PHILIP MCFEE

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Book prize farce, not honor

By PHILIP MCFEE | November 19

A month ago, I bemoaned the current state of high-profile literature, blasting a scene in which the "9/11 Commission Report" could be nominated for the National Book Award. Yes, things have been better, and yes, the "9/11 Commission" isn't purist literature per se, but the blame doesn't lie with the book, it falls on the jacket flap. On a little gold sticker that's graced many volumes: on the National Book Award.

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'Treasure' hunt lacking payoff

By PHILIP MCFEE | November 18

If there's one guy who don't do irony, it's Jerry Bruckheimer. "Pirates of the Carribean" was about plunderers and "Bad Boys" was about a plurality of male nogoodnicks. Monarchy was the modus operandi in "King Arthur." Predictably in line, then, is his latest, "National Treasure," which isn't about democracy or our children or even Maya Angelou. It's about massive, massive amounts of riches. Yep, with producer-cum-plutocrat Bruckheimer, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

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Monsters of rock

By PHILIP MCFEE | October 28

Lurch forward. Form the claws. Shimmy to the left. Clap. To the right. Clap. No one's going to save you from the beast about to strike. Because, friends, this is Halloween. And it's thriller. Thriller, baby. It's the season for horror, and, thanks to innovative spookster musicians throughout the decades, the choices for its soundtrack are as diverse as the deaths Michael Myers has inexplicably survived.

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Comedy's concept a global gaffe

By PHILIP MCFEE | October 28

"Team America: World Police" is a comedic love story about puppets and their fluids. And yet, it's only when said fluids are visible that the film is funny. Why laugh at hackneyed humor about international political theatrics when you could guffaw at a marionette vomiting for three minutes? We all know that, on the final scale, it's a-somethin' like this: 3) Kyoto; 2) Yalta; 1) Bile. It's just that simple.

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Literary giants pass torch to newer talents

By PHILIP MCFEE | October 22

In the halcyon days of 2002, I was a freshman poindexter - and I was jazzed. Jeffrey Eugenides' "Middlesex" was new, and Ian McEwan's "Atonement," criminally shortlisted for the Booker Prize, was making waves. Richard Russo's titanic "Empire Falls" was riding off its Pulitzer notability. Big-name authors were putting out amazing books with astonishing frequency, and a much-hyped batch of new authors was generating buzz with works that actually deserved note. Even that Jonathan Franzen essay collection was tolerable - I asked for it for Christmas.

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Winsome folkie creates winning avant oddities

By PHILIP MCFEE | September 30

Sure, philistine, you could write Devendra Banhart off. Sure, you could assume that Ni

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Justice's legacy looms large

By PHILIP MCFEE | September 27

Novelist Chuck Palahnuik read from an upcoming collection of his stories last week at the Bull's Head Book Shop. His selections were provocative, edgy, jarring but, ultimately, transient. Palahnuik's work is forward and gripping, but one day simply will be reduced to a specter of The New York Times bestseller lists. Last month, Donald Justice, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and post-graduate UNC attendee, succumbed to illness after a prolonged struggle.