Friday, July 21, 2017

Don't Kill it

Don’t Kill It (2016; Mark Mendez) opens with scenes of the Mississippi swamp where a man is hunting with his dog. Ominous music and thunderclaps provide the backdrop as the dog wanders off the trail and finds a strange looking object. That object, as we come to know, contains an ancient demon which escapes to terrorize the small Mississippi town where this film is set. The film makes use of the backwoods landscape and the comical, dimwitted citizens of the small Southern town as it shows us how the demon possesses one person after another, compelling them to kill anyone who comes in sight. The violence in this movie is considerable though not realistic -- in realism it reminded me of the original version of 200 Maniacs. We have several scenes of carnage, of families being killed, of teenagers being obliterated. A number of children are killed too, mostly off-screen. A demon killer named Jebediah Woodley finds his way to town. He's played by Dolph Lundgren. Jebediah teams up with FBI agent Evelyn Pierce to track down the demon. She has returned to the town after a long absence. The difficulty about the demon is the fact that it moves from one person's body to the next. When someone shoots the person whom the demon has possessed, the demon immediately transitions to the killer’s body. Hence the title of the film. If you kill the demon, he possesses you. Instead of being killed, he needs to be contained. No one can tell who the demon is, except for the way his or her eyes turn completely black and for the shotgun or the pistol or the machete that he or she is carrying and the roaring sound he or she makes as he or she runs towards the next victim – in other words, the demon is fairly obvious. The plot is slightly more intricate than I've made it out to be. We learn that the FBI agent Pierce is descended from an angelic lineage, a fact that plays conveniently into the plot, though it's not explained very well. Oddly, there's comedy in this film, which makes fun of the limitations of the people of the small town, many of whom are dead by the end of the film. This was a film so unlikely and so ludicrous that I found myself longing before the midpoint for it to end yet at the same time not willing to give up on it.

Dont Kill It employs a number of southern conventions:  Gothicism, religious extremism, small-town hokum, the supernatural, swamps. A fundamentalist minister in town is convinced that the demon hunter Jebediah is himself the demon. He musters the paranoid support of parishioners to try to stop the demon hunter and the FBI agent. I've already mentioned the small town and its dimwitted citizens. A bumbling Barney Fife-like policeman provides minor comic relief. Dolph Lundgren's character is eccentric and mysterious and crazy. Lundgren does a good job with his character. He's the only strong point of the film, in a relative way. But the major relief this film provides comes when the closing credits roll.
Why a demon in a small Mississippi town? Is there anything particularly southern about the demon in this film? I suppose demons, if you believe in them, can appear anywhere. One could argue that the demon in Don't Shoot It incorporates all the stereotypical worst traits of a small town southern resident: love of weapons, love of violence, pleasure in shooting or assaulting anything, whether animal or human, religious mania. This demon’s appearance in a Mississippi swamp is totally arbitrary, which is not to say that arbitrariness somehow invalidates its existence there. The appearance of the demon, which we can understand as a source of bad luck, terrible events, misfortune, random chaos, that is, as a supernatural explanation for anything evil that can happen in the world, is explanation enough. We’re always looking for explanations: for what caused the Deep Water Horizon disaster, what led to the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, what led to any number of terrible earthquakes or tsunami or volcanic eruptions or hurricanes or tornadoes, for plagues. We’re always grasping for explanations, and we’re always fearful of them. The demon in this film is one explanation and it certainly  stimulates enough fear. But I prefer to spend my time considering more plausible, rational, human, physical explanations.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Twin Peaks: The Return, episode 8

At the beginning of the eighth episode of Twin Peaks: The Return, the evil twin of Agent Cooper is driving down the freeway in the dark along with a young accomplice named Ray whom he has just broken out of prison. As is true of many parts of Twin Peaks, especially the revived version, certain scenes take an inordinately long time. In the dark, with the roadside barely illuminated by the headlights of the car, Agent Cooper drives and drives and drives. After a while he exits the expressway on to what appears to be a state highway. Then he leaves the state highway and turns onto a single-lane road that soon turns into a dirt road. Agent Cooper tells Ray that he needs certain information from him. Ray tells Cooper that he will have to pay for it. Agent Cooper pulls the car to a stop and gets out to relieve himself. Ray gets out of the car, comes towards Cooper with a pistol, and begins shooting. Cooper falls over dead. Bizarre wraith-like phantoms appear out of the darkness and begin touching and waving their hands back and forth over the body. The terrified Ray gets into the car and drives away. Agent Cooper comes back to life.

