Kevin Killian 2008-12-08
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This book fell off my shelf and onto my shoulder and I took it as a personal insult, so maybe this book deserves another star, but it's pretty vacant from beginning to end, and not in a good way. He, Eric, is in love with himself, sort of; he also hates himself and furthermore, he's ambivalent about all of his feelings. The book flutters between these three states of feeling, constantly refracted like one of those mirrored music boxes my mother kept on her bureau when I was a sexually confused child myself. With the prompt of a single pink fingernail my mother would set the music box to whirling around on its mechanical base, to the romantic strains of Beethoven's "Fur Elise," and I would be transported to another world, but if I was Eric Schaeffer, he would be thinking of some crass way to get my mother to sodomize him with an eight inch strap-on.
Some of his stories about indie filmmaking amuse, and one comes away from his book with great admiration for his mentor, John Sayles, but mostly one feels sorry for Sarah Jessica Parker, Molly Ringwald, and the dozens of lesser known women who have had to put up with his continual need for strap-on gratification. It can't be pleasant feeling this itch and knowing that you are going to be refused 99 times out of 100, but if I had wanted an encyclopedia on the subject, I would have bought one, but this is wretched plain and fancy, I don't know any other way to say it. Pity for he once had a promising career, then he must have annoyed the money people as well as his audiences.
