How dare you pay for yourself, bank?

What are we upset about today?

Oh, I get it. You’re mad at your bank, again.

How dare they deliver coupons to your inbox, or permit advertising within your bank statement? Just another example of a dastardly bank conspiring against you.

This is just like that time you couldn’t believe that banks earned a percentage of income from overdraft fees. “The nerve! You’re taking advantage of those poor customers,” you cried.

More accurately, you trembled with pre-emptive outrage, abhorring the mere possibility of a $34.99 fee assessed to you by your bank.

But you never thought about this until that letter from your bank, politely urging you to opt into overdraft protection. You see, a regulation forced banks to charge debit-card overdraft fees only after customer permission. You said: “No way, bank!” And you didn’t opt in, and who cares, because, again, you never overdraw.

I'm the most important customer! Me!

Regardless, banks lost a percentage of overdraft fees and a portion of operating income.

You pumped your fist, uncaring. Those fatcat tellers and customer service reps don’t deserve their salaries. And customers who occasionally made a mistake deserved neither luxury nor deterrent. Nope, no overdrafts permitted, ever. That was best for all. That worked for you. Banks would just have to figure it out.

So then, everything was fine. You kept your debit card in a holster, drawing it 30 times a month.

That is, until big-box retailers (Target, Walmart) and small-box retailers, and soon Congressmen, started pointing fingers at the terrifying revenue debit-card interchange created for your bank. Quelle horror!

You learned that banks, promulgated by Visa USA and MasterCard, earn a percentage of change from each debit- and credit-card transaction. How could this be? you wondered. After all, it’s your debit card and your money, and that plastic card is cheap.

Besides, Target and Walmart kept telling you, if mom-and-pop retailers (Plus, naturally, Target and Walmart) could save on interchange fees, you’d save more of your cash on purchases. So they rammed a provision through Congress, reducing interchange fees for large, medium and small banks. Income flew out the window again.

You offered a half-hearted cheer, because the regulation was barely strong enough, but it was a start. Never mind the convenience, ease and safety of debit cards – there’s no value for that. Bring on your 10-cent price break at Crate & Barrel!

Except you never got that discount. Turns out it was all a negotiating ploy by the retail lobby. Walmart has a bottom line, too, just like Bank of America. But you kept shopping.

But then, banks started changing. Some got rid of free checking. Some conditioned free checking on direct deposits. Some incentivized tiers of debit-card usage. Some threatened to charge for a debit card.

And you were apoplectic. You couldn’t believe that!

Because, at the core, you consider banks a utility; like your water or gas company. Banks should make only enough money to break even, you assumed. They provide a public trust, rather than a for-profit business.

New branches and company investments really rankled you, because if banks have enough money to open new sites on corners, then doggone it, how are you not getting everything you whine about? The gall of a business expanding its reach and purview to compete!

So back to today. We’re still upset, right? It’s unforgivable, after all, that PNC and Bank of America develop a new revenue stream that helps keep debit-card, account, and maintenance fees in check. After all, ads in the statement we don’t ever view would really suck, and who can use coupons, right?

Our outrage predictably shifts from one target to the next, prompted by bank PR and anti-bank backlash. But the truth is, these regulations, ranging from headaches or seismic shifts for banks –  actually may have worked.

In tandem with the crash of 2008, most banks’ capital ratings have grown stronger. Most banks have rediscovered safety, soundness and solvency.

Banks have tightened up credit leaks, eliminated gluts of free-everything, and even, yes, by developing new revenue streams. Free checking may be gone, but now, services carry a cost. The customer chooses online banking or interest or zero paper checks or unlimited withdrawals. You don’t like fees? Great, join the club. But fees actually force you to figure out how you bank, and decide what’s most important to you, the customer.

And you discover that when you behave in ways that don’t cost banks a fortune (direct deposit, online banking, that darn debit card), you won’t pay a cent. What’s to be mad about?

In today’s bank environment, you get to decide what’s valuable. Unfortunately, we customers keep proving that we’re not ready for that. Bank of America tried it, remember?

John Hanley is a former marketing manager for a $2-billion, 20-city community bank in the Midwest. His first novel is not about banking, but is available later this year.

