What is a dud?
Like most words in English, dud has several meanings. Informally and plurally, duds means clothes. When was the last time that usage was in vogue? Nope, not that meaning.
In its noun form, a dud is a thing that fails to work properly--or in the case of ammunition, at all. In its adjectival form, it follows the same meaning. A dud book or movie is a book or movie that fails to work or to meet a standard.
So what failed to work for me in 2011?
EMPRESS by Shan Sa. I got about half way through this book before throwing it against the wall, or more accurately, into the resale pile. It started off really well. I don’t have problems with a certain amount of magical realism. Being self-aware from the womb, as the Empress Wu claims in this novel, qualifies as such. What I do have problems with is a lack of character development in someone who is supposed to be so self-aware. Also, it is intensely first person point of view--to the point it reads like a chronicle. Having read enough chronicles in my historical career, I know they are not the most scintillating of reads. Altogether, Shan Sa provided the world with the most unaware, unreliable first person narrator I’ve ever seen.
ADMIRAL LORD HOWE by David Syrell
Richard, earl Howe, Admiral of the Fleet, commander in chief of the Channel Fleet, First Lord of the Admiralty didn't make it easy for biographers. He destroyed his papers, and he lived long enough to honk off almost everybody. Still, he deserved better than this narrow, rather disjointed study. Syrell did a fine job on the naval stuff; however, there was no excuse for misunderstanding the politics or the political structure of the period--not, I concede, that it is easy without a cheat sheet. Howe’s attempt to rescue his reputation after his resignation of command in the middle of the American War was going to be dicey no matter what. Syrell didn’t need to add to the confusion by being unclear in his own mind. It led to contradictions within the text. Furthermore, while it might’ve been George III's preference, the Marquis of Rockingham did not have a joint ministry with Shelburne. Rockingham was Premier for only four months before his death; Shelburne, who was the first Home Secretary, became Premier upon Rockingham’s death. Above all, the book was a very dry read. I am still going to have to go and read that Victorian biography from 1838; unfortunately, so will everybody else.
PHANTOM OF THE RUE ROYALE by Jean-François Parot
Here’s a series where the main character is worth some of the over-plotting or info-dumping that the author insists on throwing at the reader. Nicolas Le Floch is a great character, and his faithful sidekick Bourdreau has forgotten more about Paris and food than most of us will ever know. However, not even the inestimable Le Floch can save this disaster of a book. This novel had a different translator from the first two novels--and it shows. This third one was dreadful. The plot went nowhere; it was an inarticulate excursus in French politics, imperialism, and religion to no good end. The characters were most cardboard cutouts--I’ve had paper dolls with more substance. They couldn’t carry the simplistic plot they’re given. 1/2 a star and the resale pile.
HERESY by SJ Parris
My friend Rich recommended this to me. I take his ideas and suggestions seriously. For the record, however, I could not finish this book. I didn’t like reading about Giordano Bruno when John Bossy did it--and Bossy could be a very dry writer indeed. Nor do I get as excited about the science of the early modern period as Rich does. The dud comes from straight literary factors. For a spy and murder mystery, it moved too slowly. I can generally live with a slow plot, especially if there’s a good payoff at the end. David Garrick and Susanna Centliver managed that in the 18th century. The core problem was a main character who talked too much. Bruno talked me to death. This dud taught me the limitations and pitfalls of first person point of view. I suggest this book would’ve done better in 3rd person close and multiple POV.
DEEP WATER by Patricia Highsmith
It hurts to call this a dud. It may be more dated than dud. At the time of publication in 1957, Highsmith’s novel was probably ahead of the curve in the way it looked at the deadly, drive-you-nuts, existential boredom of the suburbs. Betty Friedan discussed it, too, but less murderously. In 2011, there’s not a lot to keep a reader going. The glacially slow pace of development of psychosis in the main character leaves the reader ready to scream. We’ve come to realize and to know by our own experience that LEAVE IT TO BEAVER isn’t normal; it’s smothering. Also, the psychology isn’t as believable now as it was then. Highsmith’s couple is one that stays married in 1957, where the wife doesn’t work, hasn’t any real meaning in her life, and has little character and what she has is badly moulded and shallow. Vic and Melissa would’ve been quickly divorced in our ‘modern’ era. If you’ve got the patience for glacial, or you want a non-feminist look at the soul-numbing boredom of the American suburbs, go for it. Otherwise, consign DEEP WATER to its place in history.
THEY SHOOT HORSES, DON’T THEY? by Horace McCoy
I managed to finish this one, and oddly enough, given the whole dated notion of the dance contest, it was compelling. It’s a nasty story, written in 1935, about a seriously depressed and depressing woman named Gloria. She enters a dance contest with Bob. Needless to say, it ends badly. It has some interesting literary gimmicks to keep you going. It’s told in two points in time--at sentencing and at the dance contest. The narrative question of the novel is not compelling. The girl wants to die. Why? No real reason except it’s the Great Depression, but even that’s not enough.The narrative question can’t be elevated to what is the nature of murder, and the characters drive the reader batty. They’re not quite fully rounded. Thank God it’s only a novelette or I would’ve thrown this one across the room.
MILLION DOLLAR BABY, directed by Clint Eastwood
I quit watching this movie after 45 minutes. I got tired of watching Clint Eastwood play Clint Eastwood. Even as I write that, I still give him props for making small, intimate movies about small-time, small-town people who’ve been overlooked, marginalized, defeated by every aspect life and who are still trying to keep on ticking, doing their thing. Even though I loathe boxing--wrong generation and wrong gender--this movie failed for me because Clint Eastwood couldn’t get out of his own way. Authors can do that, too.
John Floyd's right. Read the duds. Sometimes, they can teach you important lessons much more quickly and thoroughly than anything else. If nothing else, they can inspire a writer with a proper fire--"I can do better than that".