A Sad-Sack Story: Jason Pettus reviews Jack O’Connell’s novel The Resurrectionist


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The Resurrectionist, Jack O’Connell, Algonquin Books

 

I have been a twenty-year fan and student of the related 20th-century art movements Dadaism and Surrealism, since first getting exposed to them as an undergraduate in the ’80s. In fact, these art movements are the closest I arguably come to being legitimately “scholarly” on any topic in terms of the amount of knowledge I have about the movements. One of the things I’ve learned through such study is that these days what the general culture thinks of as ‘surrealist’ is a far cry from how the original Surrealists defined it and themselves. When these original cutting-edge artists of the 1910s, ’20s and ’30s (the ones being equally defined by the new fields of Modernism and Freudian psychoanalysis) declared that they were trying to “capture the essence of a dream” in their artistic work, they actually meant that they were trying to capture the elusive pattern and rhythm of a dream itself—that simultaneous logic/illogic within dream we so easily accept, but is so hard to accept when conscious. As the decades have progressed with early-Modernism turning into late-Modernism, Pop Art, and, finally, Postmodernism, the entire concept of Surrealism has been co-opted by the advertising industry and Hollywood to now mostly mean, “Hey, look! Weird shit!”

 

What this means, then, is that there’s actually two kinds of Surrealism out now with discerning fans being able to tell the difference immediately. There is the pure, old-school Surrealism of the original movement, embodied by contemporary authors like Haruki Murakami and David Mitchell who construct elaborate experiments in actually reproducing the logic and emotions of a dream-like state. Then there is the cartoonish, Hollywoodized version of Surrealism, where an author simply writes about strange crap hoping that the distraction of the crap itself will hide the fact that there’s nothing really compelling behind it. Which of these, I hear you asking, best describes the book under review today, the 2008 cult hit and so-called contemporary Surrealist tale The Resurrectionist by Jack O’Connell? Well, I won’t keep you in suspense anymore—it’s the second. The second, oh Lord it’s the second, an infinitely frustrating collection of random, unexplained, weird horseshit whipped at the reader’s face at breakneck speed with none of it making any sense and none of it connecting to the other weird, random parts. O’Connell’s novel is basically the equivalent of handing a person a box full of Christmas ornaments and yelling, “Shake it! It’s pretty! Shake it! It’s pretty!” And so it may be, but such a fact certainly doesn’t make it good literature nor does it make it an accurate reflection of what a dream is actually like. And that’s the difference between someone like O’Connell and an actual Surrealist, O’Connell ultimately hopes that you’ll be distracted by the shiny ornaments being shaken about and not notice that there’s no actual tree.

 

In fact, O’Connell starts throwing out the random crap early and quick in The Resurrectionist; it is the story of sad-sack pharmacist Sweeney, caretaker of a son named Danny who is in a persistent coma, through an accident he still silently blames on his ex-wife. His life a shambles, dealing unsuccessfully with anger issues, Sweeney has been lured to a little town called Quinsigamond in order to work for the mysterious private Peck Clinic, mostly as a way of getting his son accepted into their secretive yet widely admired coma-care program. But see, right here is where O’Connell already starts going wrong with this story by making even the details of the clinic itself inconsistent. Although our story is set in the modern world, for some reason the nurses all have old-fashioned ’50s uniforms out there at the forbidding Victorian mansion in the middle of nowhere that serves as the clinic’s campus. Plus, for this being a bizarre, private, family-funded organization that doesn’t share its results or even have a clear mission, the entire rest of the contemporary medical community seems to be big fans. This is what took Sweeney out there in the first place, after all, having his boring ol’ “real-world” doctors in Ohio recommend the clinic to him, despite the clinic itself literally being like something ripped out of an old Frankenstein movie.

 

Now, fans will say that this is exactly how it should be, that The Resurrectionist is supposed to be filled with weird crap that makes no sense because that’s what Surrealism is; but that’s not what Surrealism is. Actual Surrealism is supposed to make sense, just the kind of twisted, illogical sense that we can only accept while in a dream state. The details of the environment are supposed to actually relate to each other within a Surrealist tale, not just exist in their own hermetically weird states alongside all the other bizarre details. O’Connell’s book feels, especially the further you get into it, like he has simply written down a bunch of random stuff that popped into his head and sounded “weird” to him, without bothering to relate any of it to each other or even adhere to the most basic precepts of those concepts.

 

One of the running ideas in The Ressurectionist is that Danny had been a big fan of this giant children’s media empire called “Limbo,” consisting of a hit TV show, action figures, merchandise and a long-running comic book. O’Connell even includes a number of issues of the comic in the actual manuscript of the book; but why call it a comic, I wonder, when they’re actually fully narrative short stories? What hit children’s TV show in the 2000s is possibly going to be about a group of eastern European circus freaks in the 1920s wandering aimlessly through a fictional foreign land named after the Yiddish word for Hell, living a bleak and torture-filled life and spouting existentialist dialogue more appropriate for a Beckett play than any Japanimation children’s show in existence?

