The Fold by Peter ClinesMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
I have a habit of labeling stuff. Not just 'bad' or 'good',
but I create naming conventions for things I see repeat themselves.
Especially in particular art forms like books and movies. For example,
if a book has the characters spending the vast majority of their time
walking/traveling to their destination, I called it "The Mordor
Problem". Because one can not simply walk into Mordor. A similar naming
convention came to mind as I read this book, but more on that in a
minute.
If you saw the two-star rating first, you can probably tell I didn't care much for this novel. Making the real question not 'did I like it?' but rather 'where do I begin?'. I suppose it makes some sense to begin with the first chapter. I don't normally tear books apart chapter by chapter, but, seriously, the opening paragraphs of this book should be taught in creative writing classes of how not to begin a story. The latter half of the chapter does pull you in with an increasing tense scene, but the events of the first chapter mostly undermine later plot developments and the particulars don't impact the rest of the book. You see this a good deal in bad fiction, in both books and movies, where the opening scene means to draw you in with something shocking but has nothing to do with the actual story. The more I think about it, the more it annoys me.
I'll admit that, once I got past the first chapter, I found the book mostly charming. The flaws that radiate throughout the story were already there, but I hadn't noticed them just yet. It even crossed my mind that I might like this book. Statistically unlikely, but possible. Then it started to slowly grate on me. I started to notice the chapters themselves weren't really chapters, but instead singular scenes. Often divided by clunky bits of dialogue or something marginally climactic. I call this the "Commercial Break Mechanic". Ending chapters, not because the chapter, or even scene, was concluded, but rather because it would be a good place to put a commercial break like a badly written episode of Star Trek. You tend to see this ever so slightly in debut novels, but considering it was used in almost every single chapter and that this is Clines fifth or so book, I guess it's just how he writes.
Side Note: Read "Redshirts" by John Scalzi if you want to see someone make fun of this poor means of writing.
It was about then that I noticed other flaws. Like how the book was pretty much all dialogue. Kind of like how a cheap science fiction show/movie can't afford any special effects, so they spend all their time indoors talking out loud about their feelings or plot. The book has no prose to speak of except for direct action. If something isn't flying across the room or if someone's eyes aren't going wide, then nothing is being written except more dialogue. To the book's credit, it does describe some of Mike's inner photographic memory. But this is used mostly to set up his next action and doesn't do much else.
This leads me to the next thing to rant about. Our main character Mike. First off, I'm not saying you have to be a hyper-intelligent person to write a hyper-intelligent person, but it helps. The eidetic memory component is mostly just used as a plot mechanic and Mike doesn't make many smart decisions. There's even a running joke of people asking him "I thought you were the smart one?" Slightly humorous at first, but then I started to realize Mike isn't smartly written. Hell, the only reason he survives to the end of the book is because of plot armor.
Secondly, and perhaps more discerning, Mike isn't a likable character. Not unlikeable in the sense that he's cruel, capricious, or just an old fashioned asshole. He's unlikeable because he's selfish and weak. The thing is, I don't think the author knows this. Slight spoiler, but there's a scene in the book where Mike talks out his feelings because the book doesn't have any prose. He explains that he has spent his life pretending he isn't super smart because random people in his orbit might not like him. The book intends this to be sentimental or endearing, but it mostly comes off as pathetic. Hence, why he isn't likable.
I can go on. Believe me, I can. But if I tore into this book with every problem it has, we'll be here for years. So I'll reach the bottom of the pot and tell you its biggest problem. It's shallow. It's completely tame and inoffensive (unless you hate the truly unremarkable) and mostly reads like the novelization of a rejected script for SYFY. Also, its tendency to make pop cultural references pretty much guarantees it'll be forgotten in the literature zeitgeist. This book doesn't have anything meaningful to say nor has a story worth telling. Or, at the very least, is told too poorly for me to care.
If you saw the two-star rating first, you can probably tell I didn't care much for this novel. Making the real question not 'did I like it?' but rather 'where do I begin?'. I suppose it makes some sense to begin with the first chapter. I don't normally tear books apart chapter by chapter, but, seriously, the opening paragraphs of this book should be taught in creative writing classes of how not to begin a story. The latter half of the chapter does pull you in with an increasing tense scene, but the events of the first chapter mostly undermine later plot developments and the particulars don't impact the rest of the book. You see this a good deal in bad fiction, in both books and movies, where the opening scene means to draw you in with something shocking but has nothing to do with the actual story. The more I think about it, the more it annoys me.
I'll admit that, once I got past the first chapter, I found the book mostly charming. The flaws that radiate throughout the story were already there, but I hadn't noticed them just yet. It even crossed my mind that I might like this book. Statistically unlikely, but possible. Then it started to slowly grate on me. I started to notice the chapters themselves weren't really chapters, but instead singular scenes. Often divided by clunky bits of dialogue or something marginally climactic. I call this the "Commercial Break Mechanic". Ending chapters, not because the chapter, or even scene, was concluded, but rather because it would be a good place to put a commercial break like a badly written episode of Star Trek. You tend to see this ever so slightly in debut novels, but considering it was used in almost every single chapter and that this is Clines fifth or so book, I guess it's just how he writes.
Side Note: Read "Redshirts" by John Scalzi if you want to see someone make fun of this poor means of writing.
It was about then that I noticed other flaws. Like how the book was pretty much all dialogue. Kind of like how a cheap science fiction show/movie can't afford any special effects, so they spend all their time indoors talking out loud about their feelings or plot. The book has no prose to speak of except for direct action. If something isn't flying across the room or if someone's eyes aren't going wide, then nothing is being written except more dialogue. To the book's credit, it does describe some of Mike's inner photographic memory. But this is used mostly to set up his next action and doesn't do much else.
This leads me to the next thing to rant about. Our main character Mike. First off, I'm not saying you have to be a hyper-intelligent person to write a hyper-intelligent person, but it helps. The eidetic memory component is mostly just used as a plot mechanic and Mike doesn't make many smart decisions. There's even a running joke of people asking him "I thought you were the smart one?" Slightly humorous at first, but then I started to realize Mike isn't smartly written. Hell, the only reason he survives to the end of the book is because of plot armor.
Secondly, and perhaps more discerning, Mike isn't a likable character. Not unlikeable in the sense that he's cruel, capricious, or just an old fashioned asshole. He's unlikeable because he's selfish and weak. The thing is, I don't think the author knows this. Slight spoiler, but there's a scene in the book where Mike talks out his feelings because the book doesn't have any prose. He explains that he has spent his life pretending he isn't super smart because random people in his orbit might not like him. The book intends this to be sentimental or endearing, but it mostly comes off as pathetic. Hence, why he isn't likable.
I can go on. Believe me, I can. But if I tore into this book with every problem it has, we'll be here for years. So I'll reach the bottom of the pot and tell you its biggest problem. It's shallow. It's completely tame and inoffensive (unless you hate the truly unremarkable) and mostly reads like the novelization of a rejected script for SYFY. Also, its tendency to make pop cultural references pretty much guarantees it'll be forgotten in the literature zeitgeist. This book doesn't have anything meaningful to say nor has a story worth telling. Or, at the very least, is told too poorly for me to care.
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