We then move to July 16, 1945, in the New Mexico desert and the occasion of the first atomic bomb test. The bomb detonates, and the camera moves closer and closer to the blast, approaching the mushroom cloud and finally entering it. We see turmoil and turbulence and, apparently, molecules racing back and forth. Occasionally a form seems about to take shape but it never does. This goes on for quite a while. Next, we move to a scene outside a convenience store in 1956. A teenage boy and a 14- or 15-year-old girl are standing together outside a convenience store where they have enjoyed each other's company. He walks her to her house, and this again takes quite a while. He asks if he can kiss her good night. She's hesitant at first, but finally agrees, and they briefly kiss. It’s a sappily innocent scene. Next, we shift to the middle of the desert where what appears to be a pebble turns out to be an egg that hatches into a creature that appears to be half-cockroach and half-lizard. The creature crawls across the desert floor. A strange man who has descended out of the clouds invades a radio station and, after killing the receptionist and before killing the DJ, broadcasts a bizarre message. Everyone who hears it loses consciousness. Finally, the creature arrives at the house of the girl, who is lying on her bed listening to music. She loses consciousness as she hears the radio message. While she sleeps, the creature crawls through her window, across the floor and onto her bed, and into her mouth. She swallows.

These events take up about half the episode. I've left a lot out, especially a scene in a strange antique room with an old, overly made-up woman and her Lurch-like servant.  He walks into another room and begins to levitate and emits glowing material from his mouth. And, oh yes, Laura Palmer's face, along with the face of the demon Bob (so important to the original series), also plays into this sequence.

I think the whole point of these scenes is to illustrate Bob’s origins.

I am a fan of Twin Peaks. I intend to watch every remaining episode. I greatly admired David Lynch's film Blue Velvet. Wild at Heart was good. I did care for Eraser Head, or Inland Empire, or Mulholland Drive, which mostly seemed to me to substitute for creative vision or sense. I think what we see in Episode 8 is what happens when one has insufficient content to fill 17 episodes. In the end, Twin Peaks: The Return may all make sense, and I'll have to eat my words. (Just as the girl had to eat that creature). Some may believe that what we're given in Episode 8 is the vision of a true genius. I think it’s a failure of imagination.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

I Am Not Your Negro

I Am Not Your Negro (dir. Raoul Peck, 2016) is uncomfortable to watch.  No white viewer can escape its condemnations. Even progressive, liberal, racially enlightened and/or sensitive viewers cannot escape.  The documentary is about the brilliant writer James Baldwin and his provocative analyses of America’s racial history.   Using clips from films, newsreels, and interviews with Baldwin,  it  investigates the responsibility of white Americans for creating the historical, social, and cultural matrix of causes and effects that led to the nation’s fraught racial history and situation.  The film centers on interviews and public statements made by Baldwin from the 1950s through the late 1970s.  It’s loosely structured around a book Baldwin proposed to write (but never finished) on the lives of three assassinated icons of the Civil Rights movement: Medgar Evers, Martin Luther King, and Malcom X, all of whom Baldwin knew.  His plan was to discuss the racial environment of the United States by focusing on these three figures.

Baldwin was a brilliant talker and thinker.  Especially impressive are sequences from his appearance on the Dick Cavett show in 1968, where comments offered by a professor of sociology at Yale provoke him into an incredible series of incisive statements about the situation of black Americans in the 1960s.  The film deliberately ties the problems targeted by the Civil Rights movements to the racial situation in contemporary America by using images and film clips of black Americans killed by policemen and other law enforcement officials in the last several years. Baldwin finds apologies and other gestures offered by white Americans concerning the treatment of African Americans to be unsatisfactory.  He wants white Americans to take action, real action, to correct the injustices that people of color suffered in the 1960s, and that they continue to suffer today.  Baldwin indicts not so much white Americans individually (though he describes them as culturally dead) as he does the institutions, cultural conventions, laws, economic divides that they helped to create.

The film takes a pessimistic view of race relations and the likelihood of their improvement—Baldwin saw little hope for improvement in his own lifetime, even though he held hopes for American democracy, and the filmmaker sees little hope in 2016. 

