The post-literate novel, August 4, 2004
Reviewer: Steven Reynolds (Sydney, Australia) - See all my reviews
(TOP 500 REVIEWER) (REAL NAME)
Seventy pages into Dan Brown's surprisingly putdownable potboiler, the inevitably green-eyed, French-accented code cracker Sophie Neveu sighs, "This is not American television, Mr Langdon." Oh, Sophie, if only that were true. You know a book owes too much to the screen when an albino assassin appears on the very first page, and rather than taking the time to construct an original variant on the intelligent-action-man hero you're simply instructed to think of Harrison Ford - in tweed. This is a movie, pure and simple: a thinly plotted, strongly visual, mildly entertaining Hollywood chase movie about cardboard characters (replete with sappy childhood flashbacks) and with enough Opus Dei-bashing to make it a fast-acting antidote to "The Passion of the Christ." Crammed full of supposedly arcane revelations about mathematics, religion, symbolism and art - most of which read like verbatim downloads from Google - the "intellectual" content won't be dazzling or new (forget accurate) to anyone even slightly inquisitive about these topics. Worse, it's presented with a juvenile fascination for "connections" that would embarrass the most seasoned New Age charlatan. It all moves at a cracking pace, of course, and has enough scope and colour to hold your rapt attention for a few winter nights, and enough Catholic conspiracy theory to warm the heart of an atheist. But it's so devoid of literary merit, so apparently committed to the squandering of every opportunity to do anything interesting with the material - rather than just ape the narrative grammar of cinema - that it truly beggars belief. The characters are just names on the page, huge swathes of deadpan "I'm glad you asked"-style exposition pad out the clunky plot shifts, and because it's all so closely modeled on the rhythms of Hollywood nothing ever comes as a surprise - not a word, not an image, not a moment. This is post-literate prose at its direst, plugging directly into pre-fabricated scenarios, characters and images, absolving the reader of the need to imagine anything - which is why it's such a famously easy read. This is reality as a simulacrum of television, a copy of a copy, and about as convincing. It's an odd stylistic choice in a novel which takes as its theme the notion that great art depicts truths which evil empires would suppress. My advice? Save your time, and wait for the movie, i.e. wait until this story is presented in its natural form. I'm actually really looking forward to it. Seriously. I quite like the story, I just dislike the way it's presented here. It's fundamentally a puerile novel, but as a Hollywood movie I'm sure I'll be tickled by it. In the mean time, if you want to read the kind of novel this purports to be, get yourself a copy of Umberto Eco's "The Name of the Rose" or, better yet, "Foucault's Pendulum". If those don't grab you, at the very least try Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" - nothing to do with the Grail, but it's certainly more deserving of the "intelligent thriller" label than this. Is there really nothing better to be said for "The Da Vinci Code", as novel? Sadly, I'm with Harrison - I mean Robert: "Langdon considered it a moment, then groaned." (p.93)
