Although it kills me to say it, I have to admit that the book I read this week, John Haskell's "Out of My Skin," was very postmodern. Calling a book (or a movie, or a pair of sneakers, or whatever) pomo is the telltale verbal tick of pseudo-intellectuals everywhere, I know, but I honestly don't know a piece of work that better earns the distinction.
In the book, Haskell, himself a playwright and actor, gets inside the mind of a journalist who moves from New York to Los Angeles, and decides that life in the strange, new city would be easier if he were Steve Martin.
So, as if it were a completely rational choice, he dyes his hair white and submerges himself, method acting-style, into the persona of the actor. The project helps him seduce women and get hired, but it also throws his sense of self for a loop.
The story of the man's life intertwines with strands of Hollywood history. When he's not asking himself "What would Steve do?" Haskell's main character, a movie buff and former film critic, compares his experiences to the stories of two of Hollywood's best-loved chameleon men, Cary Grant and Charles Loughton, and to the plot of one of his favorite movies, "Sunset Boulevard." These windows into life in Tinseltown color give Haskell's work a distinctively dark tint, but despite the intense philosophical quandaries of his chameleon protagonist, the work's outlook remains upbeat.
The book's off-the-wall, gimmicky premise, though hard to swallow at first, forces us to realize that we all compare ourselves to others, pretending we are someone we're not. Certainly we all believe that some people would be ideally adapted to handle our given situation. But, as Haskell's main character realizes, living as another is a problematic ruse.
