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Modern Pulp: The Times’ Top Fiveby Andrew Grossman
When Death Takes
an Unwelcome Holiday I have never been involved in an explosion. By that, I refer to large-scale explosions and not everyday sort of explosions. Like Dirk Pitt®, the leading hunk in Cussler's latest all-out assault on moderation, I lead a life that, if asked, I would describe as mundane and as academic. Unlike Pitt, however, I do not find myself being continually hunted by assassins, shot by bullets, and, as mentioned, trailed by a wake of testosterone-induced explosions, although one could hardly think this possible after reading Pitt's latest exploits. It seems like everyone is due their fair share of bombs. For those of you not in the know, Dirk Pitt® is the American James Bond. Clive, heed the advice of Austin Powers: Bond and his Ilk are irrelevant and out-of-touch. Of course, our hero, by day a marine engineer for the fictitious government agency NUMA and by night yours, ladies, no longer battles the Russkies; this time it's the Chinese who threaten to destroy our sacred way of life through illegal immigration and trade deficits. Somehow, things seemed more exciting in the Eighties, but such is the high price we pay for peace. To distill the plot down to its bare essence would make this an extremely short review for a book of 548 pages, so I will examine through a wider lens. Our narrative begins in the wilds of rural Washington. Our hero, visiting a friend's lakeside cabin for some much-needed rest and relaxation after a routine volcano accident, stumbles upon a secret prison used to detain illegal immigrants who will soon enter into slavery, except, of course, for the lucky ones who are shot and tossed in the lake. Appalled, Pitt destroys the entire operation in a series of fireballs that would look amazing in CinemaScope™, frees the hostages, engages in a thrilling boat chase, and, surprisingly, meets an attractive woman with whom he has not yet slept, a situation soon to be remedied. This scene, although well constructed, does leave some lingering questions. How could one secretly build a prison in the US without all the inspections and paperwork needed just construct a doghouse or a driveway? Do women really enjoy foreplay while being shot at from above by light aircraft? And, finally, what villain worth his salt would threaten, “It is you who will die soon.”? Sorry, Mr. Cussler, but those aren't quite fighting words; I regularly receive more intimidating threats from my barber (“Use conditioner or I'll cut your head off!”). You'll just have to try harder. It is only after the opening scene that the plot starts to seem unbelievable and, yet, formulaic. I've heard rumors that the most recent installments of the Dirk Pitt Adventure Series have been written by computers. Anyone who has taken linguistics and recently read one of Mr. Cussler's novels (probably a very small group) knows that creating a generative grammar to produce further books in the series would be pretty easy. In fact, I could imagine this very task being assigned as a night's homework in an introductory course in the near future. I don't mean to imply that churning out these books would be an easy task; like Mad Libs, the author would have to fill in blanks specifying the ethnic group trying to take over the world, the nationality of the Pitt's latest sexual partner, and any landmarks that should be demolished during the course of the plot. At the very least, a fairly intelligent monkey would be required, but, with the costs of keeping an ape nowadays, it might be more efficient to enlist an unpaid college intern. All I'm saying is, you'd best watch your back, Clive. I would be negligent if I failed to note one interesting motif woven subtly throughout the text of the novel. As many as twenty times, the reader is assaulted by product placements for Motorola Iridium phones, Chrysler engines, US Divers regulators, Colt weapons, and Olympia beer - to name a few. Although advertisement coverage has been growing in recent years, I never would have expected it to invade and infect even the worst of our fiction. I now wonder if, in my naiveté, I have missed similar messages in other contemporary works. Did Eberhard-Faber pay for Fahrenheit 451? Is Irvine Welsh still getting payments from Turkish cartels for Trainspotting? I hope never to know. My advice is to avoid the Flood Tide like a rotting fish. It could be a fun read for those who could overlook its many fundamental flaws, but, unfortunately, I can't. Love, Valor,
