David Foster Wallace is our James Joyce.
That he is prematurely deceased does not change the analogy one iota.
Disagree? You're welcome to. Now go back to your unfinished Bernard Cornwell book.
In this film James Ponsoldt creates a visually arresting depiction of what the writer David Lipsky probably imagined would be a kind of Kerouacian vision quest, a location assignment from Rolling- Freaking-Stone to profile and deep-interview David Foster Wallace, as Infinite Jest was being widely released.
In the event, Wallace did not have all that much to say to Lipsky. You can tell this from Lipsky's book this film is based on, and from the spare but serviceable adapted screenplay by Donald Margulies.
Wallace was one of those writers who puts all of the magic into the book. You know his mind by reading him, he didn't hold back a secret reserve of amazingness for cocktail parties or all-night bro sessions.
So, in this one aspect, it is a small miracle that Lipsky's book about interviewing Wallace one time found an audience. It speaks more to the cult and fandom around Wallace than anything else.
And the book demanded uninspiring and slovenly scenery for the film. Wallace's clap-trap bachelor lit professor house. Lipsky's dusty, snow-covered rental car. A long boulevard of fast food signs and CASH-PAWN stores that really was the great writer's daily commute, which he slyly paid homage to in the now-famous transcribed speech "This is water."
So, as great as David Foster Wallace is as an author of Great American Novels, this film was a tall order for the director. But he nails it. Each horizon, each focal length, each pan and zoom, each bit of arranged light and shadow is pitch perfect.
James Ponsoldt also should be credited for gamely managing two great young actors here in the lead roles of Wallace (Jason Segel) and Lipsky (a delightfully nebbished Jesse Eisenberg).
Both actors shine by drawing out the vulnerabilities of the men inhabiting the roles of Wallace (lauded literary hero haunted by questions of self-credibility and creeping depression) and Lipsky (quasi-failed lit author struggling with the ego blow brought on by writing about the real thing). The eye and face work that Mr. Segel, in particular, pulls off portraying DFW is fantastic, and Ponsoldt gets every bit of it from the proper angle for our enjoyment.
The End of the Tour is not a profound, messaged, or even particularly moving film. Recall the fundamental limitation of a pilgrimage to an oracle who does not really open up and convey wisdom.
It is rather a historical reenactment of a piece of contemporary literary history portrayed by two very fine actors and directed by a very fine director in James Ponsoldt.
That he is prematurely deceased does not change the analogy one iota.
Disagree? You're welcome to. Now go back to your unfinished Bernard Cornwell book.
In this film James Ponsoldt creates a visually arresting depiction of what the writer David Lipsky probably imagined would be a kind of Kerouacian vision quest, a location assignment from Rolling- Freaking-Stone to profile and deep-interview David Foster Wallace, as Infinite Jest was being widely released.
In the event, Wallace did not have all that much to say to Lipsky. You can tell this from Lipsky's book this film is based on, and from the spare but serviceable adapted screenplay by Donald Margulies.
Wallace was one of those writers who puts all of the magic into the book. You know his mind by reading him, he didn't hold back a secret reserve of amazingness for cocktail parties or all-night bro sessions.
So, in this one aspect, it is a small miracle that Lipsky's book about interviewing Wallace one time found an audience. It speaks more to the cult and fandom around Wallace than anything else.
And the book demanded uninspiring and slovenly scenery for the film. Wallace's clap-trap bachelor lit professor house. Lipsky's dusty, snow-covered rental car. A long boulevard of fast food signs and CASH-PAWN stores that really was the great writer's daily commute, which he slyly paid homage to in the now-famous transcribed speech "This is water."
So, as great as David Foster Wallace is as an author of Great American Novels, this film was a tall order for the director. But he nails it. Each horizon, each focal length, each pan and zoom, each bit of arranged light and shadow is pitch perfect.
James Ponsoldt also should be credited for gamely managing two great young actors here in the lead roles of Wallace (Jason Segel) and Lipsky (a delightfully nebbished Jesse Eisenberg).
Both actors shine by drawing out the vulnerabilities of the men inhabiting the roles of Wallace (lauded literary hero haunted by questions of self-credibility and creeping depression) and Lipsky (quasi-failed lit author struggling with the ego blow brought on by writing about the real thing). The eye and face work that Mr. Segel, in particular, pulls off portraying DFW is fantastic, and Ponsoldt gets every bit of it from the proper angle for our enjoyment.
The End of the Tour is not a profound, messaged, or even particularly moving film. Recall the fundamental limitation of a pilgrimage to an oracle who does not really open up and convey wisdom.
It is rather a historical reenactment of a piece of contemporary literary history portrayed by two very fine actors and directed by a very fine director in James Ponsoldt.
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