Cited:

• Bank of America testing online deals [Reuters]
• I Don’t Want Ads in My Online Bank Statement [Consumerist]
• Consumers Getting Mixed Messages in Wake of Swipe Reform [Consumerist]
• Banks Taketh, but Don’t Giveth [NYT Opinion]
• The Hard Sell: Banks Going After More Overdraft Fees [MSNBC Red Tape]
• The Problem with Profit Motive in Finance [Harvard Business Review]

Previously at MFG:

• Those Dastardly Banks, And Other Myths in Blogging
• The Interchange Fight Goes On
• Wasting Your Hate
  

Though the title and even the cover design suggest a suburban potboiler, A Friend of the Family actually is closer to rumination on fatherhood and growing older – how adulthood sneaks up on all of us, and continues to encroach, no matter our standing.

Fraught with regret, mistakes, and memories adulthood plagues the mind, with no regard for success, family or friendship.

Full review ahead – I tried not to spoil, but consider yourself warned just in case.

Grodstein’s narrator is Dr. Pete, a 50-something family doctor in the New Jersey suburbs, a bucolic, close-knit, affluent stone’s throw from bohemian Manhattan – yet seeming a world away. His life has unraveled, and A Friend of the Family is his tale of how.

The first-person structure works for Grodstein, largely due to the affability of lead character Dr. Pete, who begins as everyman yet weakens with every decision. He has a rationale, his actions seem justifiable – yet endearing becomes frustrated becomes bewildering through his descent. Still, he’s a Dad, like mine and yours. Familiarity beckons.

Told in a succession of flashbacks weaving around Dr. Pete’s current plight, the structure can be challenging, but Grodstein’s command of language propels the reader forward.

With expert technique, she drops subtle character reveals and foreshadowing into several of Dr. Pete’s most colorful memories; often hinting at tragedy, secrets, or doom of the past while still in the present. The reader eagerly plows ahead. What happened? How did Dr. Pete get here?

Characters bloom in Dr. Pete’s tales; and Grodstein masterfully illuminates the supporting cast through his asides; we don’t have to be told what makes Alec or Joe or Lauren tick – the author shows us. It’s really well done.

At times harrowing and gripping, Dr. Pete is either coming of age or slipping further away from reality – or, at least, his competing constructs of success, friendship, marriage and fatherhood. A Friend of the Family is an excellent read, at times inspiring, at times disappointing, but in sum, rewarding, astonishing and invigorating. It’s a novel about life, it feels real and churns from bleak to hopeful to resigned and back; often in the span of a few sentences.

Grodstein deftly carves out a brilliant slice of life and a compelling study of character, with light hands and effortless touch. It’s a page-turner and a good one. You won’t regret this choice.

Maybe you wonder where they rank on the Spielberg spectrum?

With no additional explanation:

• 26. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
• 25. A.I. Artificial Intelligence
• 24. 1941
• 23. Always
• 22. Lost World: Jurassic Park 2
• 21. The Terminal
• 20. Munich
• 19. Minority Report
• 18. Hook
• 17. Amistad
• 16. Empire of the Sun
• 15. War of the Worlds
• 14. The Adventures of Tintin
• 13. Catch Me If You Can
• 12. Jurassic Park
• 11. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
• 10. War Horse
• 9. Schindler’s List
• 8. Saving Private Ryan
• 7. The Color Purple
• 6. E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial
• 5. Duel
  
• 4. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
• 3. Close Encounters of the Third Kind
• 2. Raiders of the Lost Ark
• 1. Jaws

{Update: By coincidence, Slate also published a list of ranked Spielberg movies. Which means, obviously, had I been the least bit intellectual, I shouldn’t have bothered. I mean, the whole exercise is now passé. Just like pie.]

Today (Grantland-style; I’m aware of the irony) I’m writing about me.

I used to want to be a sportswriter. As my career has diverted, I still lurk in social playgrounds with sportswriters. At one time I was promising, sure. I’d confidently put paper Daily Iowans sold, or column hit-rates up against the Press Citizen or CR Gazette on my run dates. Had we counted hits, that is. Or not given the paper away for free. We were young.

But today, actually, I finally realized what sportswriting has become. Maybe, today, I’ve finally outgrown the sports-talk itch.

Apparently, sportswriting means the writer falls in love with the subjects he or she covers. Want proof?