As bad as the racial situation was in the 1950s and 1960s, I disagree that it has not improved in the intervening years.  There have been clear progress and improvement.  By so saying, I don’t dismiss the serious problems—economically, judicially, legally, culturally, and otherwise—that African Americans and other minorities continue to face.

This film is instructive, compelling, disturbing, infuriating, and uncompromised in its presentation of its subject.  It’s a wonderful presentation of Baldwin and proof that the writer, dead now for over thirty years, remains pertinent.  It’s also a panoramic view of racism and race in America—the nature of racism, its manifestations in violence, murder, subjugation, and denial—over its four hundred-year history.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017


Moonlight (2016; dir. Barry Jenkins) is difficult to categorize. It opens up to the casual viewer an unfamiliar world: the world in which a gay African-American young man must live. The film is divided into three sections, with each section focused on one period of the main character Chiron’s life. It shows us a young man whose mother is a drug addict, whose father is absent, and who doesn't understand why he feels a certain way. He's profoundly lonely throughout most of the film. The first section shows him as a boy around nine years old who is befriended by an older African-American man. It's not clear at first why this man is interested in him or what he does. One could say he's interested because he recognizes a lonely child who needs help. One could say that he might be the boy’s absent father come home to reconnect. The mother and the man have difficult words together, as if they were once close. They certainly talk like people who were once married. It was only my impression that the man was the boy's father. Others who were watching the film with me had a different impression—no reviewer whom I’ve read made this assumption either, so I am probably wrong. When the boy asks the man if he's a drug peddler, and he shamefully admits that he is, their relationship ends (as far as I could tell). The second section shows us Chiron at the age of around 16. Once again, he's isolated and lonely. He is bullied by other boys in his high school who call him names. Only one boy, Kevin, seems interested in being his friend. It's with this boy that he has his first sexual experience. A few days later, one of the school bullies forces Kevin to beat Chiron up.

In the third section Chiron is 26. He's been working out, he's all pumped up, he wears a gold chain around his neck and sells drugs. He gets a phone call from Kevin, whom he has not seen or talked to in 10 years. Kevin now lives in Florida and Chiron drives there to meet him.  The film ends with a moving but uneasy and uncertain reconnection between Chiron and Kevin, who showed him affection in high school 10 years before, but who also beat him up.

The film is depressing. It's supposed to be. Such is the nature of the boy’s life at every age of his existence, from when he was nine with a drug addicted mother to when he was 16 and bullied to when he is 26 and lonely and selling drugs. Every element of this movie coheres almost seamlessly to give us a portrait of this man's life—music, cinematography, editing, screenplay (written by director Jenkins), direction. The acting is excellent, even though most of the people who appear in the film are relative unknowns. The actors who play Chiron at the three stages of his life are all wonderful actors. I would say this especially of Trevante Rhodes, who portrays Chiron as an adult. He says very little. The film shows us his face and his eyes and we can tell without being told how lonely and unconnected he is.

Monday, June 12, 2017


I wanted to watch a film that would entertain me, that I wouldn't have to think about, that wouldn't matter if I went to sleep. Sing (2016; dirs.. Garth Jennings and Christophe Lourdelet) was the choice. For me it was a film of mindless and unchallenging content. In Sing a pig, mouse, porcupine, gorilla, elephant, and other random animals try out for a singing competition. The master of ceremonies is a koala bear, Buster Moon, voiced by Matthew McConnaughey. I didn't recognize his voice--I saw his name in the credits. Buster owns the theater in which the competition is to take place, and he hopes it will attract a large enough audience that he can pay off his bills—he’s about to lose the theater.  Sing capitalizes on earlier films that feature an all-animal cast. Examples are the Zanzibar films and Zootopia--a higher-level film that was actually fairly good. It also exploits the popularity of The Voice and America's Got Talent and American Idol on which random anonymous people from the neighborhoods and hinterlands of the United States compete for glory on a television show. Many of their performances are framed with maudlin and dramatic stories of people who climb up from adversity or personal disaster to display their talent and perhaps win a large amount of money and maybe a recording contract.

In Sing, a shy elephant who can barely bring herself to speak to anyone but who has a beautiful voice is encouraged by her family to try out. A mother pig (with 45 piglets and a husband who works so hard that he pays her barely any attention and comes home at night to sleep in his chair) sings to occupy herself, for self-fulfillment, to be happy, and when she sees an advertisement about the competition she auditions and ends up on the show. Other animals have their own stories. Various disasters and pitfalls and comic moments transpire that take up much of the film. I watched Sing, I didn't go to sleep, I was entertained, I laughed a bit, I was faintly moved by the story’s outcome which, unsurprisingly, was predictable. Sing gave me what I wanted.

