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Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Sin-a-rama

By Brittany Daley et al. 2004, Feral House Books.

Buy it now from Amazon.com
Pulp novels, and more particularly the cover art of pulp novels, have been getting a lot of attention in the past couple years, with several beautiful collections of the art being published in nice, full-color books. Of course, no pulp novel is more fun than a sleazy pulp novel, and Brittany Daley's new book Sin-a-rama goes about celebrating the artwork of these deliciously lurid and often tasteless pulp romps through the worlds of sex, violence, sin, perversion, and adventure. Hey, what more could you want in a life, right?

The book starts off with a real treat, as well-respected sci-fi author Robert Silverberg spins a humorous tale of how he and other acclaimed authors like Harlan Ellison found themselves writing torrid sex pulps when the bottom fell out of the sci-fi publishing business. Looks behind the curtains into the lives of the men and companies who wrote these books always fascinates me. One would assume that these things, so full of twisted amorality and madness, were cranked out by some solitary freak in a trenchcoat sitting in a closet where the walls are covered with naked photos of his next door neighbor or something. In reality, they were often produced -- at the astounding rate of three per month in some cases -- by otherwise established authors and a stable of workman-like regulars in button-down shirts who just needed the cash or wanted to goof off. The book The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay gives a brief glimpse of this world and of how the comic book industry grew from it, and Sin-a-rama gives you an even more revealing peek and this once-mighty industry that is only just now beginning to get the academic scrutiny it deserves.

Part of the problem with exploring the world of pulps, especially the sleazier ones that are represented in this book, is that many of the authors toiled away anonymously or under a pseudonym in order to avoid the stigma that being a sex novel writer would have on an otherwise "legitimate" career and life in the 1950s and 60s. Even more anonymous would be the artists who painted these wildly imaginative, saucy, and alluring covers. The essays that kick off Sin-a-rama go part of the way to waving away the mist that enshrouds these men, especially now that such a career is no longer stigmatized and is, in fact, something of a badge of honor and coolness. The essays are illustrated with samples of the sexy paperback covers, and once the essays are wrapped up, the art show begins in earnest.

Some go further than others, of course, but all in all, this is a beautiful collection showcases some truly eye-popping cover illustrations. It's a shame that this profession, that of illustrator, is almost dead. Remember how gorgeous movie posters were before they were just a photograph of the cast? So too with books, and it's good that, at the very least, the work of past "masters" is finally being collected together into books like this. The covers represented here are broken down into various categories: sexy adventure pulps, queer pulps (my favorite being the cover with the horrifying-looking man in a lavender leotard leaping madly out of the closet while his partner looks on in either glee or abject terror), street gang type books, and plenty more. Some of the artwork is a little crude, and much of it is shockingly great, with vivid use of colors and more titillation packed into one painting than could probably be packed into the book itself.

If you're a collector of such things, such things being either coffee table books of pulp artwork or the pulp novels themselves, then Sin-a-rama is a must-have as both an art show and a resource. The book ends by doing its best to create a list of publishers and authors who endeavored in this field so that you might be able to track some of the actual titles down. But best -- or perhaps worst -- of al is that the sheer wonder of what's on display -- those crazy, sexy covers full of switchblade-wielding lesbian gangs and topless jungle women and hillbilly mamas in their panties -- and the wild titles that accompany them, make you (or me, at any rate) think seriously about launching a career in sleazy pulp novel authoring. Until then, though, this is a wonderful book to flip through, look at, and yes, even read.

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posted by Keith at | 0 Comments


Friday, September 16, 2005

The End: Montauk

By Michael Dweck. 2004, Harry N. Abrams Books.

Buy it now from Amazon.com
For most of my life, I've assumed that I was just a year or two away from living the sort of life to which I aspire. That is, the life of an easy-going, devil-may-care adventurer. Barring that, I always figured I'd live in the mountains of Appalachia or somewhere along the coast, sitting shirtless on the back porch of a run-down but pleasant beach house, sipping bourbon, thinking about going surfing, and pressing up against the tan body of a bikini-clad beauty in the hammock with me. So far, it hasn't quite worked out that way, but I do have a beauty by my side. Still, if I had to trade in the song and dance of the office for getting drunk on the beach and hammering out articles on a battered old Underwood, I wouldn't hesitate to pack my board shorts and be on my way.

The End: Montauk is photographer Michael Dweck's photographic chronicle of the end of Long Island, the sleepy fishing village that, in the 1970s, became a haven for East Coast surfers and, perhaps most importantly to this book, the ridiculously gorgeous, natural beauty surfer girls who were along for the ride. Dweck's black and white photos, reprinted here in a stunning oversized format, serve as a record of a hedonistic yet innocent time, when crab shacks and longboards were all that mattered, and Montauk was still something of an undiscovered East Coast Eden, albeit an extremely chilly one come winter time. I'm a sucker for any photo of someone standing on a beach next to a longboard, staring out at the ocean, and The End serves those up, although the focus of the book is undoubtedly the beach bunnies who seem prone to running down the beach naked with surfboards -- an activity I wholeheartedly endorse. The End isn't a record of Montauk the location, although a few of the town's landmarks are represented. Nor is it a representation of the larger Montauk culture, which in 1975 was still largely centered around salty fishermen and a few celebrities seeking isolation. It is, instead, a look at the hedonistic surfer beach culture that, quite frankly, seems astounding appealing to someone like me.

Dweck's photos are a mix of portraits, candids, and a few landscape photos, though people or manmade objects are almost always the focus of attention. I'm no art critic, no photography critic, so being ignorant as I am of various technical considerations, by overall opinion of The End and Dweck's photos is derived purely from whether or not I like them. And I don't like them; I love them. I also hate them, because few and far between are the photographic collections that seem to have been assembled based purely on the concept of going, "Hey Keith? Isn't this the life you wanted?" Shabby yet glamorous, run down yet refined, low key but striking, and innocent but sexy (both the men and the women), the photography in The End weaves a visual narrative of a lost era that may not even have ever existed in the first place. But we sure can have a hell of a good time visiting it in pictures.

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posted by Keith at | 1 Comments