• When the Penn State tragedy broke in November, former Kansas City Star super-columnist Joe Posnanski faced a choice. His warm and fuzzy Joe Paterno book lay in ruins. Would he gloss over the scandal in futile pursuit of his original intent? Or would he confront the scandal, the fallen idol, or the wreckage head-on? You decide. Tom Scocca of Deadspin provides the disappointing details.
• Elsewhere, Gannett-owned USA Today just purchased The Big Lead, once a “nascent” blog (his word) with a propensity for media comment. Perhaps coming full circle, and armed with newfound feature-writing resources, blogger Jason McIntyre profiled one-time foe and insufferable radio host Colin Cowherd. Profile isn’t the right word. Think sonnet, or soliloquy, or Tiger Beat magazine, with dialogue and language so rife with syrup the drippings might well drown you.
• And of course, agonizing, we return to the unbearable, navel-gazing Grantland. The Pantheon of sportswriter self-love; its own editor assumes any joke, aside, footnote or yarn he spins turn to gold, no matter how repetitive or long-winded. His minions follow suit, in superficial substance and style. But honestly, Grantland is the logical conclusion of sports journalism. When you’ve tired of covering your subjects in syrup and praise, you move onto the one subject you truly, deeply and madly love — yourself.

It’s now obvious. That’s sportswriting today.

I do not begrudge Simmons, nor Pos, nor McIntyre their success. They’re talented. They each worked extremely hard, and I say this not to be holier than thou (or anybody).

Often, I regret the choices I made on the precipice of my career, sportswriting, reporting, real writing, or whatever: Maybe I should have pestered the Danbury News-Times to pluck me from copy desk and assign me a beat. Maybe I should have stayed at The Star, instead of moving onto corporate pastures. If I’d done things differently maybe I’d be as rich or notable. Or relevant.

But those are regrets. We’ve all got them. Maybe, quite simply, I never worked as hard at sportswriting as these guys. But now they’ve all arrived, and I can finally see the destination, and I know one thing:

That ain’t me.

Why? Because. Image: Flickr/EmmaBond

First, there’s nothing wrong with Grantland. Let’s just get that out of the way. It’s fine.

As a landing spot for talented essayists yearning to boost their profile, it’s understandable.

As a home for willful expansion of silly twitter asides, Grantland is occasionally laudable.

Of course, Grantland also is a double-hit content marketing farm for ESPN based on editor Bill Simmons’ massive Q rating. It’s not a destination, but a worthwhile grazing stop.

But is Grantland also a lunchroom bully? Or, worse yet, a petty thief?

Hoping for erudite, but settling for cheeky, Grantland routinely appears to steal – er, borrow – items from other blogs who also compete for cubicle-dwelling, white-guy male viewers with one foot in perpetual adolescence.

Nothing’s totally wrong with this. It’s the Internet, common ground gets stomped the time. But if once is an accident, and twice is a coincidence,  isn’t three is a trend? So what about all this?

The Grantland Staff Trades Emails Borrowing liberally from Football Outsiders’ excellent Audibles at the Line the day after NFL games. One difference: Audibles reads like an editors’ meeting, while Grantland is an unbearable afternoon on a fraternity couch.

Poster Decoder. Strangely, this weekly feature windows less than 24 hours after Filmdrunk’s This Week In Posters admonishes movie posters and diagonal lines.

Although if any poster deserves repeated and/or glorious barbs, it's this one.

Trailers of the Week. Borrows from Videogum’s Brooklyn-ific “This Week in Movie Trailers, You Guys, also windowing just minutes apart. Weird? Or hahahaha not weird at all.

Just Quinn, Brady. Repeatedly borrows entire Brady Quinn meme and NFL character narrative style from Kissing Suzy Kolber (Phil Rivers, Rex Ryan, Jerry Jones).  This only ran twice, quelled immediately by a KSK smackdown.

About Last Night A title strikingly similar to Deadspin’s About Last Night (now Wake Up Deadspin.) Granted, this is completely fair use, and several popular blogs recap the previous night’s sports. But still, using the exact same tag as your primary competitor isn’t always the greatest marketing idea. Or it might be, no one really knows anymore.

Bake Shop. More fair use resembling Deadspin, this time aping the tone and goofiness of the Drew Magary Funbag, capitalizing on the impossible street cred of Katie Baker.

TV Recaps. Everyone does this (me included), but so does Grantland, of course. Just wanted that on the record. (Keep your hands off Franklin & Bash, smart alecks!)

