The Command Center
Altschul also introduces, through sudden pronoun changes, flashes of a power outside the command center, and so one that subverts its command: “Our newest software records the producer’s search terms, runs them through statistical analyses, cross-references them with recent performance evaluations, Nielsen ratings, quarterly assessments written by his therapist. A report is being generated as we speak.” This has a ripple effect of allusion, from the network itself to its corporate interests, outward to the author and the reader. Yet Altschul’s judicious use of the device renders this omnipresence as something spooky, insidious and also oddly intimate, a kind of Ultimate Over-reality, where there is free will but only under the control of an overriding Intelligence.
This Intelligence insists on a guest appearance, I won’t say by whom, but I will say I was as mildly enthusiastic as The Deserted’s audience. In other words, Altshcul hooked me with the come-on before delivering on just the kind of mediocrity I should have expected. The guest dons the garb of a Volcano Priestess and pronounces a sermon that uncannily anticipates Charlie Sheen: “How do you help with winning yourself if you’re always so busy trying to reach lots of things they aren’t needing there […] Are you here to get the Nobel Prize for being nice, or for winning?” Though the sermon’s syntax is amusing, Altshcul’s satire falls a bit flat here. I understand the purpose of the guest’s lite-weight liturgy, but I wanted more punch.
Gradually the producer becomes the novel’s conscience, and I mean the conscience, as in the only one. For some reason inexplicable to himself, he begins pulling for the most nondescript, non-sensational contestant, a dental hygienist with the great Flannery O’Connor-like name Gloria Hamm:
“She’s nobody,” [his assistant] is saying. “She’s not attractive, she’s not funny, she barely talks. She hasn’t screwed anyone, no one hates her, no one complains about her. She’s wallpaper. I have more text-votes than she does.”
[…] “People don’t have to be useful.”
“They do on television!”
The producer is intrigued by what he perceives as Hamm’s Zen-like indifference, “the image of [her] face frozen there like a mandala.” She seems to possess the key to a long-missing mantra whose retrieval he is willing to jeopardize his career for. In a minor tour-de-force, Altschul describes the producer’s crossing over into The Deserted’s television realm, like Kurtz from Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness: “The air reeks of methane and rich animal odors that gather in the back of his throat. Fatigue crawls on his face like a cowl. His movements are slowed by floating vines like the thick tresses of some woodland witch, by submerged roots that trap his ankles; the squelching sound his legs make is gruesome, bodily.” The producer enters the cameras’ sightlines in violation not of any fourth wall, which no one really believes in anymore, but of his own strict guiding principle of No Intervention.
There is a horror of sorts, beyond the two-dimensional masochism of Gloria Hamm who, after not saying much of anything throughout the book or on the show, rouses or tele-rouses herself from her empty resignation to deliver just the kind of pornographic litany she knows the producer and the audience guiltily crave:
“Tell me what to do,” she says. “I’m a winner…I’m the real thing. You want to touch me? Do it. I’m a winner…You want to fuck me? Go for it big guy. Fuck me…Want me to jack you off? Want to come on my face? I’m a winner. Whatever it takes, right?”
Besides being a great pun—aren’t all television stars, reality, wannabe or otherwise, glorious hams?—the name Gloria Hamm, with its associations of the sacred and profane, spiritual and physical (“The producer holds her body tightly. It’s somehow miraculous, this body…”), articulates bluntly some of the producer’s and the novel’s questions: How to reach a sense of genuine gloriousness, artistic or otherwise, when you’re mired in the “meat and viscera” of sensational banality? And is there a way to direct such banal matter to more divine ends? Accordingly, Hamm becomes The Deserted’s dubious, de facto winner, which I can proudly say I saw coming all along, though what she wins I wouldn’t want.
Altschul ends the novel with a post-show recap that was a little too coy for my tastes, but then don’t we all want alternate endings? And here I run up against a final meta-dilemma: in critiquing Deus Ex Machina, I end up feeling like one of the The Deserted’s bloggers tweeting furiously against the contestants’ faults and deficiencies. The texture of the novel is such that as soon as I say I wanted more from a character, I realize that’s the point; there isn’t more. Or when I say Altschul veers a bit too far into farce, I realize that’s also the point. The meta never stops. What else can post-reality be but total farce, total artifice and affect? Gone are the artistic riches of good ol’fashioned sur-reality. There is only faux-reality—which, obviously, is no reality at all.
But can’t a void stared into provide answers and open psychic doors? The difference is that while something like yoga requires a clearing of the mind, Altschul’s televolution entails a self-canceling over-abundance, too much of nothing; a wash-out or -over like a psychic tsunami, with all the instant and residual devastation that implies.
"Osmon lights the oil lamps on the process of Molina’s creative wonder, from toddling on the shores of Lake Erie to the indie folk pedestal he so deservedly sits upon today.READ the article