Thursday, June 4, 2009

Charles Bock - Beautiful Children


Watching this documentary on 20th Century American literature, the narrators likened the introduction of the papaerback novel to today's ipod fascination. The new publishing format allowed folks (teens mostly) to pass off and trade new ideas, highlighted and dogeared with attractive covers, and gave the beat writers of the era a new vehicle for success. Kerouac and Burroughs novels were locker transients and the written word as they crafted it sculpted an entirely new cultural perspective.
I've got some of those old survivors of the paperback era. They're in pretty sad shape after half a century of readings, but one thing that still impresses is the cover price, usually a meager .95. New paperbacks today run upwards of $20, a further indication of literary elitism. Sure, there's always the library but what loser wants to be seen there?
Too bad really, because there are some contemporary writers who truly do have their finger on the current cultural pulse. Writers whose product is edgy, critical, and deeply observant. Writers who take the familiar language and twist it around their fingers, tie it in knots like a shoelace and hook you like a finely played guitar melody. Chuck Palahniuk leads the pack as far as name recognition goes and his style has inspired a host of new voices. Unfortunately, he has also inspired a host of immitators and Beautiful Children seems as much.
Charles Bock's debut novel Beautiful Children is, at its core, a novel about teenage runaways. Problem being, it winds slow, undulating circuits around the core without ever actually getting there. His characters are meticulously constructed, so much so that they overshadow the plot, slowing the story's pace to a frustrating crawl far too often.
Bock's novel is set in Las Vegas and I first heard of him listening to an NPR interview while driving back from there. Gotta say, having an actual impression of the setting he paints made the reading a lot easier to digest. He paints the town as a character unto itself, which is appropriate. Newell, the missing kid in question only actually goes missing within the last ten pages as the novel is frustratingly out of chronological order. Story threads interweave in uncontrolled, chaotic patterns and Bock's attempts at linear ideas get tangled up in the mess of progression.
Too often Bock relies on pornographic level shock-tactics to entertain his reader instead of solid storytelling. While he can twist a phrase and provide just the right level of controlled imagery for the reader to clutch a scene, it rarely develops into a satisfactory one and that is essentially the problem that hobbles the entire novel.
At one point toward what passes for a climax in the story, a group of kids find themselves at a party in the desert. A band called Not To Be Fucked With plays badly rendered punk rock and the narrating character notes how it's all style before content, the rhythm never in sync with the melodies. In itself, this is a fair summation of the novel. It is dirty, but not in an enjoyably naughty way, just in a gritty, unpleasant way. Ideas remain undeveloped, threads hang loose, and anticipated resolution disolves like whatever Bock has been smoking.
Bock shows promise in his confident manipulation of the language and his characters which ooze verisimilitude, but his style and attitude need maturation that his later works will hopefully develop.
Good thing this one came courtesy of the local library...