Last weekend I took myself to see the movie, “The End of the Tour.”
It’s about the writer David Foster Wallace being interviewed by another writer for Rolling Stone magazine, and portrays the two men traveling around a snowy mid-West, on the last four days of Wallace’s 1996 book tour for “Infinite Jest.”
The film was also about the experience of one writer interviewing another; and that was something I just had to see.
Many reviewers have noted the inherent tension in one writer profiling another who is vastly more successful.
This would seem unavoidable in any situation involving two writers with different levels of achievement.
But I discovered a way around this crippling handicap. I located someone who is exactly as successful as myself.
“Judy,” I asked myself, “How did you feel about this movie?”
“I’m so glad you asked me that,” I answered. “I liked it. It was sad of course; right from the start you learn that Wallace committed suicide 12 years later, in 2008. And for some reason, the reporter, David Lipsky, didn’t even write up the story until Wallace was dead.
So you know that Wallace — played by a very likeable Jason Segel — is gone before you even meet him.”
“Whoa! Wait till the guy is dead — That’s one way to be sure you get the last word,” I said.
“I know. Don’t try that with me, though; you won’t like how it turns out,” I reply. “Still, aside from that little spoiler, I found it very interesting.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Oh, yes. First, never let yourself be played by Jesse Eisenberg.
As the New York Times reviewer A.O. Scott said, ‘In real life, David Lipsky might be a great guy, but on screen he is played by Mr. Eisenberg, which means that his genetic material is at least 25 percent weasel.’ ’’
“Ouch! But I, too, found that character hard to like. I’ll blame the actor. What else did you learn?”
“Well, apparently writers are real pushovers when it comes to flattery; you should try it!”
“You’re so funny! Also very clever. But what’s that got to do with the movie?”
“Oh, that was Wallace’s advice to Lipsky, based on his own experience getting to meet Jonathan Franzen.”
“I see. But it probably works better if you can say it with a straight face.”
“I’m working on that. Anything else about the film?”
“There was something odd. In the movie, Lipsky obsessively tape-records every conversation, but we hardly ever see him writing up notes. I remember someone warning me, at a writing conference, Never to assume that your recording device is working! And you should write up your notes as soon afterwards as possible, because there’s always something to capture before it fades from memory: a smile, a gesture, a quizzical look.”
“Maybe that’s why his article never came out. By the way, are you recording this conversation?”
“Oh — I thought you were. I’ll start now. Oops, that’s Erase!”
“You’re hopeless. Give me that.”
“While you’re doing that, let me add that I found it annoying how often Lipsky told Wallace, “You agreed to do this interview.” Which reminds me — why did you agree to do this one, Judy?”
“You know the answer to that. It was so we could write off the price of the movie ticket.”
“You know you can only do that if you have enough income to write it off against, right?”
“What are you, an accountant all of a sudden?”
“Wouldn’t that be great? Then at least one of us would have a marketable skill!”
“Whatever happened to flattery?”
“Let’s just say, I can see right through you. But back to the movie: near the end, the two men had an argument — or a discussion — as to whether writers are smarter than other, ordinary people.”
“And are they?”
“Well, Lipsky seemed to think it was true, at least about Wallace, but Wallace disagreed.”
“In that case, I am smarter than both of them, because the answer is obvious: Writers aren’t necessarily smarter than anyone; they just have the opportunity to edit out the stupid parts!”
“Good point. Maybe you should try that sometime,” I said.
Rude girl.