Thursday, June 08, 2017

Hell or High Water

In the foreground of Hell or High Water (2016; dir. David Mackenzie) are two bank robbing brothers and two Texas Rangers who pursue them. In the background is the American Southwest, not only the dramatic scenes we all recognize (buttes and spires and desert) but also small towns and cities on the verge of disappearing. The film shows us devastated landscapes: strip malls, former farm fields full of oil wells or refineries or pump stations, abandoned equipment, rotting houses, empty streets and stores. This contemporary Western drama operates on several levels: that of the robbers and the lawmen who pursue them, but also that of a deeply tragic drama of economic forces, greed, and corporate ambitions that are victimizing people who live in the old Southwest and once earned their living there.

The bank robbing brothers, Tanner and Toby Howard, lived and grew up on a farm that always struggled to survive. Their mother, who died shortly before the start of the film, took out a reverse mortgage in an attempt to save the farm, but after her death the brothers discover that nothing is left: the banks are about to foreclose on the farm and sell it to oil companies that will pump the oil that is below the now abandoned fields around it. Economic exploitation by banks and corporations and entire populations of people are of primary interest. In one scene Texas Ranger Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham) are sitting in front of a store in a town that seems almost abandoned. They are staking out a bank which they believe the robbers will soon hit. Marcus Hamilton likes to make fun of his partner’s Mexican and Comanche ancestry. He makes frequent jokes that are probably intended to show his fondness for Parker but which actually hurt Parker's feelings, though he doesn't say much to show it. Parker and Hamilton are hard-bitten Southwest characters who are close friends but who can never manage to express affection for each other. As they watch the bank, Parker makes a point of telling Hamilton that 150 years in the past all the land they are looking at belonged to "his people," meaning the Comanches. He notes that the ancestors of the people who now live in this town took the land away from the Comanches, and that now the banks have taken their livelihood too. It's an ongoing cycle of exploitation, of economic cannibalism, cultural cannibalism.

Given these themes, there are no clear moral dividing lines in this film. What the bank robbing brothers are doing (robbing banks to acquire enough money to save their farm) is against the law. They understand that. But there's also a reason why they are robbing banks, and it's not greed. It's survival. At least this is the case for the brother named Toby (Chris Pine). He's never been a lawbreaker. He was married, is now divorced, is the father of two sons, and is on uneasy terms with his ex-wife. While his brother Tanner served time in prison for an unspecified crime, Toby spent the last several years before the film’s beginning taking care of his mother before she died of colon cancer. He feels he's done just about everything wrong in his life, and he plans to use the money he acquires from robbing banks to save the farm, which he will deed to his sons as a way of trying to do something good. His brother understands what he wants to do, and because he is his brother, agrees to help him. There's wild recklessness in Tanner: he loves robbing banks. He loves danger. He doesn't care about breaking the law. All of these things make him different from his brother.

Texas Ranger Hamilton is determined to catch these robbers, but he also admires the way they have planned their heists--he sees an intelligent mind at work, and he deduces many facts that turn out to be true. He comes to understand their motives.

Hamilton has much in common with Sheriff Ed Tom Bell of the Coen brothers film No Country for Old Man (2007), based on Cormac McCarthy's novel (2005). He's close to retirement. In fact, he is scheduled for retirement. But he wants a last opportunity to investigate a series of crimes and to catch the perpetrators. It offers excitement for him. It also offers him a last chance to work with his partner Alberto. Hamilton strikes me as the most nuanced and interesting character in the film. But I would also say that Toby Howard's character is rounded, three-dimensional, and nuanced. That there are no moral absolutes apparent in this film, and that all the characters in one way or the other have a conflicted and troubling past, makes for a wonderful ambiguity that becomes the film’s great strength.

Perhaps saying that there are no moral absolutes in this film is incorrect. It's difficult to apply traditional moral standards of right and wrong to the actions of the characters because of what we learn about their backgrounds, because of how events transpire. It is the cultural and economic environment of the Texas Southwest to which we can apply moral absolutes. Injustices are happening. People are losing their land and their heritage. There is a century and a half long tradition of dispossessing people from their land and their farms and their businesses. This legacy of exploitation causes the crimes that occur in this film and leads to the death of four individuals (no spoilers here).