Footnotes. Borrowed from research writers who actually discuss substance, instead of a clever “look-at-me” dumping ground for potshots that can’t be worked into the story.

Used to be full of critics. Now they write for Grantland.

Web sites and publications often intersect, and there’s certainly room for differing voices approaching similar topics.

When Grantland launched, we knew its stable of writers would jostle past  lunchroom tables of Gawker, Uproxx, the Atlantic, stupid Slate, and the AV Club. But we also hoped for more than just a roughshod ride over ground well-trod.

Comedian Louis CK incidentally (and accidentally) described this “lunchroom effect” in an interview with Jonah Weiner.

“… I asked [the teacher] if you could take two words and combine them in one sentence, so he said yes, and my sentence was, “I want to take off my clothes and climb a building.” I made everybody laugh, then it became known that I did that, but then the other kids, the popular kids in the class, started doing their own versions, and I was forgotten: it just became a whole bunch of people doing that, and theirs weren’t funny. They were all private jokes about each other and stuff – sort of the way TV works now. I remember being disillusioned, like, this has been stolen from me and ruined.”

Just like that puffed-up jock ruined your lunchroom table of geeks. Once, it felt like home, all of you cracking jokes and smartly condemning your classmates.

That is, until the future TKE pledge overheard a golden quip. He plucked one of your friends for help on his English paper, promising access to the cool crowd. Soon, he blurts your lunchroom wisecrack in class to cheers and hollers, with nary an attribution, your former friend clapping approval.

Perhaps it’s natural. Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps I’m just a jealous hater, trolling for my own Grantland freelance contract. (Note: AVAILABLE)

But that’s how it works. A powerful site run by a massive blogging superstar with Disney at its back, Grantland can afford to break a few eggheads and critics. They’ve no qualms with hiring them later.

When Grantland‘s content infringes on other blog features, it’s dubious coincidence at best, and petty theft at worst, but probably not unethical at all. It certainly won’t slow down the machine.

But it does make the machine awfully forgettable.

/sips $9-dollar “medium” vat of diet soda

“No, there’s nothing wrong with going to the movies. Not even a Spielberg movie. Not even to see a faux-animated Indiana Jones replica for tweens.”

/really, truly chuckles at Cartoon Network teen gamer-show preview

“So what if you’ve never heard of Tintin? So what if a frenetic, whimsical MacGuffin chase, recalls Indiana Jones, replete with propeller scare and Moroccan market chase. Did you know this thing won a Golden Globe?”

/crams fistful of Reese’s pieces into mouth

“I guess it is artfully – professionally – done. It’s a decent homage to the beloved Belgian children’s book. The limited cast doles out exposition, comic relief, sneers, exultation and dramatic tension in expert dollops. It harkens back to animated classics, like The Secret of Nimh, An American Tail, Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown, and other mystical adventures I may or may not have seen 576 times as a kid. And if it owes a wink and nod to Raiders of the Lost Ark instead of National Treasure, isn’t that a good thing?”

/absolutely no urge to listen to iPod stockpile of Tony Kornheiser show during screening.

“Isn’t the use of a cerebral literary character from the 1930s actually refreshing? I mean, this isn’t Lightning McQueen, or some goofy animal fashioned just to appeal to a toy-buying demographic.”

/actually smiles at kid snorting, laughing two rows superior

“And, besides, I’m the ‘animals are a reflection of us’ guy. I practically bawled when War Horse became the War Horsiest War Horse who ever Horsed. Isn’t Snowy the schnauzer just as enterprising as Enzo?”

/scratches head. No urge to check 49ers score on phone

“Sure, the people look a little creepy. Motion-capture animation is a weird hurdle to leap, although Tintin looks better than most. Besides, the detail and direction of the animated, 3-D filmmaking is a real treat. And Steven Spielberg is at his most likable with a cocksure adventure, sneering villain or nonhuman sidekick. Plus, it’s a movie with British characters that doesn’t feel too British. Thank god.”

/straightens in movie chair

“Plus it’s gorgeous. It’s really, truly a beautiful piece of cinema. The detailed, sweeping animation shots, picturesque landscapes, and skillful storm and sea tableaus chilled you to the bone. Filmed for 3D, the animators straddled vulgar display of power with effortless art.”

