The Corrections
It's been eight years since the initial release of Johnathan Franzen's eagerly anticipated novel, The Corrections. Upon its release in 2001, it was heralded as a masterpiece by a virtually unknown but promising Franzen. It was a book that was supposed to be as close to the Great American Novel as anyone could get within recent memory and came with about as much buzz as a book could get. It contained within it the portrait of a contemporary American family that spoke volumes about our condition and the state of the United States. It wasn't pretentious or postmodern in the least. It was accurate, and it told a straightforward tale that was moving in its portrayal of us. It did not fail to deliver on that wave of anticipation. A National Book Award winner proved that it was nothing short of a success.

Eight years, however, have blunted its affect in numerous ways, or maybe it's just in the eyes of this reviewer who has aged in those eight years. I don't feel the connection any longer to the Lambert family that I once did. The prose is still beautifully constructed, but the family portrait that once resonated with me, no longer does. Each member of the Lambert family is flawed to some extent, but, at one time, they held so much more that made you care about them that it was easy to overlook the superficial aspects that were lurking in the background. Now, it's not that easy.

Alfred Lambert, the focal point of the book, suffers from Parkinson's Disease and dementia, and his struggle is still painful to witness and heartbreaking in its brutal swiftness. What stands out on a second reading is just how normal and besieged the patriarch seems. Often, the sections depicting his decline are wrenching, especially when put into the context of one's own aging parents. However, what starts out promising takes a leap into the commonplace when Alfred and Enid's sexual lives are probed in ways that aren't necessary to complete the character. Alfred, a staunchly proud worker, amid a railroad system that's on the verge of being bought out, is surrounded by lesser men who can't control their impulses, or at least try to act on them in ways that society accepts. Alfred, on the other hand, seems repressed and nearly puritanical in his own silent suffering. His cold and brutal manner is mirrored in his frigid handling of Enid in all matters. Nearly halfway through the text, all sympathy for this afflicted individual has been exhausted. It's shameful that Franzen resorts to this tired and overplayed aspect of a man's character, because Alfred really could be more than just the sexually repressed head of, what is supposed to be, a typical family.

Enid and the children, Gary, Chip, and Denise, are likewise all deprived of sympathetic characteristics. Instead, Enid seems to exist in a state of denial and perpetual stupidity. A character that should be sympathetic throughout is tossed around as some sort of country rube in all matters, from Chip's non-existent job at the Wall Street Journal to her desire for one last Christmas at their home in St. Jude. Her struggles with maintaining anything that even resembles a normal home life with the deteriorating Alfred starts out as quite affecting, but the aforementioned aspects of her character quickly emerge and take over. Her fate, saved at the end, by a glimmer of hope and liberation is hardly worth the wait.

As for the children, basically all of their problems are the result of some sort of sexual or monetary proclivities and obsessions. All three suffer some form of a fall from grace, whether it's Gary's troubles with his all too perfect family to Denise's sexual dalliances with her boss and his wife to Chip's squandered academic career after having a drug and sex fueled encounter with a student. In all manners, the three are yuppies and betray any resemblance to most siblings from small town America.

And this is where Franzen falters. After such a strong set up, the entire family turns out to be nobody you can relate to on anything but a superficial level. They occupy an economic strata of society that demands that their problems, even one as serious as the impending death of the head of family, seem to be nothing more than minor disturbances in a life that's wholly owned and fueled by money and sexual appetites. Most small town families aren't like this in the least, mine isn't, and it strains credibility to think that anyone with a predominantly middle to lower class background could think anything remotely positive about the Lamberts.

Reading this book eight years ago, I'm sure I was blown away by the prose and the stunning portrayal of, what I thought at the time to be, a typical American family. Most of the postmodernist fiction that I was consuming at the time gave nothing but the barest bones in terms of characters, many of whom signified something else in terms of the greater narrative. Eight years and a growing appreciation for the realities of economic independence, have blunted the initial wave of awe. Franzen is a talented writer, to be sure, but in terms of portraying a typical family in the throes of disarray, he has some work to do.