Because Brooklynites get their magazine the same day as Bostonians (confirmed this evening after a rejuvenatingly traumatic screening of Oldboy), we can't actually read this yet, but it sounds like a dilly: an excerpt from McSwoobah Sean Wilsey's Oh the Glory of It All, a memoir about his famous, messed-up San Francisco family. From the San Francisco Chronicle piece about the local furor rising higher than the hills:

The 475-page memoir, to be published by Penguin Press, has it all, from sex, drugs and marital infidelity to famous names, lavish parties and conspicuous consumption. It also has Wilsey's painful quest for love, understanding and acceptance from his mother, former San Francisco Examiner society columnist Pat Montandon; his late father, philanthropist and food magnate Al Wilsey; and in particular, his stepmother, Diane "Dede" Wilsey, one of the city's most powerful and admired arts patrons, who led the 10-year effort to build the $202 million new de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park.
...
In his book, 34-year-old Sean Wilsey blames his stepmother for the breakup of his parents' marriage, and, in part, for his spiral into delinquency. His parents, he writes, were so narcissistic they didn't have time to nurture him.

Dede Wilsey said she has no intention of reading the memoir. "A fact checker from the New Yorker called the other day, and every fact they checked with me was wrong,'' she said.

Can you imagine checking that? It almost trumps "Are You Completely Bald?" for subjectivity. Somehow this scandal seems more fun because it's in San Francisco; everyone knows all the writers there by sight. Here scandals live about as long as a Gawker post before something else shoves it out of the way. Scandals should be chewed slowly and deliberately, then spat out with satisfaction. Moving to SF is so [insert date of your choice here], but you can't deny it's still awfully tempting.

Speaking of chewing, all I can do is quote David Denby's review of Oldboy, mixed but absolutely accurate in at least this regard:

Made in South Korea, “Oldboy” has been causing a fuss since it won the Grand Prix at Cannes, and finally it arrives here, trailing clouds of octopus. A man named Oh Dae-su (Choi Min-sik) goes to a restaurant and orders “a living thing.” You or I would be content with a dozen oysters, but this fellow is handed an octopus on a plate, and he boldly goes for the complete eight-track experience, slotting the unfortunate creature into his mouth. It squirms around, looking understandably surprised by the experience, and one of its tentacles appears to be signalling for a cell phone, but down it goes.

This struck me as one of the better moments in the movie, and nothing that Russell Crowe, say, couldn’t handle in the event of an American version. (Has anybody green-lit such a project? Let’s hope so, if only for the solemn caution that we can expect in the end credits: “No cephalopods were chewed in the making of this film.”)

He's dead right. And do I mean dead! This movie is all weirdly decorated apartments, funny hairstyles, lots of running around, and quick, stylish cuts. Like Amelie, but with killing. Glorious.

Afterthought: I knew Oldboy reminded me of something, and it was Akira Yoshimura's On Parole, which I reviewed long ago. Guy is locked up for 15 years; guy is sprung; guy freaks out. The numbness is similar, and the reluctance to let go of certain prison habits and obsessions. Come to think of it, Oldboy vs. The Shawshank Redemption might make an interesting study...

Memoir by son of S.F. socialites should set tongues wagging—and other writers say it's not just trash talk [SF Chronicle]
Q. & A.: The War at Home [New Yorker; Cressida Leyshon interview with Wilsey, online only]
The Current Cinema: Revenge [New Yorker; The Ring Two & Oldboy]

Categories: NYer, Issue, Wilsey, Movies, Denby, EG