Hell or High Water never becomes morose or too serious. There are numerous moments of humor. There are several minor or secondary characters who are clearly three-dimensional figures: they have a past even though we don't know about it--it's alluded to. We don't know about the struggle of the Howard brother’s mother to save the farm. We don't know about the failed marriage of Toby and his wife Ginny, but the film suggests that past is there. It suggests there is a past, a history, that informs every moment of action.

Hell or High Water ends in ambiguity. The film resolves major aspects of its story, but it leaves some matters hanging. Many find such ambiguity dissatisfying. The irresolution of characters whose past histories are just hinted at, of situations that extend beyond the horizons of this film, are what make Hell or High Water the outstanding experience it is.

Fear(s) of the Dark

Fear(s) of the Dark (2007; dirs. Blutch, Charles Burns, Marie Caillou, Pierre Di Sciullo, Lorenzo Mattotti, Richard McGuire) is a French animated film about terror. It consists of six mostly black and white sequences, each written and directed by a different animator, depicting unconnected but not unrelated scenarios of terror. In one sequence a young man fascinated with insects has a love affair with a woman he meets at a library. She is connected to a strange insect he found in the forest.  Although the film never really explains the connection, it certainly illustrates the consequences. One could see this sequence as an allegory of how love can turn into a form of cannibalism, of transformative terror. In another sequence, perhaps the most brilliant of the film, an unnamed man wanders out of a white snowy landscape and breaks into a house, apparently seeking protection from the elements. The dark and abandoned house turns out to be more than it seems. The way this sequence plays with darkness and light, with shadows and light, is innovative. In another sequence, influenced by Japanese animation, a young girl is trapped in a nightmare in which school bullies and the ghost of a samurai warrior haunt her. When she wakes from the nightmare, a strange menacing man tells her she needs to finish the dream and injects her with a sedative. Interspersed at various moments in the film are random geometric shapes, some symmetrical, some asymmetrical, that move around while a voice ponders existential questions and conundrums about life. In another set of scenes placed in between the longer ones, an old man with a pack of vicious dogs wanders the landscape. Each time we see him, he releases a dog to kill a victim. In still another sequence a strange beast menaces a country landscape. Although I didn't consider this film quite a success, it wasn't quite a failure. It held my interest. The different sequences were artfully done. Although they didn't add up to more than they might have, they were nonetheless stimulating. They offered a creative, unusual take on fear, on nightmares, on the night terrors with which our unconscious minds can haunt us.

Wednesday, June 07, 2017

I am Curious Yellow

I first saw I am Curious Yellow (1967, dir. Vilgot Sjöman) soon after it became legal to see it in the United States, which would have been in 1972. My interest in it then was twofold: it was highly controversial for its purportedly pornographic content. It was also considered a film of the avant garde. Seeing avant garde films was a mark of distinction. Seeing films purported to be pornographic was a matter of personal curiosity. I don't remember much about it, except that the sex scenes were disappointing. It had other subjects to address and over the 45 years since I first saw it I had totally forgotten what they were. I do remember thinking at the time it was not a good film.

Recently I watched I am Curious Yellow again. I was curious to see how it held up. I was interested in whether it had any real value, whether I had missed something of significance since that time I was initially so interested in the pornography it was supposed to contain. In the late 60s and early 70s, it was supposed to be an iconic, milestone film.  Having seen it again, I have several observations:

1. It's a highly political film, focused on the counterculture of the late 1960s, on the heightened political consciousness of those years. As a Swedish political statement, it focuses specifically on the issue of economic classes, since the main character Lola occupies herself by interviewing various people about whether they believe Sweden has economic classes.  Other important political issues, such as women’s rights, the Vietnamese War, and freedom of expression, are referenced.  It’s clearly influenced by, and trying to capitalize on, the youth movement. Nonviolence is a question the nation of Sweden was debating when the film was made, and at one point the government decides to take a nonviolent stance towards invasions from foreign powers. All citizens are required to take a three-month course in nonviolence.

