss and loneliness' template previous Casiotone albums established, although the tales that did unfold contained a greater sense of depth, Ashworth's growing confidence reflected in his delivery.

If Etiquette was Ashworth taking a very deliberate step forward musically, then it's only fair to view Vs. Children as a step forward lyrically - one man stepping away from the constraints inherent in such an evocative band name in order to prove that his talents aren't as limited as detractors might imagine. It may not be a concept album as such, but the recurring theme that ties the album together is meditations on the wisdom of bringing a child into the world. Before that debate becomes the centrepiece of the narrative, however, Ashworth delivers two accounts of criminality. "Tom Justice, The Choir Boy Robber, Apprehended at Ace Hardware in Libertyville, IL" is a tale that unfolds exactly as the title would lead you to expect, one that captures the imagination due to its imaginative religious imagery - the lines detailing how Tom came by the 'Choir Boy' nickname are filled with a sense of dark humour, and his eventual capture is described as though it were Tom's penance. The song references Bonnie and Clyde, whilst the lyrics of "Optimist Vs. The Silent Alarm (When The Saints Go Marching In)" also allude to the pair, describing an unconventional love story in the aftermath of a hesit - the narrator details "a mess of cash in duffel bags" before dropping his guard and revealing his hopes for the future, making plans to "raise a little family on Schlitz/And Mickey Mouse."

Over the course of the album, though, it becomes clear that these plans never came to fruition. In "Natural Light" the mood is reflective, the lines "what if we'd had a child/I guess he'd be fifteen" delivered in a manner that betrays a certain amount of disappointment that they didn't choose that path; however, by the time "Killers" comes around, the tone is completely different, with Ashworth singing "we could be killers/just for one night" in his most convincing - almost seductive - voice, imploring his pregnant lover to abort the child that he doesn't feel capable of raising, lamenting that "you're a parent/til you're dead," and clearly wanting no part of such a responsibility. The album ends with "White Jetta," the closing refrain of which sees the protagonist hoping "to stay the same to never change," sentiments that make it obvious that he's comfortable with things the way they are, which may well be considered immature and selfish, but at least it's honest.

That closing line takes on a greater importance when considering Ashworth's oeuvre. Vs. Children remains true to the spirit of Casiotone For The Painfully Alone whilst making it clear that Ashworth isn't content to "stay the same," as the constant evolution of each new release makes evident. Vs. Children is his most complete album to date, further proof that the Casiotone vehicle has broken free of its supposed restrictions, and become something more than the sum of its initial parts.

On a related note, I saw him play live for the fourth time last month, and when he was joined by a full band for the second half of the show, the music came across in such a way as to convince me that - in some parallel universe - this band would be playing the Heartbreak Hotel lounge bar every single night. And I mean that as the highest of compliments.

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

The idea of writing about Dot to Dot Festival may have made sense beforehand, but considering that the drinking started before mid-day, the reality is something else entirely. Nottingham's Student Union helpfully offers cups that contain about two-and-a-half pints - they're a thing of beauty, but coupled with all the other alcohol consumed, they make the process of articulating events pretty impossible. Better instead to talk about a film I saw a few weeks ago, X-Men Origins: Wolverine.

The X-Men franchise is of particular importance to me. Aged eleven, obsessively reading Uncanny X-Men is almost certainly what instilled in me a passion for reading. I left comicbooks behind during my high-school years, only to get right back into them at college, at which point I started to learn that the genre had more to offer than just superhero comics - whilst also refusing to ignore that side of things, building up a comprehensive knowledge of all things X-Men. So naturally, the release of the movies was of great interest to me, and yet I was never able to fully embrace them. The first two Bryan Singer-directed efforts may have gone down well with the majority of critics and audiences, but to me they were lacking something in comparison to the best comics - they just couldn't compete. In that context, I didn't feel that X-Men 3 was the abomination that many made it out to be; it was simply the subpar culmination of a disappointing trilogy, one that at least showed a certain amount of boldness in a few of its scenes (specifically, the death of one character that I never saw coming, which provided the film with an ending that the established continuity of the comics has always resisted). All of which meant that the release of X-Men Origins: Wolverine was of definite interest to me. Which is not to say that I was expecting too much from it.

The film tells the story of Wolverine's formative years - from his mutation activating in tragic circumstances as a young boy named James Howlett, the opening credits go on to show him (now going by the name Logan) and his brother - Victor 'Sabretooth' Creed - fighting in a succession of history's most famous wars, until Victor's violent nature escalates to such an extent that he kills a superior officer. With Logan standing by his brother, the two are sentenced to death by firing squad - which they survive due to their advanced healing factors, at which point they are recruited by William Stryker, joining a secret-ops team of mutants. However, Logan cannot abide the nature of the work Stryker expects of him, and so quits - a decision Victor doesn't take too well.

From this point on, the narrative is ostensibly centred around the conflict between Logan and Victor, with Logan trying desperately to avoid his more animalistic urges until Victor - who has fully embraced that side of himself - pushes him too far, at which point he feels that he has no choice but to become 'Wolverine.' But that would be giving it too much credit, because ultimately it never really explores the idea in any great depth. In fact, it never really does much of anything, except provide a series of CGI set-pieces occassionally punctuated by some expositionary hand-wringing. Hugh Jackman gets to spend a lot of time on his knees whilst looking up towards the sky, screaming "Noooo!" in an overblown manner. He doesn't, however, spend a great deal of time capturing the interest of the viewer. It isn't that Jackman is at fault, just that the plot demands that he spends most of his time moping, and as a consequence, he never gets to display the side of the character that helped make the actor's name when the original film was released - that of the charismatic anti-hero, which is the very essence of Wolverine's personality. What's more, the ensemble cast is largely underutilised. Liev Schreiber gets a reasonable amount of screen time, and uses it well, proving to be the best thing about the movie - he exudes the necessary menace to give justification to Wolverine's quest for vengeance. Everyone else is consigned to a peripheral role, and as far as the likes of Will.I.Am and Ryan Reynolds are concerned, that's probably for the best, but of genuine disappointment is that Gambit (as played by Taylor Kitsch - who excels in the superb Friday Night Lights television series) barely gets a look in. The laidback nature of Gambit's character would have added a sense of levity to the film, providing a nice contrast to the grim-and-gritty tone that prevails throughout. As it is, though, the misery prevails.

