I haven't finished Wally Lamb's The Hour I First Believed yet, but I feel I have read enough to cast my vote. I have 150 pages of 720-odd to go. I have read both of Lamb's other novels, so I know from experience that they take some time to get going, but that the second half usually makes the initial slog worth it. I really can't see how Lamb is going to redeem himself in the next 150 pages.
This novel has none of the sense of craftmanship that I liked about his previous works. His characters feel like they have been lifted from his previous novels. His prose could do with some heavy editing, preferably with a hatchet. And, speaking of hatchets, Lamb wields his themes like he is trying to slug us with them.
The Hour I First Believed looks at violence and accountability, starting with the Columbine massacre and adding Hurricane Katrina somewhere along the way. There are both public and private crimes, so many of them in fact that I feel I am in the middle of a highbrow soap opera. With a little more subtlety, these crimes could explore some interesting ground. Instead, we rehash the same questions that were raised on every talkshow for two years after the massacre happened, getting nowhere.
Admittedly, I have never been Wally Lamb's biggest fan. I first read She's Come Undone, which I found equally laborious, mostly because the main character is a whiny pain in the ass. She becomes more fleshy in the final pages though. This Much I Know is True redeemed the author, somewhat. The themes were interesting and subtle, catching you out and tripping you up. I still took issue with the main character, another whiny pain in the ass, but somehow his moral insipidousness developed the novel and its themes.
The same character resurfaces in this novel. And no, he has not learnt anything along the way. He is still a whiny pain in the ass. He is also patronising and insipid and amazingly unself-aware given how much time he spends navelgazing. In fact, he reminds me of similar characters written by similar white American postmodern authors. Authors whose representations of women are blatantly misogynistic, but justified because they're "postmodern".
I hate to equate a character with their creator, but I can't help doing this here. Please, make this book end...
