The summer assault begins quietly, in early spring. A vague logo on a poster outside of a theater, a flash of movement and color on the television during sweeps week. And then, before anyone has a chance duck, flee, or seek refuge, the superheroes are everywhere. Flying over buildings, swinging through the air on webs, using their green lanterns and iron jet packs to make sure everyone knows without a doubt someone spectacular will be there to save the world every other hour at any Multiplex one can find, all in glorious IMAX/3D. Superheroes seem to thrive in the heat like exotic plants, wary of the cool and prestige of fall and winter. They cover soda cans and beach blankets, give a person double miles on Amex cards. Thrill rides are named in their honor, rides which can only be enjoyed in sun-drenched logo-print t-shirts and caps. Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Captain America, the Hulk, Thor, Green Goblin, Green Lantern, all the X-Men (along with a few X-Women) and tons and tons of other brightly suited lunatics dominate the summer movies, on a super mission to gather your money, time, and most importantly, your undivided attention. And like all good summer fun, these superheroes, who can fly and glow and upturn streets of cars without abandon, are utterly weightless. Their wisdom is meaningless. (“With great power comes great responsibility.”) Their actions inconsequential. Their faces interchangeable. (“Who is playing Batman this time?”) And we eat them up to the sum of billions and billions of dollars.
“It is too hot to think,” is the message we send with our entertainment money. “Dazzle us and leave us be,” we demand. And not just with movies. Our television hours are dedicated to endless amounts of talent competitions and reality feuds. Our music tastes veer to silly pop and endless jams. And our book tastes become simply horrendous, “beach reads” with the nutritional value of styrofoam. I will admit to being excited about the latest Batman. I cannot get enough of Nene Leakes and all her “Real” Atlanta housewives. And Gaga is on a endless loop on my iPhone. But I draw the line a summer reading. Leisure time is not where I need to catch up on the latest adventures of a vampire heroines who fall for the boy next door, or vampire heroes who struggle with their inner lust for square-mouthed girl in gym class. Keep your Austen Zombies and your Bin Laden-tracking-CIA agents off of my Kindle, away from my nightstand, out of my beach bag. Give me something with depth, I demand, something that will keep my brain from turning into mush after being stomped on by too many psychopaths in spandex and eye masks.
So, here you go, a summer reading list to get anyone through the KABOOM and POW of the summer’s heat, brain intact:
Biskind, arguably one of Hollywood’s greatest chroniclers, interviewed almost everyone who is anyone in Hollywood for this book, which tells the story of the artistic rise of American cinema in the 1970s. Starting with Dennis Hopper’s Easy Riders and Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde, Biskind takes the reader on a cocaine-fueled run through the greats of the era, including Coppola’s The Godfather, Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, Altman’s Nashville, and Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show. More than just a behind the scenes look at the making of these films, Easy Riders offers anecdotes and analysis, enough gossip to send you to confession, and a true understanding of how mainstream American cinema, for at least a brief moment, found the perfect way to blend art and entertainment. With a fall just as spectacular as its rise (Popeye, anyone?), Easy Riders is film school disguised as a Vanity Fair article, and just as epic as any movie produced in that era.
Super Sad True Love Story. By Gary Shteyngart.
Set in a future New York in which everyone’s actions, credit score, and “hotness” are cached by an iPhone-like device called an apparati, Shteyngart’s novel, the tale of sad Russian Jew Lenny Abramov and his even sadder Juliet, twenty-four-year-old Korean American Eunice Park, is as thrilling and scary as anything Mr. Orwell ever dreamed up. Told through Lenny’s hand-written journal and Eunice’s text conversations, Super Sad gives us a future without books that will make one think twice about that Kindle. What sets this book apart, though, from other bleak and desolate visions of the future is the way Shetyngart infuses his novel with as much heart and emotion as he does with dystopian dread. The novel is as super sad as the title suggest, but also incredibly soulful and even moving. (Watch the hilarious "trailer" in the link above.)
The Orchid Thief. By Susan Orlean.
The New Yorker’s Susan Orlean’s nonfiction romp through the Florida everglades in search of the elusive Ghost Orchid with dreamer/schemer (and criminal) John Laroche is packed full of history, obsession, and strange delight. Based on her essay “Orchid Fever,” The Orchid Thief tells a tale that is so off-kilter, yet intoxicating, it almost seems unreal. In Laroche, Orlean has found the ultimate real life character, a man whose obsessions for beauty leads him to ignore everything from the law to his own health. And the deeper he gets into his obsession, the more believable he becomes, thanks to Orlean’s clear and simple writing. An added bonus to the book is the equally wondrous film version, Adaptation, a movie as strange and unique as Laroche himself.
Flannery. By Brad Gooch.
Brad Gooch’s fully-fleshed biography of Flannery O’Connor presents a fascinating portrait of one of America’s finest writers, peacocks and all. While at times it is a little too comprehensive, Gooch is clearly enamored by his subject, and paints her as not the troubled artist one might expect from her fiction, but as an approachable yet devout individual. Most illuminating is her time spent at the prestigious Iwoa Writer’s Workshop, and her secretive (to us only) correspondence with Betty Hester, long rumored to be Flannery’s lover. (Gooch easily dispels this rumor.) Even if her life does not live up to the eruptions of violence that populate her most famous short stories, the view into Flannery’s life is invaluable for any fan.
The Keep. By Jennifer Egan.
The Keep, Jennifer Egan’s gothic third novel, centers on Danny, a New York hipster who flees his life after being chased by mobsters. Addicted to technology, Danny disappears into an Eastern European castle at the request of his wealthy cousin, who is rebuilding the place. Cut off from all technology, Danny thinks he has found the perfect escape. The cousins, of course, share a secret past, which may or may not come back to haunt poor Danny. As tawdry as this sounds, Egan, one of the most experimental mainstream writer working today, knowingly pulls it off with a twist that sounds gimmicky on paper, but works amazingly well in the novel. (Think her Powerpoint Prestnetation in A Visit From the Good Squad, only more meta.) To say too much would ruin the surprise, which is half of the fun of the novel. A perfect vacation read.
Infinite Jest. By David Foster Wallace.
Wallace’s behemoth of a novel, published in 1996, and chocked full of endnotes, roving hamsters and one mind-blowing film, is a full summer’s worth of reading. In fact, clocking in at well over 1,000 pages, it works best in pieces. I read it two summers ago, carrying it around like a totem. It is frustrating, exhilarating, even boring for long stretches, but utterly valuable. Its scope, like its plot, cannot be easily summarized, nor should it be. And while it sometimes feels like work, it is immensely readable, unlike, say, Delillo’s Underworld. If completing it seems like a daunting task, there is even a reading schedule online for support. Read it for nothing else to say you have at a dinner party.
There you go, a full summer of reading, no vampires or superheroes needed. You will not be sorry for reading any of these books. What am I reading this summer? Justin Cronin’s The Passage, an apocalyptic story of a young woman battling government engineered…vampires. Sorry, it is summer. I need an escape.