Bah. A year ago, I read Model Behavior and had reached the peak of McInerney’s oeuvre, looking through the mist, convinced I’d yet a ways to climb.
My interest in Jay started when I’d picked up Brightness Falls and devoured it in a few days. It shined, the story had lifted me. It may not have been perfect, but it led me to pick up a few other novels in his portfolio. Ransom, Story of my Life, Bright Lights.
Model Behavior was, for me, as near to a perfect novel as I could hope. The story mirrored my life, my excesses and concessions, my spoiled and dying romantic affairs, my mimicry of a connection to my parents, and even if the epilogue was a bit tacked on, I was so dazed that I remember it fondly.
And Last of the Savages had sat on my shelf for 5 years before i picked it up.
For one, there’s a giant picture of Jay on the back of my edition that screams narcissism. Not that the author of a book doesn’t deserve a bit of self-love, but this picture is the ENTIRE BACK COVER, save for two nanometers at the margin.
More importantly, the synopsis just wasn’t intriguing. Granted, Bright Lights isn’t exactly an easy sell, but when a scattered pop-surrealist like McInerney takes his hand and crafts a memoir-like odyssey through a shit-ton of moral impetus that he may not have the qualifications or life experience to historically and accurately detail, it’s a bumfuck of a novel.
The language is so stilted and riddled with verbiage that english-speaking people haven’t adopted or learned in a few centuries. Although I am a sucker for a novelist who knows how to use a thesaurus, I don’t want to KNOW you used a thesaurus. Additionally, the character profiles are so bland. The only reason the reader ever knows anybody has an ounce of depth and personality is because the narrator says “I was intrigued that Will had an ounce of depth or personality.” We are constantly reminded that Will’s actions and gestures are not easy to predict or read, but mystery does not flesh out a character. You have to absolve the mystery.
Having read Ringolevio earlier this year, if you want a narcissistic, self-aggrandizing historically accurate memoir about civil rights era dogma on a coastal front, read RINGOLEVIO. Even with its flaws, it totally pinches this tryhard novel on the thigh. I don’t know what means, but I mean to say it is better. Pinches on the thigh. I’m standing by it.