Michael Connelly says that evil is just a dull fact in the world; it's just there. What's interesting, to Connelly, is how *decent souls* wrestle with and accommodate and *are changed by* evil. It's like the add for "The Prodigy," the new and slightly underrated horror movie. In the add, we see the face of a little boy, and half is painted for Halloween: Half is a kind of skeleton. (The other half is just a boy-face.) A soul wrestling with evil--not yet consumed by evil. It's the struggle--the act of wrestling--that generates interest for the viewer (or reader).
I thought of Connelly in reference to "Election," by Tom Perrotta, a book that I reread this week. It's really more like a short story--stretched out via generous spacing and font-size. "Election" became a cultural sensation in America--mainly because of Reese Witherspoon's dazzling performance in the movie adaptation. Witherspoon had not been a name, before--and here she was, smart and diabolical and charismatic. It was like lights went on all over America. Something similar would happen years later, when a young Jennifer Lawrence would make waves in an adaptation of "Winter's Bone."
Tracy Flick turns heads, but other aspects of Perrotta's story haunt me, as well. I'm remembering the young teacher who can't quite accept that he is about to have a kid; flummoxed by his own choices, he decides to ruin his own life by shtupping under-age Tracy in his (marital) bed. He then turns into a kind of ghost--popping up at local bars--and we have to follow his sad progress because the narrator, Mr. M, happens to be friends (or pained pseudo-friends) with him.
There are other "sinking" moments like the Flick sex scene. Mr. M discovers that he is in love with his friend's wife, and we know almost immediately that he is going to destroy his own well-being with an affair: Driving, with the unavailable wife, he passes a motel and asks, "Should I pull in?" The wife, looking straight ahead: "Don't ask unless you really want the answer." This kind of queasy awfulness stops your heart; without using stylistic pyrotechnics, Perrotta can stun you again and again, simply by showing you apparently smart people in the act of self-sabotage.
Another self-destructive moment: Mr. M, lost in marital turmoil, counts student-council-president election ballots. He slowly comes to understand that his nemesis, the opportunistic, soulless, pitch-perfect Flick, has won. As he understands, he spots Flick through a window, and she is striking a self-satisfied pose. Waves of pure hatred crash over Mr. M, and he opts to throw the election: He will risk his own career simply because he feels disgust for a child.
Sigrid Nunez says, to young writers, DON'T FLINCH. And that's how I feel when I read "Election." Here was a young writer, Perrotta, showing courage. The courage of painting "unlikable" portraits. The courage of withholding moments of "redemption." I think Perrotta maintains his high-wire act until the very final paragraph, in which he dreams up a last confrontation between Flick and Mr. M. Flick hands M her yearbook, because she wants some kind of sincere inscription; all her classmates dislike her and write trite things, but maybe M can draft something meaningful. This is cringe-inducing, as all of the rest of the novel feels cringe-inducing, and I admire the intelligence here. What I don't admire is this: Perrotta ends just as M begins to write. So we never learn what M puts down on the page. This must have felt cute and perfect, to Perrotta, but it isn't: It's a cop-out. A more assured writer would have allowed us to see M churning out phrases.
But: A small quibble. I will never stop recommending "Election." Other readers may want to read inspiring tales about heroes; I derive weird comfort from seeing losers being losers. A reminder that we all swim in one turbulent sea--together. I'm happy for that reminder. Enjoy your weekend!
I thought of Connelly in reference to "Election," by Tom Perrotta, a book that I reread this week. It's really more like a short story--stretched out via generous spacing and font-size. "Election" became a cultural sensation in America--mainly because of Reese Witherspoon's dazzling performance in the movie adaptation. Witherspoon had not been a name, before--and here she was, smart and diabolical and charismatic. It was like lights went on all over America. Something similar would happen years later, when a young Jennifer Lawrence would make waves in an adaptation of "Winter's Bone."
Tracy Flick turns heads, but other aspects of Perrotta's story haunt me, as well. I'm remembering the young teacher who can't quite accept that he is about to have a kid; flummoxed by his own choices, he decides to ruin his own life by shtupping under-age Tracy in his (marital) bed. He then turns into a kind of ghost--popping up at local bars--and we have to follow his sad progress because the narrator, Mr. M, happens to be friends (or pained pseudo-friends) with him.
There are other "sinking" moments like the Flick sex scene. Mr. M discovers that he is in love with his friend's wife, and we know almost immediately that he is going to destroy his own well-being with an affair: Driving, with the unavailable wife, he passes a motel and asks, "Should I pull in?" The wife, looking straight ahead: "Don't ask unless you really want the answer." This kind of queasy awfulness stops your heart; without using stylistic pyrotechnics, Perrotta can stun you again and again, simply by showing you apparently smart people in the act of self-sabotage.
Another self-destructive moment: Mr. M, lost in marital turmoil, counts student-council-president election ballots. He slowly comes to understand that his nemesis, the opportunistic, soulless, pitch-perfect Flick, has won. As he understands, he spots Flick through a window, and she is striking a self-satisfied pose. Waves of pure hatred crash over Mr. M, and he opts to throw the election: He will risk his own career simply because he feels disgust for a child.
Sigrid Nunez says, to young writers, DON'T FLINCH. And that's how I feel when I read "Election." Here was a young writer, Perrotta, showing courage. The courage of painting "unlikable" portraits. The courage of withholding moments of "redemption." I think Perrotta maintains his high-wire act until the very final paragraph, in which he dreams up a last confrontation between Flick and Mr. M. Flick hands M her yearbook, because she wants some kind of sincere inscription; all her classmates dislike her and write trite things, but maybe M can draft something meaningful. This is cringe-inducing, as all of the rest of the novel feels cringe-inducing, and I admire the intelligence here. What I don't admire is this: Perrotta ends just as M begins to write. So we never learn what M puts down on the page. This must have felt cute and perfect, to Perrotta, but it isn't: It's a cop-out. A more assured writer would have allowed us to see M churning out phrases.
But: A small quibble. I will never stop recommending "Election." Other readers may want to read inspiring tales about heroes; I derive weird comfort from seeing losers being losers. A reminder that we all swim in one turbulent sea--together. I'm happy for that reminder. Enjoy your weekend!
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