ZEROVILLE

"I'm in the Movie Capital of the World," Vikar says, "and nobody knows anything about the movies."
—page 39, Zeroville by Steve Erickson

The novel opens with a moment of violence. This act of violence is for the most trivial of mistakes, a misidentification of film actors. It takes place in the shadow of an act of violence with cultural ramifications—the murders in the California hills by Charles Manson and The Family—in the shadow of an act of violence with cultural ramifications—the Vietnam War...

Vikar's act of violence seems to belong to a moral realm outside of the "universe" that most of us inhabit, although he is governed by some sense of morality, unlike Cormac McCarthy's (and Joel and Ethan Coen's) Anton Chigurh of No Country for Old Men. We just may not understand it, because like many religious adherents, Vikar believes with a faith that is insular and unshared. His faith is similar to the church he designed as an architecture student: it has no door, no way out.

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Steve Erickson once again places us in apocalyptic L.A., which is not so much revealed, as the adjective implies, but is seething below the plastic surface of the "real" Los Angeles. Erickson continues his love/hate relationship with his hometown of choice. If the city won't destroy itself in riots or canyon fires or earthquakes, and Erickson cannot destroy it via devastating floods or desertification, then perhaps it will collapse under the weight of its own film industry.

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Erickson is not only a novelist, but a film reviewer for Los Angeles magazine. He loves the cinema, and it shows. Who else could write a character, such as the African-American burglar who breaks into Vikar's apartment? Here is a man who finds himself at the receiving end of Vikar's violence—as others will as well, I am sure—who, while he is tied up and waiting for the police to arrive, discusses film with Vikar and analyzes the images on the television the two are seated before. He even scolds Vikar for some of Vikar's film theories. The scene is as surreal as anything that Erickson has ever written, although it may not feel that way to everyone. I kept picturing Samuel L. Jackson playing the part of the burglar, reprising his role as Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction. I also envisioned philosopher and psychoanalyst Slavoj Žižek, in his role as narrator and guide of The Pervert's Guide to Cinema, performing such dialogue. Pure craziness and pure genius. I love it!

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Movies and impressions of movies are playing throughout the plotline. I am catching references—Joan of Arc, 2001: A Space Odyssey—and missing many others. I am going to have to dig out some of my film reference books to keep up with Vikar (and Erickson).