Chick Flick Road Kill
Author: Alicia Rebendorf
Pages: 289
Grade: D
Chick Flick Road Kill is not a good book, and that's too bad, because it means a half-decent premise has been wasted on a writer who is simply not up to the task she sets herself. As an aimless twenty-something, Rebensdorf decided to embark on a cross-country road trip, visiting various locations romanticized by movies and television: the Northwest filming location of Stand By Me, the Boston of Cheers, field of dreams in Iowa. She'll compare Fargo with Fargo. She has a hazy notion that seeing the real locations will burst the manufactured bubble (although she never establishes herself as particularly ensnared by these false images, never articulates clearly why this quest is significant).
Rebensdorf is not, as she might wish, a distaff Chuck Klosterman, however. She falls short as an observer, as a writer (my editing fingers twitched, yearning for a blue pen), and as an amateur psychologist. She frets from start to finish, wondering what she's aiming for and disappointed that she's not finding it. I don't fault her for her confusion, but I do fault whoever deemed it worthy of publication. Slap more than 280 pages between two covers and I expect a little more insight, a little more perception.
Also, the title is awful. It's nicely percussive, but what does it mean? There's a chick in the book, sure, but no chick flicks, and no roadkill (one word, dammit!).
Pages: 289
Grade: D
Chick Flick Road Kill is not a good book, and that's too bad, because it means a half-decent premise has been wasted on a writer who is simply not up to the task she sets herself. As an aimless twenty-something, Rebensdorf decided to embark on a cross-country road trip, visiting various locations romanticized by movies and television: the Northwest filming location of Stand By Me, the Boston of Cheers, field of dreams in Iowa. She'll compare Fargo with Fargo. She has a hazy notion that seeing the real locations will burst the manufactured bubble (although she never establishes herself as particularly ensnared by these false images, never articulates clearly why this quest is significant).
Rebensdorf is not, as she might wish, a distaff Chuck Klosterman, however. She falls short as an observer, as a writer (my editing fingers twitched, yearning for a blue pen), and as an amateur psychologist. She frets from start to finish, wondering what she's aiming for and disappointed that she's not finding it. I don't fault her for her confusion, but I do fault whoever deemed it worthy of publication. Slap more than 280 pages between two covers and I expect a little more insight, a little more perception.
Also, the title is awful. It's nicely percussive, but what does it mean? There's a chick in the book, sure, but no chick flicks, and no roadkill (one word, dammit!).