2. I had wholly forgotten that the film features three historical figures. One was all Olof Palme, a minister of education in Sweden when the film was being made (he later became Prime Minister and was assassinated in 1986). He appears in several scenes as himself, speaking with students and being interviewed by Lena. He's one of the few people in the film who seem coherent and intelligent. Another person who seems out of place but also as intelligent and coherent is Martin Luther King, Jr. According to Wikipedia, the interview with King was filmed while he was visiting in Sweden.  The Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko also appears, talking to students about his poetry and about revolution.

3. The film has sporadic elements of social and political satire. It makes fun of government officials, of journalists, of anyone who’s older than the main character, who thinks that anyone much older than she is not enlightened or intelligent.

4. it is a coming-of-age film for Lola. She's trying to "find herself." That of course is a hackneyed theme of many films of the 1950s and 60s, and of many films since then. Lola is trying to find herself through having sex with a garment store worker (and with 23 other men on whom she keeps files), and she's also trying to develop political awareness by taking part in political protests and interviewing people about social and economic issues in Sweden.

5. In a way that should complicate it, but which doesn’t, since the film is simplistic, I am Curious Yellow is a film within a film.  Much of the action takes place within the film being made.  This is largely not a matter of import, though it does contribute to the film’s willingness to make fun of itself. Lola (Lena Nyman) is the name of both the actress in the main film and of the character she’s portraying in the film within a film, both of which, not surprisingly, are titled I am Curious Yellow.

In practically every way I can think of this film is a mess. It's not coherent. It is not interesting. Lola is self-absorbed, dimwitted, stubborn, narcissistic. The other characters are mostly not interesting. The acting isn't very good. The film drags. The editing is poor: the interviews about the Swedish economic class system go on forever. Some of them needed to be edited out. Its political positions are hazy, though we can guess generally what they are. It's not a very significant film. There's not much good I can say about it.

I think the director Vilgot Sjöman wanted to be another Bergman, who is mentioned once during the film. Instead, this is a film directed by a Swedish version of the American director Ed Wood.  Let it be noted that other commentators have a different view of this film: they see it as intelligent, humorous, innovative, a landmark.  I don’t.  As with so much else, however, I could be wrong.

Friday, June 02, 2017

Dragon Teeth

I have read most of Michael Crichton’s novels.  He was effective at presenting and developing his story lines.  His research was deep and thorough, and his ability to develop plots centered on scientific and technical issues in a way that seemed authoritative was partly responsible for his success.  Sometimes, he stretched the facts and inserted speculative ideas of his own—which is what a fiction writer can do.  I remember discussions with a geneticist friend of mine who found the idea of cloning as presented in the Jurassic Park novels (1990, 1995) completely implausible.  Where I felt Crichton typically faltered was in resolving his plots—then his novels became more formulaic and predictable.  I was bothered by his right-wing politics, particularly his denial of climate change (see State of Fear, 2004), and by his treatment of Japan and the Japanese in Rising Sun (1992).  His novels are, ironically, permeated by an underlying skepticism about technology that is both reasonably cautionary and also hyperbolic.

The posthumous novel Dragon Teeth (2017), a manuscript found by his widow among his papers, may be one of his best books.  It’s a well plotted story of fossil hunting in the Old West.  Though its main character, William Johnson, a young man from Philadelphia who on a bet goes on a fossil hunting expedition, is fictional, other important characters are based on fact: especially the paleontologists Othniel Charles Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope, whose intense rivalry in the late 19th century as they hunted for dinosaur fossils has become legendary.  Robert Louis Stephenson briefly appears, as do other historical figures (Wyatt Earp prominent among them).  I was reminded of the novels of E. L. Doctorow, which often included historical figures.  The focus on Cope and Marsh is the novel’s strongest asset.[i] The novel is basically a yarn—though it centers on fossil hunting, it isn’t science fiction or fantasy.  It’s an Old West tale. At times Crichton seems to be developing an overview of the opening of the American West, of Native Americans, of fossil hunting.  But mostly this is an adventure story about a young and arrogant son of wealthy parents coming of age.  It was exciting and interesting from beginning to end.  It does not suffer from the problems in resolution I found other Crichton novels.

I would like to know to what extent editors or others contributed to the final form of the book: to what extent it is Crichton’s book, or some other person’s idea of what Crichton would have wanted.  Crichton’s widow provides an afterword which suggests the novel is primarily Crichton’s work, but one never knows, since the novel was never finished (though this published version seems finished and complete).

[i] See the National Geographic article on Marsh and Cope at