Ike Turner therefore comes as a gift. He may not be a subculture, but he definitely counts as weird. Theroux paints a sensitive, sympathetic portrait of a man with public-relations problems exceeded only by O.J. Simpson's. His negative portrayal in the film What's Love Got to Do With It still smarts. Turner has channeled his feelings into music. "Gimme back that wig I bought you and let your head — your head go bald!" one song goes. In another song, he sings, "They made a movie 'bout me and what they said in some parts ain't true."
Theroux puts a lot of kilometers on his rental car, but otherwise he turns in a lazy performance. Like Bernard-Henri Levy in American Vertigo, he seems to believe that the real soul of America can be found only at remote religious encampments or UFO conventions. It's surprising that the two of them did not trip over each other at the same Nevada cathouses and nut-job gatherings. By carpooling, they could have saved a ton on gas.
For both, and all others tempted to twang this string one more time, here's a shocking proposal: The US is no stranger than any other country. The weird quotient, per capita, is precisely equal to Luxembourg's.
From time to time, Theroux does come up with a nice, fat fish to shoot at in his barrel. He is a facile, amusing writer, and he really lets it rip in a chapter on Marshall Sylver, a money evangelist with the mantra "Passion, profit and power." Sylver, who once served prison time for counterfeiting US$50 bills, beams benevolently on Theroux in their first interview. The experience is unnerving. "It's only when someone really holds your gaze that you realize how little we do it as human beings," writes Theroux, who leaves with a blessing. "You're loved," Sylver tells him.
It takes Theroux no time to turn that around. A few more encounters, a couple of questions, and Sylver announces a new policy: "Don't even come near me," he warns. "I'll have security throw you out." Well, there's always time to drop in on the twin neo-Nazi folk singers.
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