Another novel by a rich white New York kid with publishing world connections. Another novel in which the teenage author tries to impress readers with his private-school education (I’m so smart I can quote Catullus). Another novel about rich white kids trying to be cool, dealing and taking drugs, buying lots of expensive stuff like Prada bags, (the litanies of luxury are numbing). Another novel of rich white teenage angst, told in prurient detail for readers with attention spans the length of Twitter tweets. Another novel of teenagers blasted away by a ninja à la Columbine.
None of these things would matter if the novel was well written, but it isn’t. It has no sympathetic characters, including the narrator named White Mike – he’s a drug dealer who doesn’t take drugs, smoke or drink. That’s not enough to make the reader care. SPOILER ALERT: He winds up getting shot, recovers from his wounds so, like Melville’s Ishmael, he can tell the tale. Then he goes off to college in Paris. France. Europe. At least it isn’t “home.” Get it?
Twelve (the name of one of the drugs White Mike sells) has no character development. Characters either die or continue their empty lives, just like their parents. Nobody changes because of experience. It has no original voice – just a Bret Easton Ellis or Jay McInerney wannabe tone that’s not even a good imitation. It’s so derivative it’s like reading a back issue of the Sun. It wasted my time, which is inexcusable.
If you want to read a novel by a teenage author, why not try Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan? Or Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein? Or Christopher Paolini’s Eragon? Or S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders? Or Richard Mason’s The Drowning People? Each has merits that far outweigh their defects, and great storytelling without self-indulgence.
Warning: McDonell has written two additional novels, and Twelve has been made into a motion picture for a 2010 release. Read and watch at your own risk.
No comments:
Post a Comment