Downhill Racer

In this tasty souffle of a book, full of buoyant, anti-gravity prose, Joseph Lanza treats us to a light yet far from insubstantial look at the weightiest subject of all. The spectrum of “Gravity’s” rainbow reaches from King Kong to Stormin’ Norman, the inspired robotics of the modern kitchen to the macabre eroticism of the fun-fair ride, Michael Jackson’s moonwalk to Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon. It is a giddy guided tour of pop culture as seen through the “tilted perspective” of the roller coaster fanatic.

And a fanatic Lanza is without doubt. The scope of his knowledge may be alarmingly broad, but if his mind could be said to run on one track, it is unquestionably that of the scream machine. He traces the history of the roller coaster from its earliest incarnations, paying special, loving attention to the “ghoulishly poetic” mishaps and landmark accidents that inspired today’s strict safety standards--standards resented by some of the roller coaster’s most ardent aficionados.

Once, Lanza relates, his seat companion, whom he’d never seen before, turned as they were climbing the first hill and asked him if he “wanted to feel something exceptional. Before I could think up an equally suggestive retort, I saw that our lap bar was completely unlatched.” Lanza describes the resulting ride, in which they were catapulted into a standing position at one point, as “a most terrifying and wonderful time.” And so we come to understand how, furtively unlatched and possibly certifiably unhinged as well, the “track trollop” in Lanza’s intimate analysis “lives for stimulation of his or her negative-G spot.”

If his appreciation of the thrill ride is unabashedly visceral, the author is equally fascinated by roller coasters’ metaphysical and allegorical aspects. He plots their satanic falls and heavenly ascensions and probes the subject of their suggestively procreative penetrations. They represent, he posits, “all of America’s jittery ambitions, love of sensationalism, and eroticized violence packed into a single pleasure device that places our smug perceptions of person, place, and thing in controlled danger.” As such, the roller coaster has become “an icon to which the bastions of high art, academia, pop culture, and pornography can relate simultaneously.”

There is arguably nothing more pornographic than war. Lanza uncovers some spooky connections between the worlds of real and simulated violence. “Gravity” shows how aerospace and missile technology have spilled over into the design and dynamics of roller coasters. Arrow Dynamics, which thrived in the Cold War perfecting orbit simulators for NASA, is also the creator of Disney’s Matterhorn bobsled, a roller coaster with tubular steel tracks, among other fun rides. Perhaps the weirdest coincidence is this: Anton Schwarzkopf, the world’s leading roller coaster designer and manufacturer, turns out to be a distant cousin of Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf, whose smart bomb’s roller coaster trajectory remains one of the most indelible images of the 1991 Gulf War. “The story of the two Schwarzkopfs demonstrates how the theaters of war and leisure are merging more than ever,” Lanza comments.

Lanza’s brilliance lies in the fact that he makes each precarious dip into the valleys of roller coaster arcana serve as a prelude to ascending exhilarating peaks where the entire cultural landscape opens up, allowing you to glimpse--if only for a moment--the interconnectedness of all things, from Marilyn Monroe’s coyly ballooning skirt to Corningware.

The roller coaster is also an elevated medium for the author’s loop-the-loop meditations on the nominal theme of the book, gravity itself. He gives us Newton’s and Einstein’s takes on the subject in simple terms, explains G-forces and imparts little-known facts like how gravity is adding microseconds to our days. Yet Lanza, it should be obvious by now, has not set out to write a scientific tract so much as a social and cultural provocation, by turns outrageous, poetic and kitschy.

To wit, Lanza’s postulation as to why Liberace and Superman may be perceived as twin “gravity avengers”:

“The image of a winged avenger hovering above the vast cityscape brings the Leaping Liberace [who, with the aid of wires and a brace, frequently flew across the stage] ever closer to his Krypton cousin. Both superheroes donned their armor to help guard the populace from disorder. For Superman, it was the entropy of terrorist bombs, kidnappers, and subversive cabals; for Liberace, it was the disheveled strand of hair, the undermanicured fingernail, or the slightest wrinkle of the brow or bulge of the tummy. . . .”

Liberace and his Lois Lane, Phyllis Diller, were both “gravity avengers” in another sense as well. Both submitted a number of times to the plastic surgeon’s knife in an effort to stave off gravity’s ultimate pull--toward the grave. The sag of breasts, the droop of buttocks, the fall of arches are but intimations of that final, fatal tumble to Earth. Yet when it comes to fleshly frailty, gravity wields a double-edged sword--without it, our bones would disintegrate, our muscles deteriorate and our organs migrate to all the wrong places.

Lanza pays special tribute to an organ with its own unique relationship to gravity, the testicle, in a section titled “Scrotal Recall.” Rising to escape the cold, descending just to hang around, the testes, he contends, “have long been a public pin~ata, with male-dominated industries wielding the heaviest mallets.” Sports, turnstiles, automatic doors and even seemingly innocent briefs daily threaten these delicate pendants. In turn, they turn the conceit of phallic construction into something of a joke: “Anyone who looks at a specimen of angular architecture or a sleek and streamlined machine should superimpose over it the outline of a bulbous, hanging set of testicles to get an immediate sense of the contrast between the virile vision and its fragile vessel.”

If for inspiration Lanza often looks to the stars--both cinematic and astronomical--he can be at his most charming when his gaze is pulled down to the level of the domestic. “The year 1927 was an important one for gravity-defying technology,” he informs us. In addition to Charles Lindbergh’s transatlantic crossing and the opening of Coney Island’s “legendary” Cyclone, “in March, Charles Strite’s introduction of the pop-up toaster inspired National Toaster Month.”

The kitchen, where demon gravity is always conspiring to pull cups and bowls down to shatter on the floor or to tip over saucepans or cartons of milk, and where it regularly infuriates by causing the toast always to land buttered side down, is the site of some of the most vicious anti-gravity wars known to mankind and, more pertinently, woman-kind. During the 1950s, women were taunted by magazine images of towering chiffon cakes, aerodynamic bras and Jell-O molds full of suspended fruit. They were encouraged to see a “spotless and sparkling kitchen floor as the mirror of their soul. . . . With gravity the ultimate judge and executioner, there was little basis by which to distinguish a fallen glass of milk or fallen cake from a fallen woman.” When the stress of domestic perfection got to be too much, women saw their family doctor for Valiums to get off the “emotional roller coaster.”

For some people who have tangled with gravity, however, the ride just goes on and on. Lanza paints vivid portraits of such visionaries, eccentrics and madmen as Elisha Graves Otis, inventor of the modern elevator; Roger Babson, entrepreneur, Christian moralizer and author of such tracts as “Gravity--Our Enemy Number One”; and the anonymous “San Andreas Dancer,” a “tormented warlock” who drew crazed and cosmic messages from the Loma Prieta earthquake of Oct. 17, 1989 and, in particular, the collapse of the Embarcadero.

“Gravity” is full of quirky little sidebars on such topics as the strength of fleas and lushly illustrated with photographs of such subjects as bungee jumpers, Elvis impersonators and, naturally, every sort of roller coaster under the sun.

Some of Lanza’s cultural theories struck me as a bit tenuous, or at least in need of more explication. That said, I’m not much inclined to quibble. He tosses them off like so much ballast--catch them or let them fall--and zip, you’re away and racing again. If you want to give your imagination a ride and your spirits a lift, drop everything and pick up a copy of “Gravity.”