No, not that one.
This one.
Anthony Swofford, former Marine scout/sniper and author of the bestselling Jarhead, was born on August 12, 1970 in Fairfield, California.
Like many of Jake's fans, I had not read Anthony Swofford's intensely personal Gulf War chronicle before Sam Mendes brought it to the screen. In general, I have always had a distaste for the type of guy (or girl) who wants to join the military, and in particular the Marines; Swofford knows I'm not alone, and acknowledges that he basically hid from his peers his unpopular aspiration in order to avoid ridicule. He was right. Being of the same generation, I am like those kids he went to school with who would not have understood. But perceptions can change.
After being completely fascinated and horrified by the movie, I knew I would eventually read Jarhead. It took me a while to get around to it; even after I purchased it the book sat on my bedroom floor for a month while I finished reading other recommendations. Once I finally opened it, I couldn't put it down.
In fact, after reading the last sentence, I flipped back to the beginning and immediately started again, reluctant to leave the perversely beautiful brutality of Swofford's prose and his ordeal. I have never done that before with any book. It would be glib to say that I now understand his position, but my view of low-level military personnel and those who wish to be a part of that system will never be the same. And while my understanding of the man both then and now is based upon what bits he has chosen to feed me from the dark pantry of his psyche, I won't deny feeling a profound empathy and connection with Swofford, from page one.
His style, a lyrical but concise delivery that makes all the more disarming his unrelenting honesty, has made me an instant fan. I don't know if that's because it reminds me of my writing--and I seem to be all about finding ways to love myself through others, since I can't do it directly--but reading Swofford feels like reading my own journal. Of course I have not lived anything remotely as compelling or formative as his experience, but as I follow him, I imagine myself sharing his reactions, his interpretations, nearly every opinion and emotion expressed, as if he were a version of myself in some other life.
When I first encountered Swoff, via Jake, I thought he was an immature, self-centered asshole. It turns out that 37-year-old Swofford agrees with me about 20-year-old Swoff, proof that Jake's performance was frighteningly accurate. Many viewings later, I love and feel sympathy for Jake's Swoff, as I now do the man himself. (That doesn't mean I won't exploit this opportunity to show you BareAssed!Jake. Life is too short.)
I'm also bemused by a few parallels between Jake and Anthony Swofford.
We all heard about how Jake chipped his tooth during shooting of the scene where Swoff takes his vengeance on Brian Geraghty's Fergus, and subsequently let himself get a bit too abusive in further takes, resulting in the two not speaking for days on the set. What I have never seen or heard anyone else mention is that Swofford also chipped his tooth on a gun, while threatening not his platoon mate but himself. This strange confluence of events can't have escaped someone like Jake, who has professed a belief in "the energy between people." Then there's one of Swofford's STA buddies who was named Atticus, either by his parents or Swofford for the sake of anonymity. Granted, I don't get out much, but that's the only Atticus I've ever encountered, outside of Harper Lee's novel and Jake's beloved German Shepherd (the latter named after the character in the former).
Anthony Swofford loves to cook, specifically citing Mario Batali as a favorite source of recipes. And I can't discount the mesmerizing quality of Swofford's blue eyes; while not on the level of Jake's beauty (and no one is), Swoff does indeed appeal to me. The last time Tony Swofford was with me in the shower, he wasn't entirely Jake's Swoff.
Being impressed as I was with Jarhead, I wanted to try Swofford's fiction novel, Exit A, so Friday while I ran all over town on errands, I stopped in to the local Border's. Their online self-service station did not reveal stock status, only a probable location of "Literature: Fiction." It took me five minutes to establish that "Literature: Fiction" was bereft of Swofford, because their concept of alphabetization at this Border's apparently involves some algorithm for wrapping around multiple freestanding shelves that puts T before S. On my way out I decided to browse the 50% Off bins that I had passed as I entered, and right there in the center of the box in front of me was a copy of Exit A--deeply discounted. So deeply that I don't feel right saying how little I paid for it. Swofford probably doesn't care what I paid for his book, but if it were my book, I don't think I'd exactly be thrilled to learn that it could be had brand new for less than most items at their in-store café.
I haven't begun reading it yet. I am afraid. I'm afraid because while Anthony Swofford is a hundred times more well-read than I, has a superior vocabulary, and has demonstrated admirably that he can write, the hardest part of writing isn't the prose for someone like me; it's the story. I've read articles and correspondence by Swofford, and his mastery of language is evident. But I've not read any of his fiction before. What if the magic of Swofford's prose fails to carry a mediocre tale that does not have the built-in gravity of truth? Clearly, I'm projecting my own inadequacies upon a writer whom I do not know. That's what I do best. I know that even if Exit A sucks, it does not diminish the savage beauty of Jarhead. Still, I will feel deflated, as if the facile words and faltering story really were my own.
Fortunately for us, Swofford is not me: he has had the courage to pursue his writing, has successfully been published. He claims he is driven by a constant fear of failure, something that for me has had the opposite effect. Maybe if my failure meant a humiliating death, it would be more of a motivator. Or maybe it's success that I really fear.
Happy birthday, Swoff. Have a few drinks on me.
Photos: NY Times News Service, Dan Winters, IHJ.
Yes, I'm going to talk about what I thought of Rendition.
I wish I could rave about it, say that it was unequivocally the best movie I've seen since Zodiac, but this isn't that kind of movie. I attended a Friday night showing and left the theater somewhat unsatisfied. Thinking it was probably due to all the pent up expectation, and the vaguely arctic temperature in the theater that made it hard to focus, I decided to see it again this afternoon. Besides, I really wanted another, undistracted look at Douglas Freeman. Hey, I'm nothing if not honest.
What I can enthusiastically endorse is Jake's performance. My bias notwithstanding, it's a Hollywood irony that while few critics seem to know what the film's motives were, the role of Douglas Freeman struck me as typical Oscar fodder. WDW was right in that this really is Jake's movie, despite its trying to be so much more. His is the character that makes the biggest connection, who reveals multiple dimensions to the audience. All the performances were excellent, but for me no one shone like Jake with his flimsy professional facade after the bombing and barely-contained self-loathing during the events that follow. More than anything else, what I walked out of that theater feeling this afternoon was an intense pride. As with most of his movies, the box office numbers will be irrelevant; Jake Gyllenhaal has proved again that he is a phenomenal actor, and he'll have work in Hollywood for as long as he wants it.
