Congo

Normally, pulp fiction, no matter how trashy or classy, entertains me. However, as with anything in life, there are numerous exceptions. Congo is one. Crichton, the populist pseudo-realistic science-fiction writer, can normally weave an entertaining storyline throughout his junk-food yearns. Something has gone amiss with this book though. I remember reading it, so I know that I did read it, but, for the life of me, I can’t remember a damn thing about numerous aspects of it. Besides it being terrible, that is. Pulp fiction, no matter how dressed-up and well-polished, should never be boring or forgettable. I remember that there was a signing chimp who spoke with a computer gizmo that acted like a high-tech speak-and-spell, something or other about blood diamonds, and mutant gorillas who got really pissy if anyone went near their diamonds. It all sounds well and good, but in putting the parts together Crichton never made it congeal. Crichton’s everything-and-the-kitchen-sink traps for our intrepid heroes don’t disguise his inability to create plausible, interesting, or believable characters(perils which Amazon.com told me included the following: cannibals, angry hippos, guided missles, and a rival German-Japanese team. Nice to see the WWII propaganda still going strong). And I remember there being unique and provocative questions at the beginning of the book that got jettisoned halfway through and never brought back. For shame Michael, for shame. By this time you should have known better, and you have committed one of the greater literary sins: failure to develop genuine storytelling. Set pieces do not a novel make. Especially if the set pieces aren't particularly interesting.