Is ‘Antkind’ worth all 700 pages?
Is it OK to recommend a book that you haven’t finished? I’m asking for a friend … er, fine, I’m asking for myself, because I’m facing a dilemma regarding Charlie Kaufman’s recently released novel, “Antkind.”
Kaufman is better known as the writer of such oddball movies as “Being John Malkovich,” “Adaptation” and “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” He’s also written and directed “Synecdoche, New York,” and “Anomalisa.” A Kaufman project is certain to combine absurdist humor with deep, even painful pathos. His name on a film marks it as a must-see for me.
This is why I picked up “Antkind” the week of its release and dug right in. From page one, the particular Kaufman-ian zest is apparent, as we’re immersed in the moment-to-moment thoughts of B. Rosenberger Rosenberg, a film critic of the academic (as opposed to Ebert) variety, on the hunt for the only print of a film that has become his obsession. The book is larded with in-jokes, callbacks, references that make you feel like a champ when you get them, and like something of a fool when they fly past you, but either way, the experience of reading the book, is quite enjoyable.
But as a novel, “Antkind” lacks narrative tension — the kinds of questions that drive reader curiosity, things like: What’s going to happen? Why did that happen?
This is the author’s choice, not a flaw, but it’s a choice that is testing my resolve and interest in completing the book. I’ve read around half of its 700-plus pages and enjoyed it quite a bit, but I don’t feel compelled to keep reading to the end, particularly when I always have other books so eagerly calling to me.
When it comes to recommending the novel to someone else, I can say that on the one hand, 350 pages of “Antkind” is longer than the average novel. But it really is entertaining, having delivered more pleasure than the average 350 pages of fiction I read.
On the other hand, I haven’t finished reading it — and I probably never will.
While I respect those who will soldier through to the end of everything they start — Mrs. Biblioracle is an example — I am no longer one of those people. For a long time, I have abandoned books if they weren’t providing me what I’m looking for as a reader.
Perhaps it is a general personal disposition: I am satisfied as long as the reading seems worthwhile; actually finishing a book is not a requirement of that enjoyment. It’s a pattern in my own writing. I’ve written drafts of three novels I consider pretty promising, but have never felt a strong compulsion to dig in on the kind of revision that would take them from promising to complete. Once I’ve satisfied my own curiosity about the story in my head, the need to present it to others leaks away.
I’m also a robust eater, but I’m not a dedicated member of the clean plate club. I’ve been known to simply stop eating even a delicious meal — even a desert — when some part of me says I’ve had enough.
Am I a no-good quitter, or have I achieved a form of enlightenment where I achieve a perfect form of contentment by being focused on the experience in the moment? I couldn’t say.
And can I, in good conscience, recommend that others read “Antkind?”
How well do you know yourself as a reader?