|
The Western Novel Goes To Hell In Robert Coover's 'Ghost Town.'
By Jeff Yanc
Ghost Town, by Robert Coover (Henry Holt). Cloth,
$24.
HAVE YOU EVER tried to explain one of your nightmares to
a friend, only to have the resulting description sound like a
bad joke relayed by a 7-year-old? You know, a frustratingly disjointed
pile-up of vague symbolism, fragmented logic, and bewildering
conclusions that makes sense in your head, but somehow turns into
a plot synopsis for a bad, late '60s Mexican wrestling film as
soon as it leaves your mouth? The dream logic so captivating in
your slumbering gray matter now seems like the impossible-to-recall
remnants of a very regrettable drug trip. Now, have you ever read
a novel that manages to approximate the disorienting feeling of
experiencing a nightmare while wide awake? Robert Coover's latest,
Ghost Town, is just such a bizarre, experimental western/horror/postmodern
satire, delivering that experience in a uniquely unsettling fashion.
Coover is perhaps best-known for his postmodern re-workings of
well-worn literary genres and fairy tales, such as his recent
novel Briar Rose, a swooningly erotic version of the Sleeping
Beauty story. Now he turns his literary scalpel to the dust-coated
Western genre, with similarly fascinating results. Using the rambling
narrative structure of an illogical nightmare as his primary tool
of deconstruction, Coover exposes the rusted innards of the familiar
Western story, and transforms them into something at once comic,
grotesque, and deeply compelling.
In true postmodernist fashion, Coover dips freely into the pop-culture
well for inspiration. Telling the story of a lone gunslinger who
finds himself journeying through a hellish ghost town that may
or may not actually exist, the novel evokes the impression of
a Louis Lamour novel brought to the screen by director David Lynch,
seasoned with the giddy, gruesome humor of a Monty Python sketch,
with a heavy dollop of Samuel Beckett-like existential angst set
to the twangy sounds of an Ennio Morricone spaghetti-Western soundtrack.
Coover, an author with a love of linguistic game playing and
evocative imagery, displays his intention to create a palpable
mood rather than a conventional storyline in the first
paragraph of Ghost Town: When the novel's anonymous hero
(a lone cowboy who owes an obvious debt to Clint Eastwood's laconic
Man-With-No-Name character) first rides into the dusty, sun-bleached
desert which will serve as the setting for the entire story, the
reader is treated to a precise description of the lay of the land:
"Bleak horizon under a glazed sky, flat desert, clumps of
sage, scrub, distant butte, lone rider. This is a land of sand,
dry rocks and dead things--buzzard country--and he is migrating
through it. Because: it is where he is now, and out here there's
nothing back there to stop for, no turning back either, nothing
back there to turn to."
With a staccato blast of wordsmithing and symbols that reverberate
like the firing of a well-oiled six-shooter, Coover manages to
cleverly evoke both the visual and thematic conventions of the
genre. Critics have long considered the desolate landscapes and
emotionally disenfranchised characters that drive Western novels
and films to be direct descendants of existentialist thought.
Ghost Town's gunslinger is no exception.
We never learn who or what the gunslinger really is, aside from
the fact that he roams the world alone, believing in nothing and
trusting no one. He remains an ambiguous catalyst throughout the
novel, a springboard for an increasingly hallucinatory series
of events and characters that constantly bedevil his fateful descent
into ghost town. While the "story" consists almost entirely
of phantasmagorical situations that follow no logical narrative
pattern, Coover remains steadfast in his goal to continually knock
the reader off balance by trotting out an endless series of Western
clichés--the trusted horse, the limping old codger as Sheriff,
the good-time saloon gal with the heart of gold, etc.--then brutally
twisting them into nightmarish caricatures to illuminate the staleness
of such conventions.
In Coover's distorted take on Western mythology, the gunslinger's
trusted horse is killed and eaten by the increasingly creepy town
folk, only to magically reappear several scenes later, fit as
a fiddle. The hero is then forced to ingest the horse's testicles
in a queasy literalization of the genre's sexual linking of man
and beast. The crotchety old sheriff, involved in one too many
viscous knife fights, has the unfortunate tendency to have various
body parts drop bloodily from his body at inopportune moments.
The saloon gal, with her trademark ruby stickpin jammed provocatively
through her cheek, eventually beds, marries, and tries to kill
our hero, before inexplicably morphing into the hard-driving leader
of a gang of train robbers. Events get even stranger as the novel
progresses, producing scenes of Western weirdness so bizarre that
even The Wild, Wild West's Robert Conrad would be forced
to change his expression.
Much like the gunslinger, the reader of Ghost Town is
never sure what to believe. Events unfurl and distort at such
a fast clip, that by the end of the novel, when the town is literally
rearranging and imploding before our hapless hero's eyes, the
very idea of trying to distinguish nightmare from reality has
long since vanished. The gunslinger archetype, typically the very
epitome of existentialist free will and self control, is here
reduced to a tiny toy cowboy in an elaborate, cosmic game of cowboys-and-indians
orchestrated by a much higher power (in this case, the author
himself).
Far from being an empty exercise in postmodern jokiness, however,
Coover's novel latches onto the importance of questioning conventions
to address meatier issues. By creating as his hero a cowboy who's
aware that he's just a literary convention, Coover challenges
readers to question their own reliance on prefab narratives and
storytelling techniques--to engender a passion for fiction that
pushes boundaries and defies easy interpretation.
Ghost Town is a wildly inventive experiment that
manages to be both linguistically intriguing and intellectually
thought-provoking. But it is not a comfortable read--Coover's
prose resonates with the clammy sweatiness of a fever dream, juxtaposing
existential dread with sinister eroticism and splattery violence.
It doesn't slide down the cerebral gullet like a cool shot of
sarsaparilla. The violent blasts of nightmarish imagery and wordplay
vividly display Coover's intent to agitate at the basic level
of the "word". It is heartening to see an author as
prolific as Coover (Ghost Town is his 16th novel) continue
to seek out new ways to tell a story, and throw down the gauntlet
for readers who crave inventive fiction rather than a formulaic
literary product (the novel won't easily translate into a John
Grisham-style blockbuster starring Matt Damon).
Unfortunately, by the novel's end, the law of diminishing returns
creeps in, and the aggressively inventive prose and narrative
discontinuity become wearying, with style threatening to overwhelm
substance. Luckily, the novel is a slim 150 pages, and Coover
is a smart enough writer to realize where too much of a good thing
becomes just that. He realizes it's more effective to recount
only the good parts of a nightmare, and leave the rest to his
audience's imagination.
|
|