Rating: - One for the small film die-hards only
This is a strange little art-house film that holds your attention simply because you have no idea just where it is going or why. I found the ending unnerving but oddly fitting. A surprisingly different role for James Spader to play and I am not sure he pulled it off in his usual competent way.

but they tip you off to start looking elsewhere for clues.) I am not a Mason, but have read quite a bit about them, and our man Nashe (Wonder what Nagy means in Magyar?) is clearly a "traveling man", a man whose obligations (career,family) have fallen by the wayside (a favorite Auster motif), leaving him careening aimlessly, like a rogue pinball, from western city to western city who, as we meet him, is going "from the West to the East". (See the exchange between Michael Caine and Christopher Plummer on the train in "The Man Who Would Be King" if you don't believe me.) He picks up Pozzi, who has been "struck on the temple", just as Hiram Abiff was struck in the Masonic story of the events surrounding the building of the Temple of Solomon, and which is reenacted in ritual in the induction of every Master Mason. There are a number of other clever details such as the brand of champagne they drink with the hooker that just happens to be my old favorite "Veuve Cliquot". (It's too small to read on the film, but no other champagne has that distinctive orange label.) "Veuve" is French for Widow, and Masons often refer to each other as Sons of the Widow. The names of the two poker players, Flower and Stone, may refer to Rosicrucians and Freemasons, but their trip to France might refer to either Hugh De Payens and his pal's trip to see Bernard de Clairvoux (which kicked off the Templars, whom the Masons claim as ancestors), or perhaps Ben Franklin's (and friend?) trip to Paris where he was inducted into the French Lodge "Neuf Soeurs". They are many more (too many to mention here) and I still haven't cracked the whole thing (not being a Mason makes it a harder job), but the book fascinates me and I'll continue to dig. I've recently read Music of Chance, Moon Palace, and City of Glass, and will read the rest soon. This fellow is a joy to read, particularly for aficionados of the mystery genre, which he well knows how to seduce with his labyrinthine structures and metaphysical quandaries. He smacks of Miguel de Unamuno ("Niebla", "Fog" in English, I believe) and Jorge Luis Borges, the father of the metaphysical detective story (but whereas Borges' stories, much as I love them, are purely cerebral exercises, cold around the heart, and liberally sprinkled with red herrings as if to mock his readers, Auster's are anguished and emotionally involving), of the Pythagorean School (and its obsession with the relationship between music and mathematics) and the Priests of Heliopolis (whom I suspect they got it from), of drunken Phaeton and his wax wings and of the Minotaur in his Maze, of the poetry of Leonard Cohen and Lenny Bruce and Tony Curtis (who had his own brand of poetry, ask his women . I don't know if it's because this cat is my own age, or because I know his New York (before moving to Seattle), but I felt an instant kinship, like we'd read all the same books at some point.

NOTE TO THE AUTHOR:

If you read this, Mr. Auster, please drop me an email to either disabuse me of these notions or to confirm that I'm on the right track. In return, regardless of the answer, you have my word that I'll buy the rest of your books anyway, and that I won't abuse any email response, or ask you to autograph the books, or any such nonsense. I'm a stable, happily married chap with two kids and a small business, not a wacko or a literary groupie. Thanks for the ride, man, and keep 'em comin'!

Music of Chance

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