 The Island (1979)
I have several dozen books purchased only for the quality of their covers - specifically, hardback books with lurid titles and paper jackets besmeared in colorful original artwork, usually from the late 1950s through the early 1970s. Favorite books – none fake – include The Fiend, Come Fill the Cup, The Beautiful Life, A Risky Way to Kill, and Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home. Incidentally, I've read none of them, save Planet of the Apes, which almost doesn't count as part of this collection, as unlike its brothers, it's survived obscurity.
For some reason I also found this 1979 Jaws follow-up attractive, despite a dull title, lame artwork and incorrect publication date. I believe it was due to the preposterously masculine black and white photo of Benchley in a tweed jacket, large-collared shirt and sweater (missing only the visible spray of chest hair), which takes up the entire back cover of the book.
And for some further reason, as yet undetermined, I read the damn thing, from frontispiece to backispiece.
The story concerns intrepid journalist Maynard Blair, who stumbles on a secret society of actual, olde-fashioned bloodthirsty pirates living in total isolation deep in the Caribbean. They've managed to survive unchanged for hundreds of years due to the freedom and mystery of international waters, plus a strictly enforced code of ethics, and an influx of new members by kidnapping underage victims. Sounds a lot like my parents' house, but with fewer whores and more whippings.
It's a not-so-good book written in the typically engaging style of Benchley, who's much better at detailing simple brutality than complex character interaction. No one says "ahoy" or "matey" or "argh," but a lot of what is said is kind of dunderheaded.
Also, the plot lopes along at an uneven pace, moving from long stretches detailing Blair's mostly dull detective work interspersed with a page or two of forceful, gory action. And certain developments happen totally out of the blue, without reason other than they had to happen so Blair would survive for the next scene.
It's also extremely, amusingly out of date, with references to Pet Rocks and giant black men with excessively huge afros.
The little bit of sex either involves Blair's 13 year-old son's initiation into pirate society (why Blair takes his kid on such a dangerous trip makes as much sense as a Jamaican bobsledding team), the rape of several pirate whores, or the attempt of a female pirate to make a baby with Blair. So it's all a bit unsavory and, well, piratey.
Yet at nearly 300 pages, it's quite an easy read, and once you've started you pretty much can't put it down until you reach the inane and circumcised conclusion.
I'd like to know why that is with certain authors. I could plow through a 700-page Michael Crichton travesty in a few days, hating the very pulp it's printed on, then take months to read a truly engaging and brilliantly written novel.
The answer is that I'm probably just a populist at heart – instinctively drawn to the number one movie, song, and bestseller – but thwarted and angst-ridden by a misguided pretense at intelligence. Judging by my tricky tax situation and the number of times I've been punched by donut shop cashiers, I'm not nearly as smart as the standardized test scores would have me believe.
None of which provides any insight on the book in question, but since I'm certain you'll never read it, I'm much happier wasting your valuable work time analyzing my own fascinating personality. As my therapist says, I put the "go" in "ego".
Strange coincidence: less than a full day into reading The Island, I switched on the tube of boobery and the first movie I came across was the adaptation of this very book, which I never even knew existed. From that point on, I couldn't help but see Maynard as played by Michael Caine, and the antagonist as played by the incomparable David Warner.
And where is David Warner these days? Hanging out with Peter Benchley, doing literally nothing, wondering if anyone's wondering about what happened to them. David, Peter … we are. We really are.
Review by Crimedog |