/contemplates returning to theater to see the 3-D version

“In the end, isn’t it all storytelling? And if the story is a rollicking romp, journey, adventure, drama or farce, what’s the point in picking it apart? If I walk out of the theater glad I saw the movie; glad I spent the money; and even a little bit inspired, shouldn’t that be the point? Is an unbelieveable adventure not more enjoyable than a cloying movie fad?”

/saves ticket stub, high-fives nephew.

“Are you really talking to yourself in first person? Like anyone cares?”

After two successive, miserable first-person experiences, Garth Stein’s bestseller The Art of Racing in the Rain somewhat restored my faith. Turns out it is actually possible to deliver a swift-moving, gripping, insightful story told from one point of view.

Especially if that point of view is a dog’s.

Meet Enzo, a faithful companion to aspiring race-car driver Denny, and witness to the struggles of Denny’s family, a counterpart to Eve and Zoe.

Enzo nears the end of his full life, so the reader instantly knows how the novel will end, at least in part. The Art of Racing in the Rain, of course, is Enzo’s reflection on a his friendship with owner Denny; his steadfast devotion and belief in Denny during a tumultuous decade, with Denny receiving one setback after another.

Art works because Enzo’s narration and Denny’s life story balances equally. Like a dog (or a storyteller) with finite time left and a few major lessons learned, Enzo repeats Denny’s saga succinctly and completely. He doesn’t belabor any point; though Denny’s melodramatic circumstances border on unbelievable.

However, Enzo is a reliable narrator because he only imparts what he knows. Namely, Denny’s actions and surrounding actions. Enzo never wades too far into character motives or subtext behind actions; he tells the story and lets the reader figure it out. It’s an expert construct by author Garth Stein to swiftly spur the plot along, as well as delve into the only characters who matter, Enzo and Denny.

The construct works magnificently. Enzo’s own commentary is dribbled throughout the narrative. In particular, his reliance on gestures and blind faith in owner are sublime; qualities of a faithful dog you’d expect. His confidence bursts, but he’s always heartfelt, and only scared or wary a few times throughout. He behaves just like you’d expect a trusted dog.

The Art of Racing in the Rain is a gripping, short read. Quick chapters pass in a controlled flurry not unlike the turns on a racetrack. You’ll read it quickly, and you’ll empathize with Enzo and Denny immediately. Art stalls only when Stein lays on the racing metaphors a bit thick, or the few times Enzo drops in a quip about people that’s a little too perfect. But these are minor quibbles. Otherwise, the story sings.

Moreover, the subtext serves as a reminder to why we own pets, why we trust pets with our victories, defeats, dreams and failures. We assume they, like Enzo, possess a spiritual wisdom of which we’re incapable, and a general decency to which we aspire. Just ask Franklin: Pets instantly become our best friends and confidants.

Enzo is all of these, too, plus a great storyteller.

Schwarz, Cheadle, Hansen and Bell crackle with nervous energy.

Are you like me?

Have you been a marketer? Business developer? Junior executive?

Maybe you’ve shopped for vendors: software companies, management experts, processors, each promising to save you something. Maybe you’ve been privy to boardroom meetings. .

Maybe – god forbid – you’ve even sat through upper management retreats, all responsibility and thought turned over to smiling management consultants, eager to tell you you’re great – but something unknown can make you oh-so-much-better. They can’t tell you what this is, of course. After you’re gone, presumably you and your team will be brilliant enough to figure it out.

Or to ask for more help. (But from where?)

House of Lies, an innovative and promising satire from Showtime promises to lift the curtain on lucrative “management consultancy.” The premiere featured just enough Better Off Ted – the pitch-perfect lampoon of fruitless corporate America – coupled with a healthy dose of smarming Franklin & Bash. In other words, tonally and substantively, it’s already a success, Like a consultant’s seminar, for the rest of the season, it’s up to you to catch on.

Don Cheadle plays super-hollow, super-self-loathing, and superpowered consultant Marty. Cheadle is amiable enough, capable of warding off petty dislike viewers must feel after his vulgar displays of excess. Kristen Bell (perky pedigree), Ben Schwartz (sleaze) and Josh Lawson (egghead) serve as pillars of Cheadle’s nimble, no. 2 consultant agency. The premiere details the four’s, uh, detail to New York to pitch services to an investment-bank client.

