The
first four chapters of “Smonk” surely rank among the most grotesque,
savage and compelling fiction ever written. Using Alabama in the early
1900s as his setting, Tom Franklin has created two despicably
fascinating characters, E.O. Smonk and Evavangeline, for whom violent
and creative self-preservation are as natural as breathing. These two
travel along separate paths of destruction, sharing some bit players in
their storylines, but otherwise remaining oblivious of each other’s
existence as they move toward the day of reckoning.
Whether they are evil incarnate, as some folks
believe, or avenging angels, Franklin does not make clear, because he
populates the countryside with enough human and animal detritus to place
their actions in proper context. As bad as they may be, Smonk and
Evavangeline are simply the best at playing a game in which survival is
the only rule.
Franklin sets a frantic pace in the beginning, as
the bodies and the indignities against humanity pile up like the
carcasses of rabid dogs that litter the land. “Smonk” simultaneously
repulses and demands rapt attention, appealing not to the prurient
interests of pulp fiction but to the stunned disbelief that things
cannot get any worse. Or can they?
But “Smonk” delivers more than just a western
gore-fest. Franklin invokes the Book of Revelations, with its demand
for unquestioning adherence to the prophet’s law, as a central theme in
“Smonk.” Is the foundation on which the townspeople of Old Texas,
Alabama, have constructed their twisted belief system any more
fantastic, any more arbitrary, any more cruel, than the underpinnings of
Judeo-Christian faith, he seems to ask without taking a side.
Franklin’s writing is tightly packed, but he does
not sacrifice imagery for economy. His physical descriptions of people
and place are terse but vivid, and his attention to the details that
fill up each scene are cinematic in scope. Franklin even reveals a deft
comedic touch as he relieves the tension with several minor characters,
including a dandy from back east who suppresses his sinful lust with
self-abuse, and his well-spoken but didactic Negro assistant.
If Quentin Tarantino ever wanted to film a western
homage to his beloved Sergio Leone, director of Clint Eastwood’s
spaghetti westerns like “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly,” he would do
well to option “Smonk” for his screenplay.
But “Smonk”’s considerable early promise dissipates
as the story hurtles toward its inevitable apocalypse in the last
quarter of the book, when Franklin ties up loose ends too quickly, as if
a proctor called time before his essay exam was completed. Franklin
leaves several subplots underdeveloped or unresolved, characters
disappear without explanation, and the denouement, engorged with New
Testament allegory, departs so far from plausibility that it renders the
previous savagery void of credibility, as if this were just a
well-crafted horror story.
“Smonk,” which excited me so much at first,
ultimately left me wanting more from the author, but not from these
characters. Instead, I think I’ll seek out Franklin’s collection of
short stories, “Poachers,” where his compact writing, his gift from
detail, and his boundless imagination promise a greater reward.