Chauvinism Steele's style, like her writing, is very utilitarian. In each of her books, she tells the story of a relationship, of a personal change, and of an everyday conflict, the sole elements of the unreflected lives her characters live, in what would be less than one hundred pages if she didn't use a 30 point font. The reader meets Jack Watson, the beau, a handsome, charming, and wealthy stud muffin, on the very first page. We learn that “he was one of those men who didn't even have to try. Women were just drawn to him like bees to honey. And he loved it. And them.” Right off the bat, the protagonist is revealed in ways that would take inferior writers, like Thomas Pynchon and Don Delillo, hundreds of pages; yet, somehow, Steele's characters are lacking a certain depth, that of humanity and irrationality, which figures so heavily in most writing. Rather than existing on their own, they are propped against the wealth of caricatures and stereotypes which exist in our common consciousness, unable to fully come into their own being. Jack is the flippant playboy; the world is his oyster and he knows it. The recently widowed Amanda Kingston is the aristocratic ice queen, unable to love or be loved. It's quite a surprise when these two begin their incredibly romantic courtship; I personally haven't had such a shock since I heard that Ellen was being cancelled. One obviously doesn't read Steele for her characterization or complex plotting; it's the romance, stupid! Yet, the scenes that should have been romantic and intimate in this novel came across as bland and empty, even boring. Steele seems unable to create, or even imply, the true range of emotions present in human relationships. I can't help but feel the pain of the paper cuts as these two-dimensional characters push themselves together. Special Delivery feels like a poorly conceived soap-opera with elements of our worst sitcoms, such as Married...With Children, thrown in unintentionally. Having read more romantic text in the depths of the Wall Street Journal, I find it hard to believe that Steele really has 370 million of her books in print. Think of all the trees! The Pittsburgh Post notes the “smooth style to her writings,” which could be attributed to her use of no words longer than three syllables, while the Houston Post proclaims that “Steele is at the top of her best-selling form,” which, sadly, I don't doubt. In the end, Steele's characters discard their eccentric stereotypes to embrace the more traditional, middle-class stereotypes of the working man and the housewife. How romantic. Brave New World I must admit that I had very low expectations when beginning the third book of my journey. I had already seen so much carnage, just inconsiderate mashing of words, that I was nearly ready to end what appeared a fruitless assignment. Well, Frazier's first book, Cold Mountain, was a welcome surprise. Inman, a disillusioned Confederate soldier, nearly killed in battle, sets off on foot to his home, in search of a new life with his love, Ada. Ada, meanwhile, has been left alone in the throes of depression on the ill-kept farm that her intellectual father never had running properly. Without money or resolve, not wanting to return to the Charleston society that scorned her, she has no other option than to remain on the farm and begin an internal journey towards strength and sustenance. Frazier sculpts his cast of characters artfully, taking the time to rough out their turmoil and triumphs, the blood of being. Inman's vivid recollections of the bloody War taint his character with a resolve that carries him home to Cold Mountain. Ada's upbringing and childhood leave her in a position of desperate need; she finds herself unable to work the farm or return to the city, excluded from both worlds by her intelligence and her father's indulgence. In both journeys, frustration and uncertainty dominate as Ada and Inman push forward into the uncertainty of the future. James Polk, writing in the New York Times, sees Cold Mountain as a Civil War era Odyssey. Inman's goal, Cold Mountain, becomes his Ithaca in his search to reclaim his humanity, and his love, Ada, Penelope. Parallels also exist to Thomas Pynchon's recent Mason and Dixon as the Ada and Inman act to define their future and rise above the tide of history as individuals while discovering the soul of America, an open land of hugeness and possibility. Throughout, Frazier's clear and fluid prose takes us to the hearts of his delicately-rendered characters. The story flows along at a pleasant pace, neither boring nor overwhelming the reader but unfolding to showcase Frazier's narrative talent. Cold Mountain would be an impressive achievement for an accomplished writer, but, as Frazier's first, it leaves the reader wondering what will come next from this fresh talent. “We're two
wild and crazy guys!” For me, a recommendation from “Oprah's Book Club” carries as much weight as those “As Seen on TV!” stickers that are plastered over all sorts of cheap goods. Well, my apprehension was justified: this book didn't need to be written. What Looks Like Crazy... is the story of Ava Johnson, an HIV-positive hair stylist, her quest for an acceptable reality, and her return to her hometown of Idlewild, Michigan. In the course of a summer, Ava finds herself, discovers a reason to live, and trips over true love. The rural community of Idlewild has been besieged by the same problems facing the city she just left, including AIDS, teenage pregnancy, crime, and drug abuse. Teenagers there live in a grim reality with little hope of a traditional future. Ava's sister, Joyce, runs a small self-help group for the