This is where most reviewers got lost. Sepinwall and the AVClub each drew such a strong parallel to a tone-deaf rendering of the 1%, you’d swear Showtime sent each a press release to forestall “Occupy” wrath. The Atlantic called it glamorous trash. (Was Grantland’s disgusted review about House of Lies, or the profoundly hollow Grantland itself? The latter actually works better.) Dustin at Warming Glow called it “empty.”  Which is, of course, the point.

Management consultancy is totally, completely and utterly hollow: an entire industry built on buzzwords and showmanship and entire constructs of empty. It’s an unfamiliar subject for writers and journalists – most of whom are allowed to think business leaders are repugnant and shallow, not worthy of satirical subject matter. The rest of us have to work with these guys.

We’ve all been to these business meetings. We’ve all wondered how, precisely, the empty industry of consultancy sustains. And we see the invoices, and wonder how, exactly, can we get into this racket? HOL crackles with energy when its team of four quips and snarks and chugs double-fists of energy drink, charging toward a pitch consisting of absolutely nothing. How well can they pull it off?

In episode one, they land the client (no spoiler needed). Certain critics gnashed teeth at the grim, cocky solution – which relied upon the boardroom table treating a customer base as fungible, object, and collateral damage toward revenue targets. Of course, this is how the world works, no matter if the company’s a bank, ad agency, startup, or – god forbid – a publication. The team of four nails the pitch, complete with data and evidence and a perfect close. Not only is House of Lies a tribute to the hollow nature of client partnerships, it’s a wink and nod to those of us who loathe  – yet envy t- the furious pursuit of “afterwork.” The promise of relaxation, rather than cold calls.

Cheadle is the star, of course, and even though you sort of hate him, he raises the curtain just enough to make you think he might be human; that this might be a complete act, so the viewer isn’t totally infuriated by his superhuman business – and Lothario – acumen.

House of Lies isn’t without stumbles, but it’s promising, a wry commentary on the puppet strings behind cube farms. Like a consultancy, the first episode delivered just enough to keep you interested. You aren’t going to start avoiding their phone calls or emails. But you’re not about to sign a retainer, either. Life goes on.

Everything about War Horse suggests predictable sneers. The Spielberg pedigree. The treacly John Williams score. The stilted dialogue and occasional paper-thin characters. The two-and-a-half hour running time. The sweeping, epic shots of battle or hillside or plough field. In a world of cynics who yearn for drama and depth, there’s absolutely no way War Horse should work. No way.

But it does. It works magnificently. War Horse is a harrowing saga about the futility of war, the loss of innocence, and the mystical connection between man and beast.

Why does it work? Well, certainly director Steven Spielberg earns credit; he keeps the film moving. Characters may well prove superficial, dialogue is occasionally stilted, but rarely do the actors devolve into monologue or scenery-chewing. Instead, each scene churns forward. The solid story itself – adapted from the acclaimed puppet play – rightfully focuses on the horse. Of course it does. Of course, of course, it’s focused on the horse. (Sorry)

You know this going in. Whether a critic, pet owner, animal lover, or hardened cynic, you know the movie is going to focus on the horse, and at some point, the animal’s circumstances will tug at your heartstrings. You’re ready for foreboding, you resolutely hope for inspiration.

What you don’t know is how powerful it will actually be. An entirely professional exercise, the raw moments of War Horse nestle between refined storytelling technique and stirring images of war. In fact, you cheer blindly for the horse, simply because the hollow spectacle of World War I is overpowering.

The first World War was won and lost with bayonets instead of glamourous cavalry charges, which you learn as bullets rip a cocksure British army from charging horses. Once majestic carriages, horses became disposable work animals, reduced to lugging heavy artillery up hills for futile, blind cannon shots, piles of dead horses strewn down the hill.

“The war has taken everything,” characters mutter, more than once. Horses, soldiers, fathers and sons, daughters and grandparents all lose their innocence.

Animals, for better or worse, are reflections of us. Horses have inspired more gripping stories than War Horse. Scarcely any other beast inspires the steadfast devotion, happiness or thrill like the horse.

But Joey the Horse, like your pets and mine, offer hope and redemption in their eyes. When we look, when we endure, we see what we should be. We shake our heads at the futility of our actions; at the futility of war. No victory is worth the price of suffering. When they falter, our heart aches. When we fail, a solemn or resolute glare from a pet or a mount rocks us to the core.

