American Tabloid by James Ellroy.
In American Tabloid James Ellroy offers a factionalized account of
events leading up to the Kennedy assassination, a period of American
history which set off a tidal wave of ink still roiling towards shore.
There are dozens, if not hundreds, of other examples, notably Dom
DeLillo's novel 'Libra' and Oliver Stone's movie 'JFK.' It's been done
before, that's for sure, but not quite like this.
Ellroy's style is spare. His characters are hard-boiled. He boils them
so hard the only thing left is the charred shell sticking to the bottom
of the pan. Then he throws it all into the flames. It explodes like a
wet log on a roaring campfire, and it burns, straight into your brain.
There is no conflict between good and evil in this story. Indeed, there
is no moral message in Ellroy's fictional world. Just take it or leave
it, that's all.
You might not like the experience of reading Ellroy, but you sure won't
forget it.
Although this is a work of fiction, Ellroy does not misrepresent
history. John F. Kennedy was not a great President. He was not even a
particularly good President. And he absolutely was not a popular
President, despite what everyone seems to think now. Elected by a
paper-thin margin, Kennedy's popularity peaked in the first 6 months
after taking office. It was commonplace to hear people say: I didn't
vote for him, but I wish I had. He could be a great speechmaker. He was
photogenic. He was made for television. Unfortunately, he also proved
to be an empty suit lurching from one crisis to the next. As long as he
was in front of the camera or speaking before the crowds, he was
masterful. As soon as he had to govern the country, he stumbled. By the
time of the assassination, the country had just about given up on JFK.
Then a bullet created a saint.
I met Ellroy, the self-styled demon dog of American crime fiction, a
few years ago at a book signing in Amsterdam. Entering the bookstore, I
saw Ellroy pacing uncomfortably in front of a few tables displaying his
books. A bottle of mineral water in one hand and a pen clutched in the
other hand, he was ready for action. A couple of dewy-eyed Dutch girls
from his local publisher were gazing towards him in awe, trying to look
busy. The problem was that none of the customers were paying any
attention to him. When I walked in, the coast was not merely clear. It
was a vacuum waiting to suck me into the Great Man's orbit.
I walked up to Ellroy, all six-foot plus of him. Ellroy is a big guy. I
could imagine him burning steaks on the backyard barbeque, wearing one
of those silly aprons, waving a spatula and joking with the neighbors.
As soon as he noticed I was neither averting my eyes nor hoofing it to
the stairs, he stepped forward decisively, extended his hand to meet
mine, and boomed, 'Welcome. I'm James Ellroy.' I gave my name. He
boomed: 'A fellow American! Well, God Bless America.' This could be a
long slog, I thought, and ventured forward.
'So, which one of these books is your favorite?' I asked.
Without a second's hesitation, he leapt to the English-language table
and tapped furiously with his right index finger on 'My Dark
Places.'
'This one,' he said. 'It's all about my life!'
No ego involved with that statement, I thought.
Noticing the pained expression on my face, he quickly recovered:
'And of the novels, this one,' he said, tapping furiously on a copy of
'American Tabloid.'
Ah, now we're getting somewhere, I thought. I picked up one copy each
of his two favorite books and began leafing through them. I must say
that Ellroy puts on a thoroughly enjoyable show, in person as well as
on television. After some more idle chitchat, I bought both of his
favorite books, which he inscribed almost illegibly, and returned to my
garret. Picking up 'American Tabloid,' I read this:
'America was never innocent. We popped our cherry on the boat over and
looked back with no regrets'. You can't lose what you lacked at
conception'. The real Trinity of Camelot was Look Good, Kick Ass, and
Get Laid. Jack Kennedy was the mythological front man for a
particularly juicy slice of our history. He called a slick line and
wore a world-class haircut'. Jack got whacked at the optimum moment to
assure his sainthood'. It's time to demythologise an era and build a
new myth from the gutter to the stars. It's time to embrace bad men and
the price they paid to secretly define their time. Here's to
them.'
That settled it. I had found a kindred soul.
'American Tabloid' begins November 22, 1958 in a Beverly Hills hotel
suite. The first line of the novel is: 'He always shot up by TV light.'
Howard Hughes is shooting up codeine. It hits home and his face goes
slack. Pierre (Pete) Bondurant is standing by. Hughes is America's
invention. Pete is Ellroy's invention. Pete is the primal scream of the
novel, an undertow of raw energy in the service of a corrupt and
slack-faced establishment. Freudians will love this one.
In the first few pages we see where Pete will lead us:
'Ava Gardner cruised by the pool. Pete waved; Ava flipped him the bird.
They went back: he got her an abortion in exchange for a weekend with
Hughes. Renaissance Man Pete: pimp, dope procurer, licensed PI goon.
Hughes and him went waaaay back.'
Pete Bondurant is a massively powerful man of French-Canadian origin.
He is scary. He's amoral, but he is not unprincipled. He does not
strike out simply from anger. He won't hurt you without a reason.
Still, it's best to steer clear of Pete if you can, or at least make
sure you know which side he's on and sidle up real close. I liked Pete
a lot. He's the only sympathetic character in whole book.
Pete, the Kennedys, J. Edgar Hoover, Castro, and a host of other
characters lead us on a wretched romp through a minefield of Cold War
paranoia, political intrigue, and civil rights era wrangling. It was a
time of great divisions, and the rifts were only beginning to widen.
These were the Good Old Days compared to what would follow.
The novel ends in Dallas on November 22, 1963. Pete makes his way
through the crowds along Commerce Street to a club where his wife Barb
is the lounge singer. He sits at a table near the bandstand. The
Presidential motorcade is coming. The patrons run to the door for a
glimpse. Barb is still singing. Pete is listening. They look into each
other's eyes. The motorcade passes. The roar of the crowd fades. Pete
and Barb haven't moved. Then we read what surely must be one of the
most chilling sentences in American fiction:
'He braced himself for this big fucking scream.'
And the American nation has been shooting up that moment by the light
of the TV ever since.
By the end of 'The Cold Six Thousand,' Ellroy's sequel to 'American
Tabloid,' Pete has moved to small town America to live with Barb. She'd
left him to live with her mother, get away from the craziness, and get
off heroin. Pete's had a heart attack by now. He gave up the life, the
booze, the cigarettes, the violence, to be with her. Norman Rockwell
might well smile and break in to a cold sweat at the same time at the
sight of this domestic scene. We can surmise that Pete and Barb, like
the rest of the nation, cocooned into a long period of self-absorption
and distancing from the world around them. The world outside was
nothing more than an occasional annoyance, like ants at a picnic. We
can see that Pete has been inactive for a long time. He might even be
sleeping. But make no mistake about it: Pete is not dead. He will never
die. You can wake him up any time you want. I would advise against it
myself. Pete always wins in the end.
