Zadie Smith - The Autograph Man

Autographs. They are little snippets of immortality, a tiny scrawl of fame that you can own for your very own self, as long as you cough up the money. Some people, we are told, signed just about everything, Ginger Rogers being a notable example. Greta Garbo was difficult, her signature worth hundreds of pounds. But the gem, the prize, the jewel in the scepter, was Kitty Alexander. And Alex-Li Tandem, the hero of the tale, has been obsessively searching her down every since the day when he was first introduced to the wonder of autographs, the day his father died.

The novel is built around a pretty sketchy premise, but that shouldn't matter, as it is a post-modern jaunt into the wiles of humanity. Apparently. Unfortunately, however, Smith just doesn't seem able to come up with the goods. All of the typical po-mo ideas are there. Autographs are a fantastic symbol of the shallow culture of mainstream entertainment, of the willingness of so many to spend hard earned money on some ink and some paper, and this could be used as a great social commentary tool. Admittedly, Smith tries. But there is a forced nature to this book, as though she was, while writing, desperately searching for some grasping statement, but nothing came. Empty sentences abound, empty sentences which are not doubt supposed to impress and surprise with wit and clarity. 'Alex watches Joey watching Kitty watching the huge flickering faces of people she presumes to be gods.', is the close to a chapter, a sentence that the author presumably considered insightful and intelligent. But it isn't. We know that people can be obsessed with movie stars, and we know that this is - in some ways - an escape for the mundane reality of our own lives, that we can, through this or that actor, gain a tiny piece of fame and wonder. We know it. It has been commented about countless times, ever since movies began. And yet, through the novel, we have the idea of fame and the hollowness of our own lives, hammered at us with each page.

Alex-Li, as a character, is not very sympathetic. After the prologue, he spends the next 350 pages being drunk, feeling sorry for himself, being rude to his girlfriend and friends, and generally being the type of person you wouldn't want to know. This is unfortunate, because Alex is present on every single page, Alex is the hero, and Alex is the person we are supposed to feel sorry for, because of his deceased father. Perhaps if there had been a hundred pages or so of character building, where we were able to see Alex being nice, being generous, being anything at all that justified the actions of his friends during the remainder of the book. At every turn, after every mistake, every lie, every disappointment, his friends are there, inexplicably, to help him out and pick him up. Sure, that is what friends do, but in a novel where caring about the character is what draws the story along, this isn't good enough. We need a rounder character, a more balanced character, a real character. I couldn't buy into the Alex fan club, yet the novel demanded it of me to succeed. And the ending, the great big build up to the annual Jewish mourning of his father, the ending that had been building since almost the very first page: I didn't care. Why should I? Alex wasn't a person I would want to spend a day with, so why do I care if he can lay a ghost to rest? I don't, and that is the novel's biggest failure.

There are some interesting po-mo techniques used. There are captions, self-referential in-jokes, and the (tiresome) use of the 'International Gesture' for the various gestures and movements of the characters. Actors names are, sometimes, written as though with a pen, as though it were an autograph. The whole character of Adam, a Kabbalah-obsessed dope fiend, was quite interesting, and worked really well, but for the most part, these extra elements fall flat. They take away from the novel's main thread - which was never very strong to begin with - and the whole thing falls apart. Additionally, I didn't find Smith to be particularly funny. The jokes were telegraphed, were obvious, or just weren't funny. Perhaps this is a cultural issue: She is British, I am Australian. But I doubt this, for I have enjoyed many British comedies. I think that it is, unfortunately, simply a case of her not being a humorous author.

Throughout this review, I have been quite negative. There are, however, positives. The book reads very fast. It is casual and can be interesting in some areas - for I knew nothing about the 'Autograph business' before this novel, and now perhaps I know some more. There are times - rare - when the novel picks up the pace and things actually happen, which is exciting as well, but for the most part everything is quite flat.

It should be noted that a better author could have very well succeeded where Smith has failed. A good author can turn just about any topic, any setting, any idea, into a Statement, into a song. Joyce, for example, wrote about one day in the life of a couple of people. Yet the sum of the parts far exceeds the whole, thanks to the genius with which he writes, and dedication to his craft. Herman Melville wrote a story about the Pequod hunting down a whale, and it works on so many levels as to be amazing. So what happened with Zadie Smith? Did she, after a triumphant first novel - which I have not read - a first novel that won awards, praise, respect, did she then not know where to go with her next book? Is this the classic sophomore slump? I think the unfortunate answer is yes. There are moments when Smith's writing is good - the prologue is fantastic - but for the most part, it is a messy, unnecessary waste of time.

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