Salon’s Allen Barra reviews Gore Vidal’s latest memoir and finds it as overstuffed as its author.

More than 20 years ago I was a fan of Vidal’s books. Then I grew up. Part of growing up was noting that while I understood and appreciated what Vidal was against, I couldn’t see what he was for. Now I know: nothing. Because it’s harder to be for something.

One thing Vidal is increasingly for is his self-image. Although that’s extremely boring to most of us, I don’t begrudge him the self-indulgence, partially because I’ve seen it in other aging men of letters who met with great success. Jerome Lawrence, for example, was not only the co-author of “Inherit the Wind,” “The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail” and many other famed plays, he was also a wonderful, kind man who put a lot of money and personal energy into helping future generations of playwrights, and who always told the same stories about himself. I felt less forgiving toward Athol Fugard, whom I met in 1990 and who seemed to be taking personal credit for ending apartheid in South Africa thanks to his plays. (My response at the time: “It seems to me that Nelson Mandela played a role in this too.”) More locally, many of us in my playwriting workshop have had personal exposure to a literary figure who for 20 years has perfected the art of turning every topic into a disquisition on his own recent relative success. You wouldn’t think that any — any! — subject could be related to the daily doings of this minor writer, but it can. I’m sure that if you were to win the MacArthur Fellowship it would turn out that he had once actually been MacArthur.

I haven’t noticed Philip Roth falling into this, and his work is as strong (or stronger) than ever. I like to think that his toughness is being rewarded on the page.

While I’m on the subject of the Edwards announcement, I couldn’t help noticing two more things:

1. The campaign put up then took down then put up its site, stepping on its own announcement. If you can’t even announce right, can you really run the country?
2. The story says, “He did yard work at the home of New Orleans resident Orelia Tyler, 54, whose home was completely gutted by Hurricane Katrina and is close to being rebuilt.” What would be the difference between “completely gutted” and just plain old “gutted?” Because the latter means “guts removed,” it’s an inherently complete operation. You can’t incompletely gut something.

I recently saw a terrific one-person show that I almost missed because I’ve grown to hate the form so much.

For writer and performer Debra Ehrhardt it was almost as difficult getting out of Jamaica 25 years ago as it was getting me to see her show, “Jamaica Farewell.” I don’t begrudge anyone their opportunity to spin self-indulgent tales of their comically tortured childhood; I just don’t want to see them anymore. (Even if — especially if — your name is John Leguizamo. Note to John: less mawkishness next time. And please don’t ever again mime a baby suckling at a breast. We get it, even if you don’t — you’re a demanding infant. Jeez. And note to Mr. “Frank Sinatra Fucked Up My Life”: No, that was you.)

So, having been annoyed so many times, my preference to seeing most one-person shows that don’t feature Dame Edna or Elaine Stritch would be to stay home. Or even to shoot heroin into my eyeball. Anything. Ehrhardt, though, was charming and persistent and I decided to accept her invitation to see the show one night in December just before leaving town. I’m glad — no, lucky — that I did.

Every once in a while you see a show that rewards your devotion to the theatre. Some months ago I asked a group of fellow playwrights how often they were glad they’d seen a show. How often had it been worth the effort involved? Responses ranged from 25% (the always upbeat and bright-eyed comedy writer Stephanie) to 10% (me) down to 5% (the would-be curmudgeon in the group who is a closet romantic — and isn’t that what every cynic is: a romantic who got burned?). The theatre is notoriously difficult to pull off. The writing has to be good, as well as the performing, it has to be pulled together and presented well by a director and designers, the theatre had better not be too hot or too cold, the right audience has to have found it because they are very definitely part of the experience, there had better not have been a bad parking or driving or box-office experience, and on and on and on.

So why do so many of us go so often? Just to get angry at ourselves for our blockheaded refusal to give up? No — because when it is superb, nothing surpasses the visceral thrill of performers and material connecting with an audience in a defined space. I love great performers of all stripes and honestly feel blessed to have worked with so many wonderful actors, and I love great provocative writing. Put the two together and you’ve got the theatre — when it works.