Even that would be acceptable in terms of setting the mood, if it weren't for the fact that the film doesn't hang together all that well. The love interest plot falls flat, providing both the painfully trite anecdote from which Wolverine derives his name, and a poor performance from Lynn Collins (as Kayla Silverfox), failures that undermine the entire narrative - they're intended to provide Wolverine with his motivation, yet it's impossible to truly invest in them. The final third unnecessarily complicates things, introducing a secret island (of all things), as well as Scott Summers (a.k.a. Cyclops) and a handful of other characters recognisable to those familiar with the X-Men mythos, none of whom add anything to the plot, serving only as a half-hearted attempt to address the human versus mutant conflict represented throughout the history of the franchise. And the manner in which the film ends essentially means that none of the events that preceded it matter anyway, a final insult to the audience.

Even with all that said, the film certainly isn't unwatchable - it moves along at a reasonable pace, for the most part. But there is no pressing reason for it to exist - it adds nothing to the character, which is a critical failing for a film intended to define him.

Synecdoche, New York

Not the easiest of starts, but lets give it a go. Synecdoche, New York is the directorial debut of Charlie Kaufman, writer of Being John Malkovich, Adaptation and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a collaboration with Michel Gondry that I always return to with unexplianable skepticism - a feeling that departs as soon as I've finished rewatching it, at which point I'm convinced all over again that it is one of the most significant cinematic achievements of the last decade. This is Kaufman's first project since - meanwhile, Gondry has put out The Science of Sleep, an arguably slight "love" story that is still well worth watching; and Be Kind Rewind, a huge disappointment considering that the high-concept - Jack Black and Mos Def stage recreations of famous films - is fantastic. Whereas Gondry's stock has fallen slightly, Synecdoche looks set to send Kaufman's soaring.

The film is centred around Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a theatre director whose life is falling apart. Prone to hypochondria and trapped in a failing marriage, things only start to look up for him when he receives a MacArthur genius grant, which brings with it unlimited wealth with which to pursue his artistic interests. His wish is to create something that truly resonates - something "real", as the cliche goes. When trying to explain the inspiration behind his idea to an assembled group of actors and actresses, he announces that "I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore," and in doing so he provides a reasonable summation of the themes integral to the film, which is frequently punctuated with death and funerals. For Caden, even the act of making love takes on a funereal air, causing him to break into tears or, in one memorable scene that cuts to the heart of his character, undress as though his world is ending. Which, as his aforementioned speech makes clear, it is. Years pass by unacknowledged except for the visible aging of the characters, as if to mimic the universal, inextricable march towards death that we all face.

Whilst Caden envisions the project as a study in unflinching realism, the staged nature of his "play" takes the concept of life imitating art to a whole new plateau, with the lines between his own reality and his artistic endeavour blurred until the two overlap so completely that any sense of self is lost. The subtle humour that pervades the first hour gradually fades, replaced by a sombre atmosphere that at times threatens to alienate the viewer; the film is never less than challenging, often lapsing into "gruelling" territory. At one point, a "priest" leading a funeral service encapsulates the mood prevalent throughout much of the film when delivering a eulogy: "you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really." Over the course of 2+ hours such an attitude should be demoralising, yet it rarely is; instead, it comes across as a celebration of human life. No matter how much of its time is seemingly spent telling us that none of us are special, the truth is that by focussing on the mundanities of life, the actual underlying message is the exact opposite. Whether or not Caden's life plays out as he expects it to, there is clearly value in it.

Synecdoche, New York stands out to me as an example of the kind of work filmmakers should be aspiring to make. Kaufman asks the viewer to engage with the film, a perfeclty reasonable request when he offers such an incisive examination into the human condition, one that is of relevance to anyone and everyone. He deserves all the plaudits people are lauding him with, as does Hoffman, whom it seems almost pointless to praise for his performance - when is he ever less than excellent? But the truth is that no-one else would have been suitable for the role, which demands his unique ability to become the character in order for it to be a success. The supporting cast all excel (with Samantha Norton and Tom Noonan the standouts), dropping in and out of Caden's life whilst never truly leaving him. One of the most emotionally affecting pieces of cinema I've ever seen, I can't recommend it highly enough.

In The Beginning...

Well, I haven't really done this since the glory days of MySpace (check out those early ramblings here, althought they're of very dubious merit), but, what with a friend of mine promising to properly embrace blogging (you can find his website here), and the second year of my English and American Literature course having finished, I figure maybe this will be a decent way of keeping my creative juices flowing. That, or I'll be bored of it within a week. Or I'll never have anything to write about. Still, the whole endeavour is at least worth the effort these few sentences have taken up.

So, theoretically coming up these next few days: some kind of review of Synecdoche, New York (in short, it was a stunning piece of cinema, one that's going to take me a while to fully process, and is unlikely to leave me anytime soon); my thoughts on Georges Perec's Life A User's Manual; and a report on Dot To Dot Festival, which is taking place this Sunday.