What can I say? When it comes to Carl Hiaasen, things go better with Skink. Star Island is no exception. The somewhat deranged ex-governor is one of the few characters with which, as a reader, I can feel an affinity or any empathy. Although I can’t imagine submerging myself in an alligator-infested swamp to avoid State Troopers or living in a campsite structured around the rusting hulk of a NASCAR automobile, I am attracted to the idea that this marvelous character abdicated his role in society and struck off for the ultimate libertarian lifestyle where he writes his law in actions rather than words. To be honest, one never really knows what kind of justice Skink plans to perpetrate whenever he makes an appearance and his multiple (and very welcome) epiphanies in this novel provide for fascinating chaos and usually justice of the poetic kind.
Hiaasen, a former journalist himself, populates his novels with an assortment of crooked real estate developers (but I wax redundant here), dishonest politicians (I seem to be using a lot of unnecessary adjectives), stoned and stupid celebrities (again with the repetition?), and greedy slimeballs (the main protagonist in Star Island, a paparazzo, comes to mind, as do the parents of a spoiled, lip-synching diva).
Stunt Island is, as one can probably summarize all of Hiaasen’s novels, a story of greed and revenge. In the context of the plot, the story navigates like a drunken celebrity through several story arcs of greed such that paparazzo Bang Abbott, former governor Clinton Tyree (aka “Skink”), and celebrity body double Annie DeLusia have to wreak their revenge on spoiled celebrities, exploitative land developers, and ungrateful clients. And, if their desires for revenge happen to converge, it’s all the better for the reader.
Star Island follows the descending career of a pop-star called Cherry Pye as she keeps fleeing her keepers for wanton orgiastic pleasures which, in turn, are so near to destroying her falsely inflated career that her handlers go to extreme (and cruelly hilarious) solutions. She doesn’t merely do drugs, she does them as indiscriminately as a pig eating slop. She’s like a person who brings her own jug wine to a winemaker’s dinner at a swanky restaurant. She doesn’t even realize some of the extreme means her handlers have had to go to in order to keep her career on track, including the body double who ends up kidnapped in her place.
The interesting new supporting character (and I’ll wager we’ll see him in future novels) is Chemo, the former mortgage writer who towers above mortal men, uses a weed whacker as his prosthetic, and has a skin condition that almost makes one ill to visualize it. Chemo was reputed to have helped one out-of-control musician take the straight and narrow (assuming that becoming a televangelist is “straight and narrow”). Chemo, however, seems to be the only one in the book that has a conscience, albeit said moral voice doesn’t always appear to be operating.
Star Island was funny in the same unnerving sense as it used to be to watch Andy Kaufman perform on Saturday Night Live. One never knew if his performance was going to leave one laughing out of control or simply feeling alienated and slightly nauseous. Great comedy has the capacity to do this. And, most of the way through Star Island, it is great comedy.