Crossroads
Jonathan Franzen
Farrar, Straus and Giroux 2021
Reviewed by Bob Wake
At nearly 600 pages, Jonathan Franzen’s Crossroads reads like a binge-worthy premium cable series, complete with melodramatic cliffhangers between episodes. Chapters are composed in third-person intimate narration with POV alternating between members of the Hildebrandt family, parents Russ and Marion, and their four children, ranging in ages from nine to twenty. Russ is an associate minister at a church with a thriving youth group culture. It’s 1971 in the Chicago suburbs. The commingling of religion and politics is as vigorous on the antiwar left (liberation theology) as it is on the right. Crossroads is most assuredly a secular novel about religious faith and guilt, no less so than Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (a novel winkingly alluded to in Crossroads, which isn’t without Franzen’s occasional metafictional side glances, up to and including Reverend Hildebrandt driving a Plymouth Fury wagon).
The teenagers are well-drawn, if reminiscent, perhaps unavoidably, of influential television series like Freaks and Geeks and My So-Called Life. The failed HBO project that Franzen and filmmaker Noah Baumbach undertook ten years ago in trying to adapt Franzen’s more challenging novel, The Corrections, may have pushed the author in the direction of ruthless narrative momentum at the expense of literary experimentation. Crossroads is Jonathan Franzen’s most conventional novel to date, but his psychological realism remains as always acute. This is engaging storytelling that bodes well for further installments of what promises to be a trilogy of novels following one American family through the years. (Nine-year-old Judson’s “unhealthy absorption” with an eight-millimeter movie camera, for example, suggests there might be a grown filmmaker inhabiting a future volume.)
At 720 pages, Antkind succeeds as a large-scale comic novel. This is an impressive feat for a first-time novelist (albeit a first-time novelist who happens to be an Oscar-winning screenwriter). Line for line, page for page, Antkind is frequently deliriously funny. Kaufman’s 1990s TV scripts for comics like Chris Elliot are a clear influence. Antkind’s narrator and protagonist, B. Rosenberger Rosenberg, a self-important film critic, has the snotty arrogance that Elliot mastered so perfectly. Chris Elliot’s willingness to risk unlikeability is both his genius as a comic performer and probably his undoing with audiences (e.g. Cabin Boy). Charlie Kaufman seems to intuitively understand that an insufferable character is only as bearable as the jokes exposing the character’s pretensions and selfishness. Antkind has the jokes like Arby’s has the meats. As Kaufman has shown in his wildly inventive film scripts (Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), he’s never met a meta gag that he can’t spin into comedy gold. Not unlike Martin Amis’s insertion of “Martin Amis” as a character in his novel Money, Antkind’s film critic is deeply hostile to the very real films of Charlie Kaufman (while extolling the more comfortably mainstream films, both real and imaginary, of Judd Apatow). Although the novel’s sci-fi trappings—time-travel and multiverses—seem at times like a lesser work by Philip K. Dick (name-checked in Antkind as an “American primitivist”), Antkind’s slapstick exuberance is like a live-action Tex Avery cartoon.
An author’s note chillingly informs us that U.S. coastal regions “harbor millions of pounds of dumped munitions” from military training exercises. The family in the poem visits the local police station to dispose of the shell. The mother is left discomforted. A chain-reaction of metaphors follows. She is haunted by her son’s autism and wonders “what it would look like / the bin for safe disposal of genes / that can ruin children.” These lines pack the kind of gut-punch that Rebecca Foust’s work never shies away from. She has addressed her son’s autism in poems over the years, at times with grace and understanding, and at other times with cosmic fury.
Coffee Spew 