A Man of Constant Sorrow.

“It was a kind of nostalgia, like the immense sadness of a world at dusk. It was a sadness, a missing, a pain which could send one soaring back into the past. The sorrow of the battlefield could not normally be pinpointed to one particular event, or even one person. If you focused on any one event it would soon become a tearing pain. It was especially important, therefore, to avoid if possible focusing on the dead.”

A quick literary shout-out: Hard to read and harder to put down, Bao Ninh’s The Sorrow of War, which I read on my plane ride back from Norfolk, is arguably the best anti/war novel I’ve read in over a decade. (I’ll always have a soft spot for Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 and Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, but the surrealism and absurdity of those two seem a world apart from the brutality of Ninh’s book.) Graphic and harrowing to the last, Sorrow tells the story of Kien, a North Vietnamese soldier full of youth and promise in the heady days of 1964. Unlike virtually everyone he knows, however, Kien actually manages to survive the Vietnam War to its conclusion in 1975, only to discover that peace remains an elusive ideal, and memory a cruel mistress.

A kindred spirit to All Quiet on the Western Front, Ninh’s book doesn’t pull any punches — There are dark moments and harsh visions herein that will remain with me for some time to come. Still, it’s a very powerful book, and one worth reading if you have the strength for it.

The Doom of Man.

No, that’s not a fanboy conventioner…it’s the first pic of Julian McMahon in full Dr. Doom regalia to make it online. Oof, I must say, Fantastic Four is starting to look like an absolute disaster. Elsewhere in comic film news, the full trailer for Batman Begins will apparently premiere in front of Ocean’s Twelve next month.

Tony (to) Stark.

The cast for All the King’s Men fills out, with Patricia Clarkson replacing Meryl Streep as Sadie, Anthony Hopkins taking on Judge Irwin, and James Gandolfini portraying Tiny Duffy, Willie’s most grotesque sycophant. Hmmm…I like Clarkson as Sadie, but Hopkins screams stunt casting, and (as with Streep earlier) I’m not sure Gandolfini makes sense given that Sean Penn’s playing Willie. I’d love to see a well-done remake of All the King’s Men, one of my favorite novels, but I fear this project may fast be veering into Cold Mountain “Miramax All-Stars” territory.

Basketbrawl.

So, while I was at home this weekend, Ron Artest et al completely lost it (to say nothing of my two home college-football teams.) Clearly, Artest, Stephen Jackson, and Jermaine O’Neil should never have broken that inviolate line between the court and the bleachers of (rude, inebriated, schmuckish, asking-for-it) Piston fans…but we already knew Artest was a terminal head case. Now, he’s gone for the year, and, for once, I have to say I concur with the crashing-down of David Stern’s iron fist. This cannot happen again.

That being said, while I thought it was interesting to see normally sports-agnostic sites like Drudge suddenly take on the mantle of shocked-and-appalled basketball enthusiasts, I can’t say I see the fracas in Detroit as the end of the NBA, or of Western Civilization in general, for that matter. Then again, I wasn’t all that perturbed by last week’s MNF intro either, so perhaps I’m just a reflection of the sad consequences of a too-permissive society.

Perhaps the strangest fact of that night in Detroit? Rasheed Wallace didn’t get in any trouble (although he’s now making up for lost time.) Ah well, in happier NBA news, at least the no-D-playing, .500 Knickerbockers are inexplicably in first in the awful, awful Atlantic right now.

Bourne to Watch.

Word is from AICN that a replacement for Darren Aronofsky has been found to helm the film adaptation of The Watchmen…and it’s Paul Greengrass (late of Bloody Sunday and The Bourne Supremacy.) Greengrass hasn’t shown yet that he can handle an FX-laden extravaganza (as the film will need to do justice to Dr. Manhattan and Ozymandias), but his edgy hand-held aesthetic might be just about perfect for Rorshach’s part of the story.

Aunt Joan.

Hello all. I just received word that my aunt Joan passed away this morning after a long struggle with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. She was a warm, funny, and brave individual. I miss her already.

At any rate, I’m flying home to be with my family and attend the services, so updates here will be infrequent to nonexistent over the next couple of days. Have a safe and enjoyable Thanksgiving. Update: As of now (Tuesday night), I’m back in NYC…thanks much for the condolences sent over e-mail and in the comments. They were much appreciated.

Sex Education.

Hoo boy, the Red Staters obsessed with “moral values” out there are just gonna love Kinsey. With its unflinching recognition of myriad forms of human sexual behavior, its intimations of bisexuality and wife-swapping among team Kinsey, and its occasionally graphic (albeit antiseptic and not at all titillating) depictions of the act of coitus (to channel Maude Lebowski), Bill Condon’s biopic of Indiana’s famous sex statistician is the closest movie we have this year to a Passion of the Christ for science-minded free-thinkers. In fact, the film seems almost genetically designed to get under the skins of the abstinence-firsters and moralist types who’ve decried Kinsey’s studies for fifty years.

That being said, the strength of Kinsey, and what elevates it to being a better-then-average biopic, is the way it ultimately gets under everybody’s skin. Alfred Kinsey is not simply white-washed as a martyr to science and a hero of sexual enlightenment (although, in its most conventional moments, such as the last ten minutes, the movie hammers those particular points pretty hard.) Rather, Kinsey is portrayed as a man whose relentless pursuit of sexual knowledge often leads him down some troubling and morally ambiguous roads. Even the most open-minded libertines in the audience may find themselves feeling that things seem to have gotten a little out-of-control around the home office in Indiana by the end, and get extremely discomfited when Liam Neeson’s Kinsey sits down with an even creepier than usual Bill Sadler, a pedophile and sexual predator who’s taken some notes of his own.

Kinsey is at its best when it rides this razor’s edge, honoring the professor’s undeniable contributions to science and society while recognizing that his dispassionately treating sexual behavior as he earlier treated gall wasps ultimately opened the door to immense personal pitfalls, particularly for the men and women around him who had trouble maintaining such a scientific distance. Speaking of which, while Neeson is solid and Laura Linney is Laura Linney as usual, the supporting character work in Kinsey is particularly good. Special marks go to a fearless Peter Saarsgard as Kinsey’s #2 (Watch out, Ewan – you’ve got a competitor now for the full-frontal roles), John Lithgow for his bleary final scene as Kinsey’s father (which redeemed an otherwise one-note character), and Dylan Baker as the long-suffering Rockefeller Foundation point person (who must partly have been picked here for his memorable role in Happiness.)

In sum, although it ends with a rather bland huzzah for the march of science, Bill Condon’s Kinsey is for the most part an intelligent, nuanced, and multifaceted appreciation of one man’s probing (and occasionally perilous) quest to illuminate humankind’s most intimate frontier. (And as such, it’ll probably go over like a lead balloon in American Pie country.)

University Blues.

Feeling oh-so-oppressed as usual, student conservatives at Berkeley decry the 7-1 Dem-to-GOP ratio among Humanities and Social Science profs nationwide. Tsk, tsk…they say it like it’s such a bad thing. Well, if you’d prefer that we lefties work elsewhere than academia — say, in government — y’all know how to vote next time.