Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Cracking "The Da Vinci Code" ...
Over my knee like I was gathering firewood, which is really all this book is good for. That's right, dear LGO devotees, Murph has finally put aside enough time to thoroughly split Dan Brown's eighth-grade term paper wide open, no holds barred (but not starring Hulk Hogan), in a steel cage, to the death. Buckle up, we're going in.
"But, Murph, wait," you ask. At first I think you're begging for mercy, begging me to keep my thoughts about this laser-printed roll of Charmin to myself, but then I realize what you really want to know is "why the hell did you read this book? You knew you would hate it." My answer is in two (short) parts. First, to see what the big deal was all about (which probably accounts for 50% of its sales). Second is more personal: Blog-rockin' beat master Ricky Prado (whose site just crossed the 50,000 mark - WTG) promised me that if I read the book, he'd read The Celestine Prophecy, at which point we'd argue over which book is less worthy of the paper it's printed on. As of press time, Mr. Prado has yet to follow through on his promise, so pester him please. That being said, put your bibs on and dig in.
The first sentence filled me with such dread and terror that I almost couldn't bear to continue for another 500 pages, not because it was too thrilling, but because the writing was so horrific that I saw a frightening vision of the thorny, editorless jungle that lay ahead. Let's take a look at this sentence:
But it's not just expository writing where Brown taxes our patience. He feels the need to end every chapter on a "cliffhanger" line, a line engineered to put a chokehold on your eyes and force them to read the next page. These cliffhanger lines are fine enough in theory, but they are so poorly executed that, when I got bored with a chapter, I'd read the last line of it and realize that I'd just found out everything that happened over the last five pages (Mrs. Murph discovered another such instance where, reading over my shoulder on page 200, Brown quickly tells you everything that's happened up to this point. Needless to say, I was infuriated that my wife was able to get up to speed in two minutes after I'd been trudging through it for two hours). Also, some chapter breaks would not even represent a break in time or place, which is a pretty basic idea: if you change time or place, you can start a new chapter; if you remain in the same scene, why break it up? Brown doesn't care. In fact, most of his chapter breaks occur in the middle of scenes, causing the reader to think something new is coming (like maybe something with that cute albino boy), only to learn that he's stuck in the same place he just came from. You know how annoying that would be if Brown's chapters were rooms in a house? You'd never leave the room, despite walking through ten doors.
But the worst piece of writing in the whole book has to be what I'm about to unveil on you. I have to warn you that it will shock you. If you have a heart condition, you may want to scroll ahead. Now that you're ready, allow me to blow your mind. From page 379 (pagination in the illustrated edition may vary), where our heroes sit down with a librarian to conduct a search, and the librarian says
I'd be interested to see what would happen if Brown took the first few chapters of his book into a Creative Writing class. He'd be ripped to shreds, and not because all the kids in the class are Faulkner-worshipping snobs, but rather because Brown breaks nearly every rule of acceptable writing that's ever been written. He's not breaking them to embark on a new course for fiction. I think he's breaking them because he doesn't know them and no one has bothered to tell him what makes a story readable. And the amazing thing is that he's had so much success from writing so badly. It's amazing that people aren't insulted (or at least embarrassed) for how bad the writing is. If I were a publisher, I wouldn't want this getting out, but perhaps that's why I only publish this humble digital rag. What has allowed Brown to be successful with this book is much like how Grisham became successful: right place, right time. Religion and religious controversies are hot right now, much like lawyers were hot in the early 90s, and Brown's book fulfills a need and he keeps it just interesting enough for someone with nothing better to do to keep reading.
I barely have time to get to the actual story, which is not much more than a term paper on the Holy Grail as bloodline with some characters and action to tide you over through the parts that read like The New York Times. Oddly enough, though, Brown's dramatization is so lackluster (at best) that you find yourself skimming to big paragraphs that will explain the Grail controversy because it's the only thing that's remotely interesting. When Brown attempts to write a character's thoughts or history, it comes off laughable, so laughable that it gives me headaches. His attempts to get into the psychology of a flaggelant sets the field back a century or more.
While Brown's book seems to be concerned with characters seeking to restore the grandeur of the sacred feminine, he's not exactly aching to do away with weak portrayals of women as romantic, emotional daddy's girls. Of course, Brown manages to write something offensive to every group other than dorky white American males, but that's probably for a good reason: he's lazy.
Of course, these aren't the things causing the controversy around this story. It's all religion, natch. But people need to take a step back and realize that they're getting upset over something very substandard and giving it way more influence than it deserves. No one will remember this book in ten years (except the people fighting it), so the long-term "damage" to religion is nil. The best defense, if one feels threatened, is to tell the truth: this book is too stupid to take seriously.
Hack screenwriter Akiva Goldsman, known around town as the man who will write whatever the studio wants, will have no trouble adapting this into a film script because it's written as sparsely as can be and plotted as heavily as possible. Where he'll get into trouble is making anybody care. I don't know about you, but I think I'll be skipping this cinematic, slightly interactive lecture come 2006.
If you have read this book, I do feel sorry for you, but it's empathy, not sympathy. And if you've somehow been spared from this book, get on your knees and thank God and pray that you remain safe.
Oh, and to answer your question, is this book worse than The Celestine Prophecy? Yes, but only for one obvious reason: it's about 300 pages longer.
"But, Murph, wait," you ask. At first I think you're begging for mercy, begging me to keep my thoughts about this laser-printed roll of Charmin to myself, but then I realize what you really want to know is "why the hell did you read this book? You knew you would hate it." My answer is in two (short) parts. First, to see what the big deal was all about (which probably accounts for 50% of its sales). Second is more personal: Blog-rockin' beat master Ricky Prado (whose site just crossed the 50,000 mark - WTG) promised me that if I read the book, he'd read The Celestine Prophecy, at which point we'd argue over which book is less worthy of the paper it's printed on. As of press time, Mr. Prado has yet to follow through on his promise, so pester him please. That being said, put your bibs on and dig in.
