Short Story Spotlight: "The Big Blow"

"The Big Blow" by Joe R. Lansdale (Mad Dog Summer: And Other Stories)


OK, technically it's a novella (that was later expanded into a novel), but this Joe R. Lansdale narrative is a perfect one to delve into this weekend as Hurricane Irene bears down on the East Coast of the Macabre Republic.  "The Big Blow" details an epic boxing match involving real-life pugilist Jack Johnson, a bout suddenly trumped by the great hurricane that ravaged Galveston, Texas in the year 1900.  The novella is fast-paced (building to a surprising but rewarding conclusion) and sports a cast of extremely colorful characters.  It's also as salty as the seawater that floods the streets of Galveston, with Lansdale walloping the reader right from the opening sentence: "On an afternoon hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock, John McBride, six-foot-one-and-a-half inches, 220 pounds, ham-handed, built like a wild boar and of similar disposition, arrived by ferry from mainland Texas to Galveston Island,a six-gun under his coat and a razor in his shoe."  Now, if that powerful hook doesn't inspire you to keep reading, you must have been knocked delirious by gale-force winds somewhere along the way.  "The Big Blow" ranks among the finest of Lansdale's tales. 

Most Gothic Place Names in the United States--Texas

For previous entries, click the "Most Gothic Place Names" label under Features in the right sidebar.


Don't mess with Texas when it comes to Gothic monikers.  The list of suggestive appellations includes Cain City (fratricides united), Little Hope (for all who enter here), Avenger Village (decidedly pro-vigilantism), Phantom Hill (ghost sightings on the rise), Devils Shores (a beachfront for Beelzebub?), Fry (Texans sure are keen on capital punishment), Old House Place (dark and derelict), Gore Landing (not far from Cut and Shoot), and Koockville (a community of loonies).  But make no bones about it, the most Gothic place name in the Lone Star State is...

Skellytown.  A landscape surely riddled with shallow graves.  A town where the closets brim with dead bodies.  And it's not hard to imagine the most popular costumes and props here, come Halloween.

...Is Another Man's Treasure

The Palace (of) Depression figures prominently into both the book and film versions of Eddie and the Cruisers.  But the place is no mere fictional construct; it was actually built in the early 1930's in the Atlantic City suburb of Vineland.  And who better to profile this architectural oddity than the guys from Weird NJ:

Book vs. Film: Eddie and the Cruisers

Eddie and the Cruisers was the first movie I ever watched when my family purchased a VCR back in the mid-80's.  Today, I own the DVD, and have watched it countless times.  For all my familiarity with the film, though, I was oblivious to its literary source.  It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I finally purchased and read the 1980 novel by P.F. Kluge that inspired the movie.  So how do the two versions stack up against one another?  Read on... (caution: plot spoilers).

The novel is narrated by Frank "Wordman" Ridgeway (Tom Berenger's character in the film), so Eddie and the Cruisers is literally and figuratively his book.  He forms the central character, even as he plays Nick Carraway to Eddie Wilson's Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald's Great American novel is referenced several times throughout the book).  The narrative thus proves much more personal/confessional than the film version.  Frank's voice--inflected with world-weary cynicism--also creates distinct echoes of hard-boiled detective novels (cf. the work Raymond Chandler).

As does the film, the book shifts back and forth in time, moving back through the decades to the Crusiers' heyday, and contrasting that golden age with the tarnished nature of the band members' modern lives.  Kluge's scenes, though, take time to unfold, whereas the film (thanks to jump-cutting) often offers smoother--and more poignant--transitions.

The cast of characters is more fully developed in the novel, which helps elevate them from background figures to major suspects in the mystery stemming from the popular resurgence of the Cruisers' music.  For instance, Wendell, who doesn't deliver a single line of dialogue in the film (and is killed off midway through), is integral to the plot of the novel.

The book does a much better job of establishing Eddie's dream, the musical goal he is trying to accomplish (something more compli-cated and significant than in the film version).  On the other hand, director (and co-screenwriter) Martin Davidson more skillfully handles the subject of Eddie's death: the question of whether the nascent rock star's demise was an accident, a suicide (a consid-eration the book seems to shy away from), or possibly even a faked death.

While the film wonderfully captures the vibe of the Jersey shore scene of the mid-20th Century, Kluge's novel extensively details the sights, sounds, and smells of the Garden State.  Readers travel with the Cruisers from Newark to Camden, Asbury Park to Atlantic City.  In effect, Kluge (a native of Berkeley Heights) has penned a Springsteenian ode to New Jersey.

The film's major advantage, however, is its musical aspects.  In the novel, Frank has to resort to quoted lyrics and his own para-phrasing narration (he acknowledges his struggles to depict the Cruisers' performances: "How can I recapture that night? I can't sing it, play it, or relive it.  All I can do is recall bits and pieces."). The film's viewers, meanwhile, get to see the Cruisers in action, get to listen to the soundtrack (which I would rank as one of the top five in film history) furnished by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band.  Indeed, it's doubtful that Eddie and the Cruisers would have struck such a chord with its audience if not for its interpolated songs--the enthusiastic anthem "Wild Summer Nights," the haunting ballad "Tender Years," and, of course, the bar-rocking classic "On the Dark Side."

Perhaps what most distinguishes Kluges' Eddie and the Cruisers is its dark, sinister tone (as it slips into the dark side of American Gothic).  A derelict Quonset hut forms an eerie yet integral setting; the book climaxes with a series of bloody murders.  The film opts for a milder air of spookiness, but its final scene raises goosebumps for a whole other reason.  The music builds to a shattering crescendo, the documentary footage of the Cruisers fades to black, and suddenly the reflection of an older, bearded Eddie Wilson (he's alive! he's alive!) appears in the storefront window.  A delightful twist ending, especially for anyone who happened to have read the novel (where Eddie in fact died in a car crash) first.

I absolutely loved Kluge's novel, and have crusied through it twice since obtaining a copy.  For all its strengths, though, the book is hard-pressed to match the film version for sheer, affective power.  That's why, using the 10-point divvy system, I ultimately give the edge to the 1983 cinematic incarnation:

                                 Film: 6
                             /
                          /
      Book: 4

Seal of Removal

No, this lone creature didn't get stranded after swimming up out of the Passaic River.  For some strange reason, the seal is all that remains of the children's playground (in the riverside park located in my hometown) that was bulldozed into oblivion several months back.

And for some bonus Photesquerie:

Is it just me, or does this mound of infield dirt (sitting a couple of hundred feet away from the seal in the first picture) look like Jabba the Hutt?  Stare at it long enough, and you can almost make out a mouth and a pair of eyes.  Han Solo best stay out of Lyndhurst!