The writing is superb. Call it the curse of Scott Fitzgerald - I don't know if O'Neill can tell a bad story - he writes too well. And I'm sure Henry James and Fenimore Cooper coulda told us great things if they could only tell it better, could only get us to read them. Like the first couple of books I read when I'se maybe thirteen or so - a Fitzgerald and a Hemingway from the local Carnegie. Pretty sure it was Farewell to Arms - and yes spooky rabbit - the earth moved.
But while Hem told a great story, he did so with awkward skips and the ever present Agent Kay style "no ma'am, the FBI has no sense of humor that I'm aware of." On the other hand, Scotty could write like a bugger, just didn't say a whole lot. Don't even remember the book, but pretty sure it wasn't Gatsby. So of the great books I been reading, there's - sames and differs, largely in format. O'Neill's format is sort of "two junkies walk into a bar..."
Which is great, like no place you'd rather be than reading his books. Is intoxicating, addictive, just what you need. So it's hard to separate subject from form. Though maybe junkie stories don't appeal to you, but just set that aside if you can. O'Neill's characters are essentially the Steinbeck or Dickens castoffs of our time. The meandering street crud who are barren of any past, future, or purpose. They're just there, like little roaches scurrying about.
Trouble is, there's not much distinction between the disgusting little bugs and anyone else. The rich and famous TV doctors who live in mansions and can cure whatever ails you - are no better. In fact, they're just like us, they just package and sell it better. In that sense, the main character in our story would be Champagne - who naturally - makes only a brief appearance. And "the death of Champagne" is sort of a sequel to O'Neill's earlier work "what killed Hemingway."
But you'd have to read him to understand that Champagne is a fatally attractive transvestite, while Hemingway is the name of a house cat - formerly beloved, now completely ignored by a careless junkie. You'd also have to understand champagne as symbolically our ultimate toast to success. And that Hem is so admired we'd name our most cherished pet after him, and...let him starve to death.
Cuz the problem isn't just the drugs - they're more like a symptom. The problem is - An Officer and a Gentleman - the young cadet-trainee on his knees whining to the mean old drill sargeant "I got no place else to go." That's the problem. And in a God-like sense, O'Neill tells his audience - do with that what you will.
In a perverse way (which is normal in Sick City) the most complete character is the arch-villain, Pat. He's big, mean, and doesn't suffer fools. In O'Neill's spin-off of the Tate-LaBianca murders, Pat is Charlie Manson - if Charlie were cool and level-headed. Yeah, Pat is evil personified, a junkie's worst nightmare. But if you're born into that world (or this one) it's just par for the course. Cuz nobody cares about the death of another mindless junkie. It happens a lot.
The key is to tell that story - the story of us - in such an appealing manner, you can't turn away. The sick city, Hollywood and fame and fortune, is a fantasy land we all live in. It's alluring, addictive; it fascinates us and draws us into the spider's web. And like everyplace else, it's the land of make believe. And as O'Neill says "the trouble with us junkies is, we always want something more."
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