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juushikaTitle: The Last Werewolf
Author: Glen Duncan
Published: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 293
Total Page Count: 108,841
Text Number: 315
Read Because: recommended by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pgtremblay, borrowed from the Corvallis library
Review: Werewolves are being hunted to extinction, and Jake Marlowe—the last of them—is too mired in century-old ennui to care. But the machinations surrounding the fate of his species refuse to let him go quietly into oblivion, forcing Jake into thriller-suspense plots and an unwanted desire to survive. The Last Werewolf is a dynamic, high-octane thriller and a pretentious existential crisis, but fails to be an ideal combination of entertainment and thought. The entertainment is there, almost to excess: werewolf existence is an orgy of sex and violence, and the plot rockets forward with more momentum than direction (leaving unanswered questions in its wake), but for better and worse the book is too willing to mock its noir/thriller leanings—and that pretentious self-deprecation smothers some of the fun. Marlowe's longevity and existential ennui is rendered in a handful of literary quotations, introsepective confessions, and even more self-deprecation; it never quite sells his age, and his suffering has potential but never surpasses Interview with the Vampire-esque confessional angst. (Marlowe's journal is a nice attempt at narrative justification, but grows unconvincing—why would Marlowe risk giving away his secret plots by committing them to paper?) It's all perfectly readable, occasionally even addicting, and has energy to spare; the world-building is far from revelatory (beyond their voracious appetites the werewolves are fairly indistinct, and there's even an obligatory werewolf/vampire rivalry), but a testosterone-soaked more animal than animal interpretation of werewolves has potential. But The Last Werewolf fails to shine.
It does, however, manage to be sexist. Sex-fueled, jaded, and coarse, the sexism is natural and intentional, but it's still inexcusable. Women appear one at a time, defined by their sex appeal and interactions with men, and are referred to and even summed up by their genitalia: "'Her cunt's got a mind. It knows you. Everything about you. Like Lucifer. God is omniscent but he can't separate out the useful knowledge. You know? He can't distinguish. For that you need the Devil or her cunt'" (133). It's meant to be brutal and shocking, but comes off only as banal. The Last Werewolf isn't entirely a lost cause: I'd be interested in other, better, takes on a hyper-vivacious werewolf, and if it were more than a tired obsession with genitalia and objectification I could easily enjoy the tone of gleeful crudity. But any pleasure I took in this book was tainted, and I can't recommend it. Spend your time elsewhere, and consider Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth as an alternative, if less extreme, raw-meat werewolf book.
Review posted here on Amazon.com. (Will update when the review goes live.)
Author: Glen Duncan
Published: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 293
Total Page Count: 108,841
Text Number: 315
Read Because: recommended by
pgtremblay, borrowed from the Corvallis libraryReview: Werewolves are being hunted to extinction, and Jake Marlowe—the last of them—is too mired in century-old ennui to care. But the machinations surrounding the fate of his species refuse to let him go quietly into oblivion, forcing Jake into thriller-suspense plots and an unwanted desire to survive. The Last Werewolf is a dynamic, high-octane thriller and a pretentious existential crisis, but fails to be an ideal combination of entertainment and thought. The entertainment is there, almost to excess: werewolf existence is an orgy of sex and violence, and the plot rockets forward with more momentum than direction (leaving unanswered questions in its wake), but for better and worse the book is too willing to mock its noir/thriller leanings—and that pretentious self-deprecation smothers some of the fun. Marlowe's longevity and existential ennui is rendered in a handful of literary quotations, introsepective confessions, and even more self-deprecation; it never quite sells his age, and his suffering has potential but never surpasses Interview with the Vampire-esque confessional angst. (Marlowe's journal is a nice attempt at narrative justification, but grows unconvincing—why would Marlowe risk giving away his secret plots by committing them to paper?) It's all perfectly readable, occasionally even addicting, and has energy to spare; the world-building is far from revelatory (beyond their voracious appetites the werewolves are fairly indistinct, and there's even an obligatory werewolf/vampire rivalry), but a testosterone-soaked more animal than animal interpretation of werewolves has potential. But The Last Werewolf fails to shine.
It does, however, manage to be sexist. Sex-fueled, jaded, and coarse, the sexism is natural and intentional, but it's still inexcusable. Women appear one at a time, defined by their sex appeal and interactions with men, and are referred to and even summed up by their genitalia: "'Her cunt's got a mind. It knows you. Everything about you. Like Lucifer. God is omniscent but he can't separate out the useful knowledge. You know? He can't distinguish. For that you need the Devil or her cunt'" (133). It's meant to be brutal and shocking, but comes off only as banal. The Last Werewolf isn't entirely a lost cause: I'd be interested in other, better, takes on a hyper-vivacious werewolf, and if it were more than a tired obsession with genitalia and objectification I could easily enjoy the tone of gleeful crudity. But any pleasure I took in this book was tainted, and I can't recommend it. Spend your time elsewhere, and consider Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth as an alternative, if less extreme, raw-meat werewolf book.
Review posted here on Amazon.com. (Will update when the review goes live.)
