SNUFF
Chuck Palahniuk
Random House, $36.99
Review by V.R. Macbeth
Snuff is a typical Chuck Palahniuk (of Fight Club fame) novel - filthy, mostly stomach-churning, yet still cheerfully satirical.
This is not Palahniuk breaking new ground in any way, but if you just take Snuff at face value for a short afternoon read, it's an entertaining romp laced with black humour.
Porn's first lady, Cassie Wright, she of great porn classics like Guess Who's Coming at Dinner, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nuts and Gropes of Wrath, is going to end her flailing career with a bang - the biggest in history.
Snuff is largely told through three men among the 600 waiting to help Cassie achieve her goal.
Whiling away the time in the cavernous green room, Mr 72, Mr 137 and Mr 600 shoot the breeze while eating nacho cheese corn chips in their boxer shorts, and keeping themselves ready to don Gestapo uniforms and go on stage with Cassie for their allotted one minute of World Whore Three (a follow-up to Cassie's previous two classics).
Mr 72 is barely legal and convinced that Cassie is his birth mother.
As a young teenager he mowed lawns to buy Cassie's anatomically correct parts by mail order, and sent letters to her by the dozen asking to meet her. His letters went unanswered, which he's hoping to change today when he finally introduces himself.
Mr 137 had his cop show cancelled last season and hasn't had a real job offer since.
With bills piling up, his agent has sent him in the hopes of reviving his career, if he can just withstand the effects too many Viagra pills are having on his performance.
He's convinced Cassie won't make it through her chance at history in time for his cue and has been bribing the wrangler, Sheila (the mastermind behind Cassie's career revival) to get himself moved up a notch in the proceedings.
Mr 600, also known as Branch Bacardi, was once king to Cassie's queen in the industry but is now an over-bronzed, sagging has-been waiting to be the last man in order to give this flick the finale it deserves.
Snuff is classic minimalist Palahniuk, which won't disappoint, but is starting to resemble a formula pulled out of a hat, especially if you've read his earlier novels like Choke, Survivor or Invisible Monsters.
It makes me wonder if this was an earlier piece of Palahniuk's, dragged out of obscurity and quickly polished off for publishing sales.
Snuff doesn't have the scope or flair of his last novel, Rant, but provided you haven't just eaten, this gruesomely twisted novel is entertaining and easily read.
- V.R. Macbeth is a Wellington writer.
