GNAGNAGNA—YADA-YADA-YADA—SNIFF-SNIFF—BLAH-BLAH-BLAH
Gnagnagna (to be pronounced, roughly, like: niuh-niuh-niuh) is the French and condensed way of saying “yada-yada-yada-sniff-sniff-blah-blah-blah.” If the French onomatopoeia sounds limp, flabby, wimpy to you, it’s because it is.
And that’s what the The Perfect Son ends up being. I confess: I couldn’t finish it. I’ve got one life to live and I ain’t no spring chicken anymore. I read about six percent of the novel and, finally, decided to quit. What happened to the characters? Frankly, my dears, I no longer gave a damn.
After Chapter One, the airplane chapter, everything started going down. Slowly but surely. Perhaps Claypole White should have kept us in the air a bit longer. Soon enough, it soon became a mishmash that could be easily regurgitated into a Lifetime movie of the week, for a little sentimental soiree filled with kleenex (sniff-sniff), lamenting comments (oooh! aaaah! mmm! another sniff!) and popcorn.
If the Tourette’s Syndrome of brilliant son Harry is well described at first, the tics and nervous gestures that are part of the disorder are hammered time and again into the reader’s head. Not only does it get repetitious, but it is described through the eyes of Daddy who has seen his child with these symptoms for about sixteen years. I don’t care what the author says, how many hours this parent spends at work before tragedy hits until he has to take care of his son all by himself, Tourette’s after sixteen years should be the “normal” routine. Dad should be used to tics by now and just let it be. His reactions and his annoyance here just don’t make sense.
Also, about these very tics: after having presented them at every other page, or close, the author decides to underline, right in the middle of the book and in parenthesis, that Harry never moves his head only once, implying that each of his nervous gestures is duplicated. I am sure other readers will have reacted like me, with, one, a “duh!” and, two, this question: where was the editor for this one?
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is aforementioned Dad, British dad Felix. The author’s bio on her amazon page indicates she is English born and educated. Then how come Felix is so f*cking cliché? You would think he had been drawn by a caricaturist during Victorian times. Everything bad some enemy of the Brits might want to project is thrown into the poor guy. (The delightful British humor, well, forget it!) A complex of superiority, a rigid sense of morality, the overall raised eyebrow–constrained-ass-tightened-mouth-cup-of-tea attitude. Bloody frogs reading this book could be croaking their song of joy right now. Not this bloody frog, however, who studied Brit. Lit., was born in a French town with a British history, and used to keep a correspondence with British gentlemen. Actually, is having a correspondence with a British gentleman at the moment. All this to say that Felix, compared to either fiction or reality, is so bloody flat. What’s tragic is that he could have easily developed into a great character. The man is in conflict with himself, and in denial, but the author only gives a few brushstrokes to the subject. She does the same with his relationship with his dead, gay brother and with his painful, horrid past. As for the unrolling rapport with his son, it’s as unsubstantial and dull as his (non) portrayal.
I’ve said it. I only read sixty percent of the book. If things happen later, it’s too late to grab my attention. At this point the story has lost so much elasticity, so much tension, become so wishy-washy I hardly have the energy to grab the book again. As stated before:
Gnagnagna-gnagnagna.
And it’s too bad. Because it could have been, with less temptation to sentimentality, a worthy piece of literature. The plot was there. But the characters were, unfortunately, in search of an author.