"I took another puff on the cigarette. It was a Camel. Some of the Mexicans called to me. They were carrying their soccer bags and water bottles to the end of the field. They were waving. I waved."
Review:
The author James Franco is mostly known for movies and being that guy who can just about do anything. Palo Alto, his debut short story collection, traces the lives of a group of teenagers as they experiment with adult vices. They struggle with their families and each other, and are alienated and unsure of themselves. The stories are all told in the first-person by an increasingly trying, monotone voice. There is no story for the characters to tell. Even if there were an underlining story here, it begs me to ask "why do we care?" And the short answer is, "We don't."
On the inside flap there are a few stories ("Lockheed", "American History" and "I Could Kill Someone") that are highlighted as being "stunning, stark, and disturbing", but Franco just tries too hard. I'm not sure why all the talk about penises, booze, smoking, sex, drugs, and a little bit of vagina are even necessary. If he is trying to push the envelope, he has missed the mark and in turn appears to have a vulgar, racist and misogynous voice in his writing, without the craft. Most of the stories were random and seemed to really go nowhere. It is hard to criticize such a talented artist, who I admire as a workaholic and have been entertained by for years. I really wanted to not just like, but love this book and in turn actually loathe it.