town's girls who face danger everyday from their careless boyfriends. In other words, every human-interest story you may have read over the past year and more are included in this novel, and combined with Cleage's “urban wit,” they form an altogether depressing and overwhelming whole, leading the reader to wonder when the protagonist is going to contract the plague or get hit by lightening. It seems like Cleage has taken a rather straightforward narrative and tried to pepper it with morals and themes that just don't fit well into the story. Furthermore, these themes have the feel of having been borrowed from elsewhere in our culture. For example, Ava expresses her philosophy towards living with HIV through the cliché “One day at a time,” suspiciously similar to the “baby steps” of Bill Murray in What About Bob?. Ava's thoughts about human lives being cluttered with unnecessary “bullshit” brought to my mind a spoken word performance by Henry Rollins, “Decorations,” off of his Human Butt recording. Finally, the protagonist's first seduction scene reads like something out of the rulebook at Antioch College (where clear, verbal consent is required before every step sexual contact): “Can I touch your penis?” “Yes.” “Can I touch your balls?” “Yes.” “Can I touch your nipples?” “Yes.” I haven't read anything this titillating since Clive Cussler's Flood Tide (reviewed above). What Looks Like... is not a bad book, just an unnecessary one. Cleage doesn't introduce any new concepts or themes or provoke her readers to think about anything in particular. It is simply a book without a meaningful message or worthwhile point. Those interested in this style of writing would do best to look towards Maya Angelou, by far a more capable wordsmith. The Land of the
Race Car Yayas If you haven't guessed, this book has absolutely nothing to do with Cake's “Land of the Race Car YaYas” where “large furry dice still hang proudly like testicles from rearview mirrors.” In fact, Cake's ode to crazy drivers has surprisingly little in common with the YaYas, a group of four childhood girlfriends who have managed to stay together through good times and bad, worthless husbands, disease, and too much public drunkenness. Sidda, the daughter of a YaYa, borrows her mothers photo album, a history of the lives of the YaYas, and, the reader is whisked though her mother's lifetime of hardship, abuse, insanity, and friendship. Sidda mourns the life that she has abandoned by not carrying on the YaYa tradition in the age of television and media where lifelong friends are a near impossibility. Through a veil of detached sarcasm and a devotion to her work in the theater, Sidda has managed to stop herself from making any truly close bonds. This detachment carries on into her love life where she cannot accept the commitment of marriage to a man she loves. Religion plays a large part in the course or Sidda's reconstruction of Vivi's life. Vivi, the daughter of an uncaring father and an overzealous mother, has had a strange relationship with the church ever since her adolescence when she was sent away, temporarily, to a strict Catholic school. She has leaned on the church in periods of difficulty, such as when her sweetheart died in World War II and when she realized that she couldn't cope with the strains of motherhood, but tries to distance herself from the religion itself. Although this relationship is very nontraditional, it fits Vivi well. By sharing this difficult aspect of her life with Sidda. Vivi forces her daughter to gain important perspective that will help make sense of her life. Divine Secrets is a very strange book because of its cross-generational appeal. Its compelling story, characters, and gentle style make it a worthwhile read for nearly anybody regardless of age or circumstance. Unlike What Seems Like..., this book takes a fresh look at modern life by comparing to life as it was earlier in this century. The reader sees the evolution of our society and of its peoples. Don't let me convince you that this is a serious book, however. Wells's cute sense of humor manages to tickle without provoking too many groans; truly a feat in a sea of novels that tend towards extremes in comicality. Wells is to be congratulated for creating such a redeeming work that has managed, for the time being, to capture the public's imagination from the horrible trash (see review above) that our publishers seem to relish cranking out. |
Books suck. Not all books, but,
being 1998, it would be a waste of time to make frivolous
distinctions. Of course, sales of fiction are better now
than they've ever been; blame a certain cow on TV for
that. Well, if you've managed to avoid this week's
bestsellers, here's your chance to catch up. Entertain
friends at cocktail parties, make smalltalk, hit on
bridesmaids at suburban weddings, all without having to
read these works of kindling. The Dartmouth Review does
it all for you. All the bestsellers, none of the
degenerative mental effects. Sit back, have a few drinks,
and take in five books in as many minutes. You might need
a few more drinks (recommended: white russian).