North River

Peter Hamill
Little, Brown and Company (2007)
ISBN 9780316340588
Reviewed by John Cartwright for Reader Views (6/07)

The first thing that Little, Brown & Co tells you about in the bio-blurb on the back cover of Pete Hamill’s latest novel, “North River,” is that it is his 20th book.  Anyone who has studied literature seriously knows that, as a general rule, the more books an author writes, the lower the quality. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Jack London and Stephen Crane are all proof of this. Not having read any other of Hamill’s books, I can only assume that the earlier ones had to be better, which is scant praise.

The protagonist is a Depression-era doctor. Early on he muses, “He was a doctor, but medicine was not an exact science. There was no cure for everything. As in life. The cause of death was always life.” This might have been profound 231 novels ago, but by now I think it fair to ask, is there a pop-fiction doctor who hasn’t thought this? Originality is not Hamill’s strongpoint.

The doctor is also a WW I veteran.  He recalls trench warfare where his pal goes over the top and gets shot by a German machine gun that goes “BRRRRRAAAAAAP” twice. (I hope I got all the ‘r’s and ‘a’s.) This is for readers that don’t know what a machine gun sounds like.  It is also a favorite in comic books.  The doc must administer to his friend who dies in his arms after being dosed with morphine. Need I say that Hamill’s flashbacks about the trenches are as original as Wonder Bread and as about inspired.  He inserts one of the “details” his publishers say are “his trademark.”  The Germans are armed with “potato mashers.”  I suspect that most of his readers will assume that the Germans are more concerned about mashed potatoes than killing the doctor’s friends. I know that a “potato masher” is a German hand-grenade, but mashed potatoes are more interesting than Hamill’s war sequences and more original.

In the middle of a blizzard, Doc comes home to discover a 3-year-old in a baby carriage with a note on his lap.  It is his grandson which has been left there by the doc’s wayward daughter. If my 3-year-old grandson was left in a carriage for more than 90 seconds, he’d climb out and be halfway to Cincinnati by the time I got home.  Maybe the kid got into some of the leftover morphine.

Of course, the doctor must now hire someone to watch the torpid little tyke.  He finds Rose from Sicily who has no experience with children.  He has to negotiate her salary because she’s holding out for more money than he can afford to pay. She prevails.  In the Depression, no less, he can’t find an Oxford-educated nanny who will work for water and Saltines. No, he must have Rose who’s strong-willed, speaks with a thick accent and has a “secret.” Sure, Pete. Reminds me of re-runs of Hazel or Beulah or maybe The Brady Bunch, minus 5 of the 6 kids and nothing to laugh about. Any guesses that the coarse and primitive Rose will prove wiser than the college and med school-educated doctor? That’s a unique storyline.

Without giving the plot away, despite its obvious outcome, there are gangsters killing each off with more frequency than a Tarrantino bloodfest; the FBI is trailing everyone and patients are moaning for the elusive cures the doc can only hope will work. With all this, a singer appears and sings every line, every line mind you, of “Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?” the obligatory, most overused Depression era song and then, Mr. Hamill has the doctor and his girl dance to “Stardust” in the Roseland Ballroom. I wish I was exaggerating.

On the very next page, Hamill has the doctor walking on the NYC piers, wondering to himself in italics (!), “How did Rose get here? When did she make landfall in this great, strange scary city with nothing but guts to get her through?” Holy Trite, Batman! Maybe North River runs through Clicheville. I asked myself a similar question: How did I get here as a reviewer in the big, scary world of American literature with only my +3 reading glasses and an education that taught me literature is a fine art? Will I have the guts to get through the rest of this book? Pass the morphine.

Mr. Hamill is also very prone to that most amateurish of all stylistic bugaboos: the incessant and completely unnatural use of speakers’ names in his dialogue. Again, I don’t want to reveal too much plot but his banter goes something like this:

            “You know this book is not very good, Mr. Hamill.”
            “You can call me Pete, John.”
            “Pete, it is not well-written.”
            “You think so, John?”
            “Yes, Pete. I do.”
            “Well, John, I sell a lot of books.”
            “I know, Pete.  MacDonald’s sells a lot of burgers; doesn’t mean they’re good.”
            “I like those burgers, John.”
            “I bet you do, Pete.
            “What did you say your name was, John?
            “John, Pete.”

Shame on Little, Brown for hog-tying its editors and putting its prestigious imprint on this book.     

A major problem for any author taking on the aftermath of WWI and the terrible realities of the Great Depression is that he is now in the same room as Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck. If you’re going to paint crows in a cornfield, keep in mind that Van Gogh did it first and very well. Hamill in no way rises to the metaphoric level his chosen milieu requires and which readers should come to expect. Nor does he even remotely tug at the heartstrings we find in a book like Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” One must wonder why he picked that time and place.  Obviously, his readers enjoy his stories.  They may even be comfortable with clichés, the way road travelers are made to feel safe by the uniformity of chain motels. But if plot is all an author has to offer, it should be original and captivating.  “North River” is neither. Instead, we are handed some of the cheesiest, most hackneyed material anyone is likely to encounter anywhere except daytime soaps.  This book is a rare case where I became vicariously embarrassed for everyone involved in its creation including the cover designer who was ordered, I am sure, to put the author’s name in a larger font than the title. What that says to me is, “Buy me because Pete Hamill wrote me. If Joe Blow wrote this book, we wouldn’t have wasted the paper on it.”

It would be nice to surmise that Mr. Hamill might be frustrated to have a voice that so many people listen to, but has nothing to say (excluding the teller at his bank.) It is tragic to surmise the number of good books by authors crowded out by this type of writing. It is not the fault of the publishers. They are supposed to make a profit. The blame lands squarely on the book-buying public who actually pay attention to those cardboard kiosks at the door to every chain store with a hundred copies of books like this one.

Once, I received an e-mail from the author of a book I reviewed and did not think highly of (although, it was a masterpiece compared to this book.) He importuned me with something he must have overheard at a parent-teacher conference when he was in the third grade; “you should always find something positive to say.” I got to thinking that Pete Hamill sells more books than the Chinese sell dog food. I must have missed something.  If a book is going to be well-written anywhere, it’s going to be at the end.  Leave ‘em wanting more. You know, like Johnny Cochran summing up for the defense, “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” So, I re-read the last chapter. It fit alright; and I won’t acquit.

Make comment on weblog