The Suburbs of Heaven
Reviewed by Karl Monger, Fri., March 31, 2000
The Suburbs of Heaven
by Merle DrownSoho Press, 304 pp., $24
Before the promise of on-demand printing, the sheer overabundance of unused books in garage sales, flea markets, homes, dormitories, and the secondhand retail market led me to one cynical conclusion: There are too many people writing. Such a harsh stance arose out of a concern for artistic and ecological standards. Over the years, that view melded into a moderated and more mature and accountable view: Books are being too freely published. Unfortunately for trees and readers everywhere (and signaling a personal setback for me), Drown's The Suburbs of Heaven neatly reinforces both versions of the view.
Set in the backwoods of New Hampshire, the book examines the darkly comical breakdown of Jim Hutchins, a rough-spoken bumpkin. Jim reveals a potentially sage-like outlook that gets frustrated by his situation in life as he undergoes a personal regression fueled by the betrayal and breakdown of his entire family. His estranged wife, Pauline, dances naked for his brother-in-law for money. One reckless, ne'er-do-well son, Tommy, is a foppish outlaw and drug dealer. The other is a wacko with a "snake" in his brain and a dog named Dog. His alcoholic daughter, Lisa, marries an anti-establishment sponge named Fesmire. There's a panty thief, a suspicious death, a loathsome small-town cop, looming IRS troubles, and a host of trailer houses. We are introduced to all the requisite down-home gothic elements in this paint-by-numbers flop.
The book relies on several first-person narrators (voices straight out of the film Dancing Outlaw). Not only do the voices lack clear distinction, but a full 90% of the story comes to us as internal monologues. Multiple narrators come alive through separate points of view and require distinct modes of action and interaction within the fictional weave to flesh out character. Fundamentally, Drown seems unable to distinguish the showing from the telling aspects of storytelling. The omnipresent and often inappropriate maxims, enough of them to last a lifetime, browbeat the reader with their crass, hard-luck insistence. Polished narrative phrases like "I'd rather suck shit from a dead hen's ass" and "I could have chewed through a porcupine's butt" positively define Drown's technique. The quaint charm of colloquial quality is all fine and good, but in Suburbs there is little getting beyond the implications of a cliché-filled outlook. When this occurs merely because Drown apparently lacks the artistic ability to accomplish it, we as readers have to feel cheated. When Drown writes, "She holds harm in her hands and carries danger in her pockets," we hope to heavens he's not trying to be poetic, but he is. Unless there's a specific and intentional postmodern aesthetic at work here concerning unknowability or deceit (I don't think there is), the book simply fails.
