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A review by cryo_guy
The Movie-goer by Walker Percy
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
0.25
From the minute I started reading this book, I loathed it. I thought that perhaps its pedigree as a national book award winner and being from an author of some Southern literary merit would mean that it would be decent. I even erroneously supposed that it might concern watching movies. But, alas, neither turned out to be true.
This book is about a disaffected 30 year old stock broker from New Orleans, who despite his very comfortable and affluent position has an innate malaise concerning his own existential fulfillment. He can neither embrace convention values (as a third the other characters in the book suggest) nor invent his own (as another third allegedly do) but is instead mired in the anxiety Kierkegaard so lovingly speaks on (the last third is here, or otherwise ignorant).
Once I had begun reading, I had a few thoughts. 1. might this be a satire? but no, its not a satire. the narrative voice is far too earnest to accommodate any notions of irony. I contemplated this so seriously that I began to lose faith in my own ability to articulate what satire even was. Percy's prose is so similar to Toole's in a Confederacy of Dunces, but it has none of the wit, charm, or cleverness. In fact, nothing is particularly funny about the book at all unless you happen to like that one joke about a dog's asshole. You know, or the casual and overt racism. It is the 60s in New Orleans though, right!?
The book must *must* have some play at social commentary, but this also has very little potency--the kind of clichés you might find anywhere, undone by a milquetoast protagonist. And while you might try to laud the other side of the prose, the poetic or lyrical passages, I found them contrived and out of place. No doubt due to my already heightened discomfit, I at no point found myself able to appreciate any descriptions or turns of phrases whether they be on nature or the hips of women he wanted to bone.
I thought well since this isn't a satire, can I meet the book on its own terms? No, again. As the book purports to be a cogent meditation on existential anxiety in America in the 60s, so it is sadly a travesty of such an endeavor. The protagonist's bafflingly sincere monologuing with his search for meaning and his inability to have even the barest of engagement with his relatives' notions of conventional values are belied by his own inane submissions to hedonism and, frankly, lack of imagination. He submits to his base desires and he ultimately submits to the prevailing values of his family. But he is a painfully self-described nice guy because he's nice to his younger half-siblings and strangers. Except for the racism. And the hedonism. You know, his whole personality.
I thought, well maybe if the book's philosophical project completely contradicts itself, maybe its still a decent work by a Southern author. Please god help me, no. If this book had been any longer I would have given up on it. And even until the end, it fails to say anything meaningful about the search for meaning.
So in the spirit of guiding people to other books: if you want a book set in New Orleans by a southern writer thats satire, read A Confederacy of Dunces instead. (Hell if its just satire, go for Catch-22, published the same year)
If you want someone struggling with embracing conventional values, having existential anxiety, or otherwise facing a need to find meaning, try Catcher in the Rye (not a perfect book, but at least its coherent).
If you want a southern writer with a good story and catholic sensibilities, try O'Connor.
If you want other 60's American social commentary, Yates is good, particularly Revolutionary Road.
This book is about a disaffected 30 year old stock broker from New Orleans, who despite his very comfortable and affluent position has an innate malaise concerning his own existential fulfillment. He can neither embrace convention values (as a third the other characters in the book suggest) nor invent his own (as another third allegedly do) but is instead mired in the anxiety Kierkegaard so lovingly speaks on (the last third is here, or otherwise ignorant).
Once I had begun reading, I had a few thoughts. 1. might this be a satire? but no, its not a satire. the narrative voice is far too earnest to accommodate any notions of irony. I contemplated this so seriously that I began to lose faith in my own ability to articulate what satire even was. Percy's prose is so similar to Toole's in a Confederacy of Dunces, but it has none of the wit, charm, or cleverness. In fact, nothing is particularly funny about the book at all unless you happen to like that one joke about a dog's asshole. You know, or the casual and overt racism. It is the 60s in New Orleans though, right!?
The book must *must* have some play at social commentary, but this also has very little potency--the kind of clichés you might find anywhere, undone by a milquetoast protagonist. And while you might try to laud the other side of the prose, the poetic or lyrical passages, I found them contrived and out of place. No doubt due to my already heightened discomfit, I at no point found myself able to appreciate any descriptions or turns of phrases whether they be on nature or the hips of women he wanted to bone.
I thought well since this isn't a satire, can I meet the book on its own terms? No, again. As the book purports to be a cogent meditation on existential anxiety in America in the 60s, so it is sadly a travesty of such an endeavor. The protagonist's bafflingly sincere monologuing with his search for meaning and his inability to have even the barest of engagement with his relatives' notions of conventional values are belied by his own inane submissions to hedonism and, frankly, lack of imagination. He submits to his base desires and he ultimately submits to the prevailing values of his family. But he is a painfully self-described nice guy because he's nice to his younger half-siblings and strangers. Except for the racism. And the hedonism. You know, his whole personality.
I thought, well maybe if the book's philosophical project completely contradicts itself, maybe its still a decent work by a Southern author. Please god help me, no. If this book had been any longer I would have given up on it. And even until the end, it fails to say anything meaningful about the search for meaning.
So in the spirit of guiding people to other books: if you want a book set in New Orleans by a southern writer thats satire, read A Confederacy of Dunces instead. (Hell if its just satire, go for Catch-22, published the same year)
If you want someone struggling with embracing conventional values, having existential anxiety, or otherwise facing a need to find meaning, try Catcher in the Rye (not a perfect book, but at least its coherent).
If you want a southern writer with a good story and catholic sensibilities, try O'Connor.
If you want other 60's American social commentary, Yates is good, particularly Revolutionary Road.