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In television,
the term "jumping the shark" is used to describe a plot or
characterization so ridiculous that it reveals the show's
devolution, becoming something too absurd to retain its original
appeal. The term refers to a Happy Days episode in
which main character Fonzie water skis over a shark, clad
in his trademark leather jacket. Earlier this year, the movie
industry received its own similar terminology: "nuking the
refrigerator," a reference to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom
of the Crystal Skull.
Now,
thanks to Stephenie Meyer and her latest book, Breaking
Dawn, literature has its own embarrassing term for gross
indecencies in storytelling: "marrying the vampire."
And marry
the vampire is exactly what Bella Swan, the teenage heroine
of Meyer's bestselling Twilight saga, does in the first
chapters of Breaking Dawn. The engagement itself was
announced in the previous book, Eclipse, in which Bella's
supernaturally handsome vampire boyfriend, Edward Cullen,
mandates that she must marry him before he agrees to her desires:
a consummation of the marriage and conversion into a vampire.
The first
clue that the storytelling has gone awry is that the marriage
goes off without a hitch. For a story about the ultimate star-crossed
lovers—a klutzy teenage girl and the vampire struggling
not to feast on her blood—no roadblocks emerge to keep
the two separated. Instead, she indulges both her and her
teen readers' desire for saccharine-sweet idealism, describing
in detail a fairytale wedding with only a hint of conflict.
The disappointing
lack of action becomes downright disturbing during the honeymoon.
Meyer—a Mormon housewife once praised for writing sensual,
romantic stories without sex—is suddenly obsessed with
lust. Edward, for example, loses so much control during sex
that he bites through pillows and smashes headboards. Meanwhile,
Bella becomes a masochistic nymphomaniac, begging, whimpering,
and conniving for more, despite the bruises Edward left after
their first encounter.
Throughout
the novel, sex is constantly described as loud, violent, and
even competitive. One character goes so far as to think about
Edward being inside of Bella—a highly unnecessary description
for a novel read by eleven-year-olds. That Meyer's teen characters
marry before making love is irrelevant, in part because it's
not about making love; it's about jumping hot vampire bones
as often as possible. Meyer does a disservice to her fans
and to her previous successes by writing about sex in such
a superfluous, cavalier way, turning it into a series of carnal
punch lines.
But the
lascivious storytelling is only the beginning of Meyer's shark
jumping and fridge nuking. During the honeymoon, Bella becomes
pregnant, and as the newlyweds return home to Edward's family
of vampires, the story switches perspectives from Bella to
her best friend Jacob Black, a teenage werewolf whose unrequited
love for Bella becomes unbearable after her marriage to his
enemy. After three books of Bella's first person narration
(excepting the foreshadowing epilogue of Eclipse, which
Jacob narrates), the switch is a lackluster copout. Meyer
herself has confessed that because Bella is pregnant and sedentary,
writing from the girl's perspective was difficult. But aside
from providing Meyer an easy way to work around her mistakes,
Jacob's pity party does little to further the story's action.
Instead, it proves that Bella is such a flimsy cardboard character
that even her creator could not find a way to make her seem
interesting, though she is pregnant with a rapidly developing
half-vampire baby that is killing her from the inside.
The travesty
continues well beyond childbirth, as Bella names her daughter
the rather unfortunate Renesmee in honor of Bella's mother
(Renee) and Edward's adoptive mother (Esme), a rather embarrassing
nod to the popular Mormon practice of name combining. With
her introduction, Renesmee (herein dubbed She Who Must Be
Renamed) becomes both a cheesy (and somewhat creepy) resolution
to the series' romantic conflicts and a way to propel the
sinister external conflicts with the Volturi, a group of ancient
vampires who have been a feeble specter of antagonism since
the second book, New Moon.
By this
point, each character is a mere shadow of his or her former
self, not because any of them have completed any character
arcs but because Meyer has rendered them virtually unrecognizable.
Edward, whose romantic Byronic heroism turned Twilight
into a runaway hit, becomes a helpless blithering idiot during
Bella's pregnancy. And though he long objected to Bella's
immortality because he feared for her soul, he is suddenly
thrilled with her transformation, soul be damned. Meanwhile,
by becoming a vampire, goofy, insecure Bella inexplicably
becomes the most graceful and powerful member of the Cullen
clan. And the mere existence of She Who Must Be Renamed is
further proof that Meyer cannot extricate herself from starry-eyed
idealism: Bella now has everything she has ever wanted—immortality,
a gorgeous husband, a beautiful baby, a loving extended family,
and her best friend—all without sacrificing a thing.
Meyer's
longstanding inability to write effective action also takes
a turn for the worse. In fact, the last 100 pages or so are
a lesson in how not to write a novel. In an effort to circumvent
war with the Volturi, the Cullens gather a ragtag group of
vampire friends and prepare themselves for battle, though
they continuously wish to avoid war. Apparently, Meyer thinks
that repeatedly hoping for peace is a surefire way to prepare
readers for the inaction ahead; sadly, the opposite it true.
The more characters don't want to fight, the more likely a
fight is to happen. That is just how storytelling works.
When
the climax—or, rather, anti-climax—occurs, the tension
mounts with a meeting in the forest, the Cullens' allies and
the Volturi keeping their distance like two warring tribes
about to engage in epic battle. But Meyer attempts to create
a battle of wits with a cast full of preternatural twits;
imagine watching a rendition of Braveheart in which
the Scots used their indoor voices to resolve their conflict
with the English. Rather than building to a crescendo, Meyer
uses a combination of pathetic devices, including an absurdly
predictable deus ex machina, to create a sad little
trumpet blat—a derisive wonk wonk to all the readers
bamboozled into thinking that a four-time bestselling novelist
just might have half a clue about what makes a good story.
That
Stephenie Meyer banged out this 754-page opus in less than
a year comes as no surprise; Breaking Dawn reads like
the rough draft of a bad, absurdly long fan fiction, with
Meyer serving as head fangirl. If she is ever to improve as
a writer, she needs to pare down her manuscripts (Breaking
Dawn could have easily been shortened by 200 pages) and
consider what is best for the story, not her own gratification.
It is imperative that Meyer take her time with her writing,
rather than publish every impulse she puts to paper. As it
stands, however, her latest effort is little more than an
overrated, under-edited mess and an insult both to her fans
and to her potential. Sadly, this book should never have been
published.
(September,
2008)
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