That’s War Horse. It’s not the best movie you’ll ever see. At times it’s cloying; at times sentimental, at times manipulative. But it’s effective. It resonates. It won’t change your life. It will make you hug your pets. For me, that’s enough.

I suspect that’s how most writers start. They have glimmers of story in head, and an inner monologue to tie it all together. So that’s what they spill. That’s how I started.

My first novel, These Monks (out this year!) is the coming-of-age story of three adult, adolescent friends – Nate, Plasko, Branden – stuck in their hometown and marooned in wasted potential: Some of the story – like with most authors – is reminiscent of events, characters or thoughts in my own past. Nate, in particular, features manners and actions borne out of my own stint as a failed grad student. That’s how he was written, at first. Nate was the storyteller.

The only problem? Nate was whiny and boring. You couldn’t possibly have related to him. He was self-indulgent, and by opening his head up to readers, there was no possibility of empathy to any reader, whether a carbon copy of Nate or distant cousin.

During my rewrite in 2011, my editor suggested I change the narrative from first to third-person. And now the novel works much better. Nate’s actions and dialogue are active, not passive. He’s frustrating and endearing, and finally as lively or genuine as Plasko, Branden, Samantha or Becca. He’s even a little mysterious, and much less pretentious.

For me personally, third-person was an awakening. The story felt crisp. The act of writing became rewarding. The novel trimmed easily, and as a result, flowed. I think it’s amusing where previously it was indulgent. I hope you like it.

And now, I find the same occurs when I’m reading. I’m much more skeptical of first-person narratives. After reading I Just Want My Pants Back and Vertical, my skepticism proves founded.

Writing and storytelling is a long, arduous, learning process. At some point, I had to learn to say just as much with words not on the page as the ones I chose. This is barely possible with the first person. There’s no hidden wall.

The author basically asserts that everything in the storyteller’s head must be recorded and transcribed and laid on the page just so, foreclosing any mystery or lurking theme, and preventing the reader from arriving at his or her own conclusions. Vertical, in particular, is so concerned with holding your hand throughout the lead’s thoughts and actions it stalls the entire story. Not everything in the author’s mind is gold.

Of course, this isn’t always true. Scrubs benefits from JD’s narrative asides. The Catcher In the Rye and Trainspotting are classics, and The Comedy Writer and This Is Where I Leave You insightful, funny and meaningful contemporary reads.

But imagine Arrested Development with Michael’s inner monologue. What if Bright Lights, Big City were in first-person instead of second? What if The Corrections were left entirely to Chip? The reader loses. And the exceptions prove the rule.

Too often first-person narratives create a character who is indulgent instead of everyman, whiny instead of introspective, or a puffed-up hero instead of a tortured soul. Both I Just Want My Pants Back and Vertical feature the worst examples. Each story has redeeming qualities. But each book suffers from a wink and a nod and an attempt to portray the narrator as too cool for school, yet hopelessly misunderstood.

But that can’t be true. When you spill a first-person’s entire brain, there’s nothing to misunderstand. We know it all. We get it. And we can see: You sold the story, and your soul, short.

* By the way, I realize this post careens from first to second person, as though it was written in a stupor on New Year’s Eve, which it was, so thanks for pointing that out.

Previously:

• Vertical: The Sequel to Sideways [Book Review]
• I Just Want My Pants Back [Book Review]

You chose wisely. The movie Sideways is amusing and genuine, a triumph of character study, male friendship, and shifting expectations. It succeeds where the novel fails. And it stays faithful to the source material’s main success – the two lead characters.

Sideways the novel is a good start, a victory of idea if not execution. But this is a tenet to Rex Pickett’s character conundrum in Vertical, which purports to reinvent or deconstruct or sneer at the film’s success, instead paying tribute to the novel.

Fast forward five years or ten or whatever, and Miles and Jack are in very different places. Jack is a loser, and Miles is the successful writer of Shameless, a celebrity author, solely responsible for powering the U.S. wine industry with a book that everyone loves turned into a movie that instantly became a classic. It’s not hard to see the parallels. After all, no one read Sideways but Alexander Payne, who layered film genius atop Pickett’s promising story.

(Memo to self: If Alexander Payne ever buys These Monks and changes a few scenes, just count the bills and consider it improved.)

