I actually haven’t yet watched the movie that made this author famous. But the book sounded intriguing and I wanted to read something international, in fact this may have been my first Argentinian book, everyone probably always starts with Borges, but somehow I still haven’t managed to tackle that, so yeah…this was a choice made on the book’s own merit, not the fact that its author shared an Oscar and a Golden Globe for cowriting a popular movie. But there is a certain undeniable interconnectivity between the two, mainly its love, nay, obsession with movies, screenplays, directing, etc. And so here the story follows a twisted and disturbing symbiosis between a screenwriter and a director. The writer can write, albeit he is a complete failure at all other pursuits, a man who never really became realized, a story written out and then crossed out, a blank slate. The director can direct (albeit despotically), but he’s an abject failure at writing. So he kidnaps the writer, imprisons the man in his basement and forces him to write for him. This goes on for years. The horrifyingly logical dynamic the two establish somehow produces two hit movies and is poised to spit out the perfect third, the perfection of cinematic achievements, the culmination of all their efforts. If it works. And so in a strangely hypnotic first person stream of consciousness narration this novel unfolds like a surreal dream or possibly a nightmare. It doesn’t feature any likeable characters or any other traditional attractors and yet it works, magnetic in its repelling splendor. There are the obvious comparisons, but Pablo is no James Caan (you gotta go with the movie version, considering the subject here) and this is a way different beast, there are levels of complacency and volition and codependency that go above and beyond the traditional kidnap victimhood, precisely because Pablo is such a useless sort of person. A failed musician, who lives with his mom, shared a bed with his mom in fact, lives off of his mom, perpetually, prospect free, without having a job, a love interest or even much in a way of passions, the man who has become so accustomed to erasing his stories that he in fact became a man easy to erase. Weirdly enough, all these years of being a nonentity have seemingly prepared him for a sort of excessive minimalism of a nonlife, so in his basement he manages to survive on books, ukulele (carbon fiber, fancy), some old Playboys, music of his one and only favorite band and, of course, writing. And he’s the good one here as it were, because the director is essentially a thoroughly morally reprehensible bastard with no redeeming qualities. Although he does make good movies. So this is a story of ambition and talent, the balance of the two. Plus a commentary on the art and ugliness of moviemaking. If you pardon the crudeness, this is a parable about raping one’s muse. And as such it is thoroughly disturbing and very much an acquired taste. Not something easily recommended, but for anyone in a mood for a different and challenging read, this is it. It vaguely reminded me of Reid’s I’m Thinking of Ending Things, although probably mostly for its mad spinning narrative style. Actually ,Wikipedia tells me that one is being turned into a movie, which should be a very interesting experience. But yeah, this book was a weird one. It read quickly, but certainly a memorable story. Disturbing and claustrophobic, much like a basement. For very specific moods and mindsets and appetites. Thanks Netgalley.