Thursday, May. 08, 2008
The New James Frey: A Review
I’m not going to get between you and James Frey. Frey, as everybody knows, is the author of two books that were published as memoirs–A Million Little Pieces and My Friend Leonard–but turned out to be not especially factually accurate. I’m not that upset about it, mostly because I didn’t think the books were that great in the first place. They felt crude and overwrought and underthought to me, and maybe as if Frey were just a little too proud of what a thorough mess he’d made of his life. Yes, he violated the unwritten contract between writer and reader. I wouldn’t blame anybody for being mad at him. I just wasn’t that invested.
So I approached Frey’s new book, a novel called Bright Shiny Morning (Harper; 512 pages) with something approximating a neutral frame of mind. As it turns out, if you’re thinking of not buying it because of Frey’s past misdeeds, you might want to look for some other way of getting back at him, because it’s a pretty good read.
Bright Shiny Morning is a refreshingly archaic affair, an old-fashioned book written in an old-fashioned style. It’s less a novel about Los Angeles than it is Los Angeles–in-novel-form, an attempt to embrace and describe and sum up the city by mixing fictional story lines about diverse characters–rich, poor, homeless; black, white, Mexican–with actual facts (somebody might want to check them) about L.A.’s freeways and crime rates and history and such. It’s reminiscent of one of Tom Wolfe‘s billion-footed beasts, but it’s even more reminiscent of the socially conscious early 20th century naturalism of John Dos Passos and John Steinbeck. Fittingly, Frey uses a hard-boiled, under-punctuated, Hemingway type of nonstyle that seems to growl, I’m giving you the straight dope here, son. (A sample: “They lived in a small town in an eastern state it was nowhere anywhere everywhere, a small American town full of alcohol, abuse and religion. He worked in an auto body shop and she worked as a clerk at a gas station and they were going to get married and buy a house …”)
There are four main story lines. One concerns a $20-million-a-movie married superstar who is secretly gay. Another involves a teenage couple who run away from home in small-town Ohio to work service-level jobs in L.A. There’s also a mildly demented homeless man who finds purpose when he meets a meth-addicted runaway. And there’s Esperanza, a maid who makes a love connection with her psychotically mean boss’s nice, nerdy son.
These stories have two things in common. One, they take place in L.A. Two, they are all clichés. Frey has less fear of cliché, or of sentimentality, or of stating the obvious, than almost any other writer I have ever read. He literally writes as if he personally discovered that show-biz people are fake, homeless people can have hearts of gold, love can bridge any divide, and people go to L.A. to watch their dreams die.
And yet. Compare Bright Shiny Morning with, say, Charles Bock’s Beautiful Children, a novel of similar proportions and ambitions (it’s about Las Vegas) that was published in January to great critical acclaim. Children drips with nuance and high purpose and psychological complexity, but in all honesty, I would far rather spend an evening (or a morning) with Morning than with Children. The worst bits of Morning are probably worse than anything else you’ll read this year, but Frey is such a relentlessly entertaining storyteller that you just won’t care. Sure, the setups are formulaic (ironically, Frey makes fun of Hollywood’s cookie-cutter plots, while his aren’t much better), but the details are pure over-the-top pulp, and they go by so fast you don’t have time to roll your eyes. Frey has a history of having a little too much fun with facts, among other controlled substances. As a writer of fiction, he may finally have found a job where that’s not a problem.