I haven’t seen a lot of that in one-person shows, and that’s probably because the form has become confessional, with the goal of arousing our sympathies. Mostly, I have no sympathies. Life is hard, and if you’re doing a one-person show I can unequivocally guarantee you that by comparison your life is not at all hard — in fact, it’s ridiculously easy. How easy? Unlike these people in Lagos, you aren’t grateful for the opportunity to live deep in a pit at the bottom of the world’s largest dump. Despite what you think, juggling your waiting job with acting lessons is not a great tribulation.

Everything about Ehrhardt’s show is in delightful contrast to the new proclivities of the one-person show. In relating her tale of trying desperately as a young woman to get to the U.S. and start a new life, she never asks us to feel sorry for her. Rather than drowning us in bathos, she shows us pluck and determination. Nothing will stand in her way. She’s also generous in her characterizations: Although she stars in her own life’s story, all the peripheral characters are given fair treatment and deft handling. She sketches in her mother, her father, her boss, and sundry townspeople with wit and charm. Her portrayal of her father, a drunk who has squandered every family opportunity, is remarkable in its final kindness. In an age of visualized revenge, we don’t see that sort of kindness and understanding often. (Except at the end of Paula Vogel’s “How I Learned to Drive” — in which our protagonist shows great empathy for her molesting uncle, in a closing that elevates the play into art.)

Somehow or other, she also manages to meld comedy with high-wire tension in this 90-minute show — as when she is threading her way through the strange terrain of darkened backwaters with a million dollars in cash in a briefcase and men with machetes or would-be rapists stalking her. The writing, and her performance of it, is riveting. I promise you that I’ll never forget some of it.

There are two upcoming performances of “Jamaica, Farewell” at the Whitefire Theatre in L.A., on January 7th and February 4th. I strongly, strongly recommend the show. It hasn’t had an extended run yet, but it deserves one, and it deserves to tour.

In recognition of the holiday and as an admirer of Paul Auster’s work, I thought I’d share his modern Christmas fable (filmed as part of the terrific film “Smoke”), Augie Wren’s Christmas Story. And luckily, here’s a site where someone spent the time to type it for you: Augie Wren’s Christmas Story.

In the film, Augie (Harvel Keitel) relates the story to a fictionalized Auster played by William Hurt. The scene plays out much as this short story does, with the added touch that, as Augie tells the story, the camera pulls in closer and closer toward his mouth and finally his slight smile, raising doubt about the story’s veracity. Part of the point: Whether it’s truth or fiction doesn’t matter — in fact, it’s all fiction, and, as usual with Auster, it’s metafiction (fiction about fiction). As a fable, it’s an evocative and unforgettable story about the sometimes incredible generosity of the human spirit. And that’s what every Christmas story should be about.

I’m rewatching Season One of Rome, this time with elder son Lex, to bring him up to date so that we can watch the second season together. We’d both rather still be watching The Wire, but we’ll have to wait another year for new episodes.

The second episode of “Rome” tonight got me thinking about focus — because in one scene I couldn’t help noticing where it wasn’t.

Legionnaire Lucius Vorenus has just returned from eight years of serving Caesar in an endless war in Gaul. He has barely reacquainted himself with his wife, Niobe (pictured above), when he has to sit in adjudication over a young herder petitioning to marry his 13-year-old daughter. Camera shots ricochet between the beleaguered young man and the unhappy father, who isn’t pleased by the notion of his daughter marrying a drover whose family lives in a house formed from cattle dung. Ultimately, though, he agrees.

And then comes what’s missing: A reaction shot from the daughter, who so ardently wants this man. So why don’t we have it? And why, instead, do we have a reaction shot of a clearly thrilled Niobe?

Because, as this storyline develops, the daughter and her intended aren’t that important. This scene is part of a story being developed about Vorenus and Niobe, which ends the season in a tragic twist. We’re in on the secret; Vorenus is not. Judging by the end product, I take it on faith that the editor (as well as, clearly, the writer and director) knows that Niobe is the point and not her daughter, and that’s why Niobe gets the reaction shot.