The first sentence filled me with such dread and terror that I almost couldn't bear to continue for another 500 pages, not because it was too thrilling, but because the writing was so horrific that I saw a frightening vision of the thorny, editorless jungle that lay ahead. Let's take a look at this sentence:
Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of theSeems innocuous enough, right ... please. "Renowned curator"? Why is Brown telling us this? Why do we need to know he's a renowned curator before we even know his name? Why does he have to tell us? Why can't he show us? One answer could be that Brown is an inept writer. Another could be that he thinks we're so stupid we need everything spelled out for us upfront. Sadly, I think both answers are correct. I understand that most people will be reading this book in one of three places: the toilet, the airport or the airplane, none of which are places where a reader feels like putting forth much effort, so perhaps Brown thinks he's catering to the needs of his reader. But I'll tell you that it takes a whole lot more effort to actually read all the extra, needless words Brown unleashes than it does to read a well-written piece of well-plotted fiction. Of course, in order to write something well, Brown would have to take a break from counting money and giving interviews to The History Channel, so he's clearly telling us that he's way more important than we are.
museum's Grand Gallery.
But it's not just expository writing where Brown taxes our patience. He feels the need to end every chapter on a "cliffhanger" line, a line engineered to put a chokehold on your eyes and force them to read the next page. These cliffhanger lines are fine enough in theory, but they are so poorly executed that, when I got bored with a chapter, I'd read the last line of it and realize that I'd just found out everything that happened over the last five pages (Mrs. Murph discovered another such instance where, reading over my shoulder on page 200, Brown quickly tells you everything that's happened up to this point. Needless to say, I was infuriated that my wife was able to get up to speed in two minutes after I'd been trudging through it for two hours). Also, some chapter breaks would not even represent a break in time or place, which is a pretty basic idea: if you change time or place, you can start a new chapter; if you remain in the same scene, why break it up? Brown doesn't care. In fact, most of his chapter breaks occur in the middle of scenes, causing the reader to think something new is coming (like maybe something with that cute albino boy), only to learn that he's stuck in the same place he just came from. You know how annoying that would be if Brown's chapters were rooms in a house? You'd never leave the room, despite walking through ten doors.
But the worst piece of writing in the whole book has to be what I'm about to unveil on you. I have to warn you that it will shock you. If you have a heart condition, you may want to scroll ahead. Now that you're ready, allow me to blow your mind. From page 379 (pagination in the illustrated edition may vary), where our heroes sit down with a librarian to conduct a search, and the librarian says
"I'm asking the system to show us any documents whose complete text contains allOh ... my ... God. Did he just tell us what a search engine does and how to conduct one? Next thing you know he'll tell us what this thing called the Internet is. This isn't writing to the lowest common denominator, it's worse. I don't know what you call it, but it's far, far worse.
three of these keywords [London, Knight, Pope]. We'll get more hits than
we want, but it's a good place to start."
I'd be interested to see what would happen if Brown took the first few chapters of his book into a Creative Writing class. He'd be ripped to shreds, and not because all the kids in the class are Faulkner-worshipping snobs, but rather because Brown breaks nearly every rule of acceptable writing that's ever been written. He's not breaking them to embark on a new course for fiction. I think he's breaking them because he doesn't know them and no one has bothered to tell him what makes a story readable. And the amazing thing is that he's had so much success from writing so badly. It's amazing that people aren't insulted (or at least embarrassed) for how bad the writing is. If I were a publisher, I wouldn't want this getting out, but perhaps that's why I only publish this humble digital rag. What has allowed Brown to be successful with this book is much like how Grisham became successful: right place, right time. Religion and religious controversies are hot right now, much like lawyers were hot in the early 90s, and Brown's book fulfills a need and he keeps it just interesting enough for someone with nothing better to do to keep reading.
I barely have time to get to the actual story, which is not much more than a term paper on the Holy Grail as bloodline with some characters and action to tide you over through the parts that read like The New York Times. Oddly enough, though, Brown's dramatization is so lackluster (at best) that you find yourself skimming to big paragraphs that will explain the Grail controversy because it's the only thing that's remotely interesting. When Brown attempts to write a character's thoughts or history, it comes off laughable, so laughable that it gives me headaches. His attempts to get into the psychology of a flaggelant sets the field back a century or more.
While Brown's book seems to be concerned with characters seeking to restore the grandeur of the sacred feminine, he's not exactly aching to do away with weak portrayals of women as romantic, emotional daddy's girls. Of course, Brown manages to write something offensive to every group other than dorky white American males, but that's probably for a good reason: he's lazy.
Of course, these aren't the things causing the controversy around this story. It's all religion, natch. But people need to take a step back and realize that they're getting upset over something very substandard and giving it way more influence than it deserves. No one will remember this book in ten years (except the people fighting it), so the long-term "damage" to religion is nil. The best defense, if one feels threatened, is to tell the truth: this book is too stupid to take seriously.
Hack screenwriter Akiva Goldsman, known around town as the man who will write whatever the studio wants, will have no trouble adapting this into a film script because it's written as sparsely as can be and plotted as heavily as possible. Where he'll get into trouble is making anybody care. I don't know about you, but I think I'll be skipping this cinematic, slightly interactive lecture come 2006.
If you have read this book, I do feel sorry for you, but it's empathy, not sympathy. And if you've somehow been spared from this book, get on your knees and thank God and pray that you remain safe.
Oh, and to answer your question, is this book worse than The Celestine Prophecy? Yes, but only for one obvious reason: it's about 300 pages longer.