However, now Miles is the hero. The man of the hour. Wealthy and promiscuous, he flaunts around haughty wine stops up and down the Pacific coast. Vertical attempts to be about Miles enduring an empty life and searching for meaning among countless female conquests and countless bottles of wine.  He’s still wordy and prone to ridiculous tangents of dialogue, none genuine, authentic, or believable.

This time, he’s bankrolling a road-trip with Jack, his invalid mother, a nurse, and a dog up the coast to the International Pinot Noir festival. They set out to have fun, but in the end, maybe Miles will learn more about himself or something or whatever.

This is all fine. I understand emptiness. I can relate to drinking too much. I understand the fragility of a life in terminus. The meta construct of the story is somewhat charming. But the execution completely fails. Remember how Miles couldn’t find the right woman in Sideways? Or any woman? Not so here. Every single woman falls over themselves to squirm into Miles’ pants. And they all lurve his novel.

In fact, Miles’ love interests repeatedly beg to act out a forgettable, tawdry scene from Sideways the novel that didn’t make it to Sideways the movie. In real life, it’s best left on the cutting room floor. In the meta world of Vertical, it’s a triumph of story undiscovered by plebeian film audiences.

Miles offhandedly refers to a criticism of his novel, that publishers called it “a screenplay masquerading as a novel.” And that’s exactly what happens here. We get everything. Anything in Miles’ head, we hear about it. The dialogue is complete enough to spell out all character motives, and Miles’ inner monologue detailed enough to remove any doubt.

But that’s not all. Even the most minimal of gestures spell out in text, as though stage directions. See:

“I flipped up my iPhone, navigated to an app that guides you to local taxis, typed in Fresno, was quickly connected to a Yellow Cab dispatcher and told him where we were and that we were ready to go.” P. 171.

Translation: “I called a cab.” I hate to browbeat a fellow writer for stuff like this, but these problems could all have been fixed by an editor. Read the publisher’s swooning afterword, however, and you’ll see the first draft was probably accepted sight unseen. There’s a book in here somewhere, but it’s buried beneath too many adverbs, synonyms, high-fives and inner diatribes.

Miles does have a journey of self-discovery. But by the time you get there, the curse of the first-person has already killed Miles. It’s one thing to be frustrated along with a protagonist, it’s another to hate him. And it makes Vertical an absolute mess.

I wrote a novel about white-guy problems, too. When you read These Monks, you’ll be amused at the travails of 26-year-old Plasko, Nate and Branden, each searching for his direction. Hopefully, unlike I Just Want My Pants Back, you won’t want to murder the lead character. At least not throughout the novel.

I picked up Pants excited to read a moody, introspective story about a young male coming of age. Perhaps I was sizing up competition. But I definitely hoped for inspiration – a story recalling High Fidelity or How To Talk to a Widower. Sure, the young professional or young malcontent searching for meaning is a familiar tale. But that doesn’t mean the story can’t be inspiring or the character resonant.

Yet it’s neither.

I Just Want My Pants Back furiously winks and nods and rams tongue in cheek, demanding you laugh along with snide, snarky protagonist Dave, no matter how big a jerk he acts. And you might, a little. But you might also wonder: Why the hell, again, am I supposed to care about this guy?

Instead of hiding any of David’s emotions or frustrations, the author spills them all, the curse of first person striking again. Nothing is left to interpretation, and he doesn’t even do anything reprehensible, unless you count hating couples and friends so detestable that you hate them, too. Just what, exactly, is this guy so upset at?

He falls backwards into crazy sex with women, he tumbles forward into fun nights of excess and he’s got supportive, mindless friends who clearly are his inferior, yet they cheer his success in spite of his vices. Oh, by the way, they encourage him to be a writer. You heard that one?

And that’s why I didn’t quite buy any of it. David’s conquests are painted as triumphs. His failings are explained and excused away either by him or his friends. You don’t feel bad for him. How could you? He’s the clear-cut hero. How can we buy his search for meaning?

But I suppose I owe the story more of a break than that. It entertains, it’s a quick read, and even though you may want to punch the lead character, that might actually be intended. Maybe the tongue punctures the cheek.

But scratch that – they’re making an MTV series out of the book. So I can’t have been the only one who envisioned the lead as a refugee from spoiled Real-World houses. It’s pretty much right on the nose.