My publisher revealed the cover of my next novel, The Strip. The book is out early January.
Recently, I had the opportunity to see David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001) at Melbourne’s Capitol Theatre. Despite the film’s ever-rising status, I’ve long disliked it. In my memory, it marks the exact spot where Lynch descended into late-career self-parody. Turns out I just didn’t get it, and thinking through why strangely mirrors the film itself. Back in ‘01, I was an aspirant musician — full of excitement at what might be coming down the pipe. In 2023, I’ve lived through what actually happened, and now Mulholland Drive’s darker half feels far less gothic and obscene. With the two portions balanced out in my mind, I feel it now. Because I think that’s ultimately what Mulholland Drive is about: life’s various doubles, synergies, repetitions, it’s conjoined realities and unrealities.
I’m still giving away a copy of James Ellroy’s L.A. Quartet. This is a promotional exercise, but I’ve been running Facebook ads on the competition and the data coming back is pretty interesting:
Years ago, I interviewed Luke Boerdam from the band Violent Soho and I asked him, Why are rock bands so hard to maintain? His answer was, Because a band is the dumbest way to make a piece of art. I thought about that often during The Bear Season 2, a joyful — sometimes beautiful, sometimes sour — look at people trying to make something together.
Currently reading Rebels on the Backlot by Sharon Waxman. Terrible title, but an absolutely fascinating look at male auteurist cinema in the American 1990s (Tarantino, Paul Thomas Anderson, Soderbergh, etc). I’m not sure you could get this book done these days; it’s so low-key mean-spirited, yet totally reliant on access. Everyone is too media savvy now. Waxman herself also appears to have her own problems.
The ongoing influence of Kevin Smith’s story about Jon Peters, set to film:https://twitter.com/JFrankensteiner/status/1681097727852068869
I’ve been listening to a lot of Hole’s Celebrity Skin (1998). The title track has always been something of a bizarre masterpiece: did anyone predict the future of Courtney Love better than herself? Wilted and faded somewhere in Hollywood, is how it goes. But the album is so much more, I just couldn’t hear it through the glam-pop sheen at the end of the century.
The Chevron Paradise Hotel, 1972 (Gold Coast):
— IAIN
PS: Read my public-facing thoughts Twitter (and Threads) and see how I live my life on Instagram.
PPS: This newsletter is brought to you by Welshpool Frillies by Guided by Voices.
PPPS: Buy my books direct here.