A Man in Full

Rating:
Summary: (read on ...)
Review: A man in full? The only reference to the title in all 787 pages of Mr. Tom Wolfe's decade-awaited novel is a little ditty sung by admirers of one of the book's main characters, one Charlie Croker. Mr Croker is a real-estate developer in present-day Atlanta, and--this isn't spilling any beans, trust me--doesn't earn this description, at least initially. Who *does* deserve to be a Man In Full, when the trappings of this witty, ironic tome are finally played out? Probably the person you least suspect. The way we find out is heavy-handed, but at least it's a fun ride.

Mr. Wolfe has made a fine living writing pseudo-fiction (I'm sure professional reviewers have prettier words): dropping characters into present-day, very recognizable locales and moving them about like so many chess pieces. His somewhat dated 'Bonfire of the Vanities' skewered 1980's New York society (and spawned probably the worst film of the past 20-odd years) like no one else could, but ultimately did it matter? If he aspires to be more than the Thackery of his day, the author had better do better. He reaches far with this book.

And almost succeeds. Clearly, he's after very high ground, and the characters set to do battle are riotous: the aforementioned Croker, a megalomaniac developer from southern 'Jo-jah' desperately clinging to his fortune; Conrad Hensley, a peon working for part of Croker's empire, who's life will soon showcase Wolfe's view of the service economy, our lust for jailing petty perpetrators, the assimilation of new Asian immigrants, and even a stop at philosophical redemption; the mayor and a prominent lawyer--both black--who must find a way to defend a black star athlete from Georgia Tech accused of raping a prominent white citizen's daughter. Add to all those a delicious assortment of lesser characters, all outfitted with Wolfe's over-the-top naming conventions (a banker named--I'm not making this up--Raymond Peepgass, a Hungarian fitness instructor named Mustafa Gunt) and his standard exclamations points! You have an excellent cast, and the game is set.

It's a circus, but Wolfe commands them well. The characters' lives intertwine in ways we could probably predict once we know the staging--but we're left with one wildcard and we're made to wait for it. The book's second half almost predictably drags with all the characters save one, who may provide both deliverance and substance worthy of the book's title. Take all this in, and see if you agree.

Rating:
Summary: Self-conscious classic
Review: Both insightful and almost tediously broad. Wolfe's much-hyped novel of 1998 feigns a Stoic pride in our post-Christian world, but doesn't seem to really put the pieces together in a cohesive narrative structure. The characters get jumbled around, the myriad plots cross artificially, but the prose is strangely catchy. Worthwhile if only to see where conservatism ends up without faith.

Rating:
Summary: A novel, half full or doubly stuffed....
Review: The jacket blurbs on Tom Wolfe's "A Man in Full" resound with the gravitas of praise from all the usual suspects: eminent voices of "The New York Times,""The Wall Street Journal," et al. Given its bloated length and absurd disunities of character and plot, one suspects that these breathless accolades must stem either from A) four decades of Wolfe's éclat (and the white suits) having blinded the critical eyes, or from B) these cover snippets having been very heavily edited--unlike the novel itself. Either way, the tale limps along, only occasionally reflecting the glory days of Wolfe's productive past -- much like its "ramblin'-wreck-from- Georgia-Tech" main character moves through Atlanta's "New South" social, political, and corporate worlds.

Be ready for stereotyped characters, plot lines that disappear without a trace, disparate scenarios that struggle futilely to find connection, the most improbable--and idiotic--plot denouement I've witnessed in many years, and an insufferably supercilious attitude from the author. Oh, and pull out your old college text on Epictetus, renowned Greek stoic, since, evidently, Mr. Wolfe did about halfway through composing this mess.

I, a confirmed Wolfe fan, am disappointed at both the inferior quality of this work and the apparent cowardice of the critics unwilling to state the sorry truth.