The film version of John Fante's classic Los Angeles novel Ask the Dust has been available since it's theatrical release in 2006, and it will suffice to say that it's actually pretty good, excellent in fact. That's not the usual thing I say about screen adaptations of favorite novels of mine, as I have a grating habit of taking my favorite books too personally; anything less than a perfect transition from one medium to another seems nothing less than desecration, betrayal, blasphemy against a heaven of literary worth. Yes, I may have some personal problems I should address. But this isn't meant to be about the movie, but rather a plea to others who haven't seen it in the 20 years since it was first issued to please, please, please read the novel first. John Fante's prose is a delight to read and his tale of a young man determined to make a name for himself as a writer in the 1930's while a naive and impatient whelp in Los Angeles is gloriously clear, funny, ironic, with a snappy rhythm that makes you think of Raymond Chandler and a sardonic tone you find in later Bukowski. But he's better than either of those two scribes. That's blasphemy against Chandler, I guess, to suggest that anyone beat him at his own tough guy cadences, but Fante's words, images, brisk pacing and scene setting are without strain. Really, lets admit Raymond occasionally sounded unnatural as he reached for a way to finish a line. Bukowski , in turn, wrote the same story over and over. Most popular novelists do, one can say, but it's possible to read paragraphs from Post Office and Hollywood, two different novels from Bukowski, and find them indistinguishable in memory a scant two weeks late. The film version bodes well, despite the presence of the egregious rude boy Colin Farrell in the role of Arturo Bandini, the young , self-absorbed writer who is appealingly complex in his crazed vacillations between global egomania and desperate self-loathing. The novel is actually the second installment of a four novel sequence following the adventures and heartaches of Bandini, and it is a vivid, gritty bit of confession for Fante's own erring progress as a writer; Bandini is clearly his fictional stand in, a person so acutely aware of their discomfort in their own skin that only the giddy highs of self-mythology or the swan-dive into despair and personal loathing seem to give him armor against his emptiness. The irony of Ask the Dust, not to give too much away, is that it is the one thing he does well, writing, that makes for all the psychic warfare and self-sabotage; his writing is not an escape from his disequilibrium, but an entrée to even more spiraling chaos. Fante is far less didactic than I've just sounded and offers up saga that is colorful, funny, heartbreaking and emotionally raw; it is the perfect stuff for an HBO limited series. He writes as well as his Los Angeles contemporary Raymond Chandler ever did, and is by far the better, more sympathetic novelist than his most famous acolyte, Charles Bukowski. Robert Towne, the writer behind Roman Polanski's glorious Chinatown, writes and directs this effort, and has demonstrated an ability to convey LA in the thirties. But in the event that the movie is a stinker, you should arm yourself by reading Fante's novel; hard-boiled, lyric, skewed and comic, this is a coming of age story that takes believable twists and turns. The story is of a very human scale, and the seeming bipolar rages of young Arturo are moving and nuanced. He is a very flawed and complex character, and he stands as a significant creation the canon of American literature. Everyone who cares about a good story and great writing should experience Bandini on the page, lest the film version arrive flat line and motionless.
