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Cashing In On Fame Has Its Rewards, And Ethan Coen's Reflections On Childhood Are Among Them.
By Stephan Faris
Gates of Eden, by Ethan Coen (William Morrow & Co.).
Cloth, $24.
AH, FAME. FROM the author of Fargo and Raising
Arizona comes Gates of Eden. Ethan Coen has parlayed
his success as a filmmaker into the publication of a collection
of short stories. And while the book is not without its merits,
it's hard to conceive of any less-famous, first-time author receiving
timely publications in such prestigious magazines as The New
Yorker and Playboy.
The stories tend to the frivolous, more Hudsucker Proxy
than Blood Simple. With a couple notable exceptions, they
star a caricatured criminal or private investigator and run the
gamut from maudlin melodrama to burlesque parody. (The title story
tells of an agent of the California Weights and Measures and his
twisted fall at the hands of a fruit-stand mob.) Although light
on plot, each story provides enough humorous twists to keep things
rolling.
Actually, Coen puts his script-writing experience to good use.
Of the book's 14 selections, six are either radio plays or monologues.
And a Coen brothers fan will recognize the stylized over-the-top
dialogue in the other eight pieces. When the narrator of "It
Is An Ancient Mariner" describes a woman who murdered her
husband, you can pick up the trademark Coen humor as the minutiae
tangle up, obscuring the seriousness at hand.
You should've seen her in the little sundress she was in when
she stabbed Ronnie. Very sweet. Blond girl. Freckles on her chest.
And the tops of her arms there. Oh, you can see her in the little
girls. Two blond little moptops. And how she doted on them. Positively
doted. Man, you have not seen doting till you've seen Alice with
her kids. Well, Ronnie too, far as that goes. You could not fault
him there.
Some will use Gates of Eden to parse the Coen Brothers'
movies, separating Ethan's contributions from his brother's. They
will find that Ethan is the wacky one, the one responsible for
the extreme, one-note characters: John Goodman and John Turturro
in The Big Lebowski, for example. His tendency is to blow
things so out of proportion that something uniquely beautiful,
or at least entertaining, emerges; the surreal mania of Barton
Fink is this method's acme.
Sometimes bits from the movies sneak in: In Miller's Crossing,
there's a scene where a huge tough is interrogating fellow gangster,
Tom Reagan. Taking advantage of a distraction, Tom splinters a
chair across his tormentor, who immediately starts bawling, "Why'd
you have to do that for, Tom?" The same thug could be the
redhead ineptly extorting Esperanza's Pizzeria in "Cosa Minapolidan":
"Joe de Louie don't like waiting," he said. "You've
kept Joe de Louie waiting since Wednesday. He ain't used to it
and he, ya know...he don't plan to start getting used to it...."
The redheaded man fell silent, still staring at Esperanza.
The dark man leaned up to him and said quietly.
"Call him a name."
"--Fuckface," said the redheaded man, and blushed.
But Coen is at his best writing about children, especially the
pre-adolescent. We've seen the funny-gangster-thing done before,
and probably better, in the movies. This is the first time Coen
has depicted children, and he does it spectacularly. "The
Old Country" may contain one of the funniest printed descriptions
of a 10-year-old, a "Hammer of God" wildly disrupting
his Hebrew School:
...he would canter lopsidedly down the hall behind another
classmate, baying like a jackass, eyes rolled back in his head
as his right hand made a sweeping pantomime of jerking off. Or
he would stage what in other contexts would look like coups of
performance art. One day in the lavatory he peed on the radiator
while loudly singing "O, Canada"; the stench of burning
urine wafted through the school for the rest of the day.
In the standout selection "The Boys," a father and
his two young sons take a camping trip where little goes wrong,
but nothing goes right. Coen paints a typical family trip tormented
by repeated trips to the bathroom, a 4-year-old who eats only
omelets topped with jelly, a waitress that's never heard of an
"almlet," and a bigger brother who wants to drive an
hour and a half out of the way to see a Native American pageant.
("Dad, I would understand if there was a reason.")
Anyone who's ever spent an hour alone with a young kid will sprout
knowing smiles as they turn these pages, savoring Coen's prose
on the subject.
These gems notwithstanding, it is clearly Coen's previous success
as a filmmaker that's enable this book to see the light of a bookstore
display--a fact Coen winkingly acknowledges in his fictitious
"About the Author," which ends:
Coen is an accomplished nudist and is the author of a study
of Scott's Kenilworth which was universally ignored, as
well as of three volumes of poetry or, if any publisher should
prefer, one big one.
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