My chosen medium is the theatre. While we don’t have a camera, the issue of focus is always important. Good stage movement (blocking) does more than just get actors to where they have to be; good stage movement is also motivated by characters’ desires, and doesn’t steal focus from the principle figure in the scene.

It’s the same with writing the scene. If too many characters come in all at once, or too many different topics are raised, or inappropriate stage business pulls the eye, there’s no way to focus the audience’s attention. Chaos erupts. The human brain demands focus so that it can make sense of all the information flooding it. Without that focusing process, the unfiltered data would overwhelm us. That’s called confusion.

If as an audience member you pay attention to what you’re supposed to, you should be able to follow the story. If you stop to think about what you’re not supposed to be focusing on, you can see the man holding the puppet’s strings. Lex wondered how I saw the twist ending of “The Prestige” coming. It’s because I wondered why, when the one magician’s accomplice was a major character, we were never formally introduced to the other magician’s collaborator even though he was shown in many scenes — and once I asked that question, I knew the answer: Because we weren’t supposed to be.

Directors direct the actors. Writers use focus to direct the audience.

The other day on my return flight I caught myself looking at my watch and thinking for a moment about the British Empire. (Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was a variation on “Are we there yet?”)

What got me thinking was how freakin’ huge this watch is. As one online listing says, this “stunning, high quality men’s Fishbone watch is SERIOUSLY CHUNKY!” and has “a mega large round dial (case diamter approx 42mm wide / 12mm thick).”

In August 2005, no doubt dazed by my latest literary allusion, Doug asked me for a list of what he should read. So by God, I gave him one. What writer wouldn’t?

In honor of Doug’s 50th, I’ve decided to share it with you, too. It’s still called “Doug’s Reading List,” even though Doug didn’t draw it up and has proved immune to its wisdom. Don’t let that stop you, though. Sadly lacking in a college degree in literature, but determined to hold your own at fancy-schmanzy wine-and-cheese events? Then this is the list for you!

Click here for the page hosting the list.

Wanna pick a fight on the contents of the list? Please do. Post a comment. I eagerly await it.

Slate’s Bryan Curtis on Christopher Guest’s new movie. He doesn’t like it — or Guest’s methodology.

You may recall that back here I was saying that if there were a prize god, “The Road” would win. Although four — four! — people have since taken my recommendation and read “The Road,” evidently there remains a lack of a prize god, because last I checked the book hadn’t won any prizes. Except with me and others I’ve spoken with who read it.

In today’s LA Times (okay, yesterday’s at this point) Book Review, a judge from this year’s National Book Award discusses the judging process. Click here to read the piece. Having been on both sides of this sort of evaluation — picking writing-contest winners and losers, and being a writing-contest winner or loser — I can agree that it’s hard to make these judgments and that yes, there are backstage maneuverings. I’m glad she made a pitch for “The Road” (which her fellow judges were unmoved by). I’m also glad that all five judges agreed to shortlist Phillip Roth’s “Everyman,” a miraculous little novel I read last spring.

One thing about this contest took me back to my own days reading plays at Moving Arts, where we had an ongoing discussion about our evaluation process. A question that constantly arose was this one: If we didn’t read the entire play, were we being fair? Was it fair to render judgment by, say, page 10? In the case of the National Book Awards, over the course of three-and-a-half months these five judges had to read 258 novels. Each. The same 258. Do the math and it becomes clear that they had to skim many of these books — as she admits.

My other observation is this: If Phillip Roth didn’t finally place (they nobly saved him the embarrassment of being an also-ran, after having won twice), and Cormac McCarthy didn’t even show, then I have to marvel at just how high the bar has been set for the winner, “The Echo Maker” by Richard Powers. I’m going to have to find out personally by reading the book.

For quite some time now, my daughter Emma and I have been writing a song about Abraham Lincoln. Today after a long dry spell, we were able to add a verse. So here’s the current standing of the song. (And no, I can’t convey in words how the tune goes, but melodically it would remind one of a song by They Might Be Giants.)

Abraham Lincoln’s dead.
John Wilkes Booth shot him in the head —
That’s what the newspapers said.

Created Thanksgiving
But didn’t go on living,
Won the Civil War
After year four,
Abraham Lincoln’s dead.