Lights…Camera…Implosion: D. Harlan’s Latest is a Madman’s Skewering of the Film Industry
The book cover of Outré by D. Harlan Wilson, published by Raw Dog Screaming
"W
ork is one thing. Life is the same thing. I apply the parametric model to every aspect of my existence. I don’t even have to try. Here. Watch me do nothing and alchemize eternity,” Betty Lomax says to a drunk Werner Herzog, contemplative Stanley Kubrick and chain smoking David Lynch before turning the restaurant into near nothingness.
This is just one of the many beautifully surreal passages in D. Harlan Wilson’s latest novella, Outré, from Raw Dog Screaming Press, a stylish, satirical rampage through the film industry where, in roughly one hundred and twenty pages, we ride shotgun to witness one actor’s kaleidoscopic struggle to maintain his identity while enduring the unrelenting horrors of the film industry.
Upfront, readers should know that tuning into Outré takes a few pages if you’re unfamiliar with Wilson’s work (Dr. Identity, or Farewell to Plaquedemia, Blankety Blank: A Memoir of Vulgaria to name a few) or haven’t engaged with a lot of experimental fiction. This isn’t your summer potboiler with three-acts, arc and neatly resolved plot. Wilson is the type of writer who challenges his readers. He wants them to engage with the book instead of setting it down poolside and forgetting about it by the time their margaritas arrive.
Wilson kicks the book off by providing a hefty cast list from real life folks like Stanley Kubrick and James Dean to fictional characters from other novels, such as Captain Ahab and Wilson’s own Donny Ennui, Dr. Edmund Parkview and Sirius Brain. Our nameless protagonist bounces from one unfulfilling gig to another until finally a whale falls from the sky, and as with any tragedy, Hollywood decides to make a movie about it, featuring our actor with no name as the whale. Transformed via synskin—a method that grows the creature one plays onto their body like a monstrous exoskeleton—he’s subjected to a revolving door of abusive directors who treat him as a disgusting prop to get that final shot.
To try and define Harlan’s latest work is like attempting to make absolute sense of Jodorowsky’s Holy Mountain or Lynch’s Mulholland Dr., you’re either down for the ride or you’re not—there’s no middle ground here. There are no easily definable characters. The sequence of events feels like someone cut frames from the reels of a few loosely tied together films and reordered them for their own purpose. There’s a method to Wilson’s madness, but it’s up to each reader to figure it out and the takeaway will be different every time. After finishing Outré, El Critico revisited several passages and has been thinking about all the different ideas and possibilities packed into Wilson’s book. Is our narrator the supposedly dead Donny Ennui? Is forcing actors to restructure their DNA in our future? What’s synskin withdrawal like? And so on. Also, it should be said that no matter how depressing, disgusting or dangerous of a situation Wilson tosses his schizophrenic thespian into, Outré never loses its sense of humor – the horror and levity are masterfully balanced.
Lastly, for those who are hesitant, but curious. The longer you spend trying to “figure the book out,” the harder it’s going to be for you to really see what’s going on and enjoy it. Cast aside your preconceptions of structure and be willing to get caught in the wave and let it toss you around. You’ll have a hell of a good time if you do.