 

Sure, it’s weird and random, I’ll give you that; but if all I want is weird and random, I can sit at home flipping through television channels watching two seconds at a time of each for two or three hours in a row. Like so much of The Resurrectionist, that too is weird and random; and like so much of The Resurrectionist, that too is not nearly what I’d call an entertaining artistic experience. What I want from a Surrealist project is a world that almost makes complete sense, but with just a whiff of strangeness around its corners, a fleeting glimpse of something moving just on the edge of my vision. What I want from a Surrealist project is something that makes me feel the way I do when I’m actually dreaming, a moment for example where a friend flaps his arms in the middle of a conversation and flies away, and I don’t even think twice about it; what I don’t want is a collection of random details that all draw undue attention to themselves, each of them standing in the corner of the room and waving their arms and screaming, “Look at me! Look at me! I’M WEIRD!” And unfortunately, that’s mostly what The Resurrectionist consists of, with certainly there not being a compelling story holding it all together, nor compelling characters, nor even a consistent personal style.

 

In fact, here’s the simple insulting truth of the matter—by the time I had reached the end, I cared about the story and was invested in the characters so little that I didn’t even bother reading the last ten pages. I could no longer even follow whatever the hell was going on with the castle and the devil and the chicken-boy or whatever the fuck it all was. This is that’s a terrible, terrible thing to say about a novel—that after reading 300 pages of it, you didn’t care enough to bother with what’s supposed to be the most important ten pages of all. And this says more about this book than probably anything else I might be tempted to write.

 

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This review first appeared at the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography (cclapcenter.com).

A Dark Time in the Delta: Jayne Pupek reviews Hillary Jordan’s novel Mudbound


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Mudbound, Hillary Jordan, Algonquin Books

 

Hillary Jordan’s prize-winning debut novel, Mudbound, is a compelling and disturbing portrayal of life in the Mississippi Delta in the 1940s and the bitter racial divide that marked this period of our history. Jordan’s story is convincingly told from the alternating viewpoints of her characters: the white McAllan family and the black Jackson family.

 

Memphis-born Laura McAllan is trying to raise her children on her husband’s Mississippi Delta farm–a place she nicknames Mudbound because of the constant muck that covers everything. With no running water, inside bathroom, or electricity, this is not the life Laura knew or expected. She tries to makes the best of her situation, a task that becomes more difficult when her calloused and bigoted father-in law comes to live with them.

 

The Jacksons, the black sharecropping family who live and work on the McAllan’s land, struggle to make ends meet. Hap farms the land while his wife Florence works as Laura’s maid. When Hap ends up bedridden, the family’s struggle intensifies.

 

While the McAllans and Jacksons face hardships, they maintain a precarious but peaceful coexistence until Henry McAllan’s younger brother Jamie, and Ronsel, the Jackson’s oldest son, return from the war to work the land. Jamie McAllan, Laura’s brother-in-law, possesses qualities her husband lacks. He is handsome, daring, and charming. He is also haunted by memories of combat and drinks excessively to chase away his demons. Ronsel Jackson returns a war hero, but his brave defense of his country does nothing to change how he is viewed in the Jim Crow South. When he dares to exit a store though the front door reserved for whites, the anger of the locals remind him little has changed in the Mississippi Delta. Ronsel reflects:

I never thought I’d miss it so much. I don’t mean Nazi Germany, you’d have to be crazy to miss a place like that. I mean who I was when I was over there. There I was a liberator, a hero. In Mississippi I was just another nigger pushing a plow. And the longer I stayed, the longer that’s all I was.

Ronsel and Jamie embark on an unlikely friendship that continues despite warnings and objections not only from their families, but also from other townsfolk who disapprove of their bond. The novel accelerates in a breathtaking pace toward a conclusion that is both horrifying and unforgettable.

 

One of the novel’s greatest strengths lies in the skill with which Jordan reveals her characters through six alternating voices. This technique allows the reader to see characters as not only they appear to themselves, but also as they appear to the other characters who narrate the story. The result is a more dimensional view of each individual. Laura, for example, sees Pappy’s overt racism, but she would not describe herself in those same terms. It is only when we witness Laura through Florence’s eyes that we see Laura’s more subtle acts of racism.

 

If I have any complaint at all, it is that the characters tend to be too clearly divided between heroes and villains. Pappy, for instance, is a bigoted and hateful man who shows kindness to no one. While his complete lack of any goodness makes it easy for the reader to cheer his ultimate demise, I think it is perhaps too easy. I find characters at their most compelling and authentic when they possess some balance of good and bad traits.

 

It is little surprise that Mudbound was awarded the 2006 Bellwether Prize, founded by Barbara Kingsolver to recognize literature of social responsibility. Jordan has employed the finest storytelling skills to illuminate a dark and shameful part of our history. Mudbound is a stellar accomplishment by a gifted new novelist.

 

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Jayne Pupek is the author of the recently released novel, Tomato Girl (Algonquin Books), and a book of poems titled Forms of Intercession (Mayapple Press). She resides near Richmond, Virginia.