Book Review: Stingy Jack
Frédérik Sisa
There’s nothing quite like a good folk tale, weird enough on its own, to
offer the soil from which a gripping story can grow. We see it all the time in Mike Mignola’s Hellboy, for example, with stories drawing on
witches, vampires, fairies, resurrected corpses, and ghosts, and assorted oddities from different cultural folklores. And why not: these
old tales stick with us for a reason, getting passed on to successive generations by virtue of their ability to tap into the universal. In the
vein of this respected storytelling tradition (it’s not plagiarism), R. Scott Taylor crafts his story of a modern-day thief around the folk
legend of a trickster famous for outwitting the Devil but, in the process, dooming himself to wander the earth for eternity.
Adam Beesler, under the mentorship of his dubious partner, is an expert
at elaborate heists but, just as he’s about to pull a big one in Vegas,
comes across not only a beautiful woman to fall in love with – and
perhaps give up the game for – but ghostly Jack himself and a fight for
his very soul. It’s a good enough premise – as fertile a ground as any
for a compelling story – but dragged down by an awkward execution.
Beginning with plotting, Stingy Jack sets rather humble goal for itself:
establish parallels between Beesler and Jack, and toss the whole thing
into a high-stakes battle of wits with ol’ Nick himself. While it’s easy
enough to see how Jack, an all-purpose cad with morals looser than any
change he can pickpocket, would attract the Devil’s attention, it’s
quite the stretch with Beesler. He’s actually a pretty decent guy,
thieving notwithstanding, making it a challenge to accept that his soul
would be of interest to the Devil. And with that failure to convincingly
suspend reader disbelief, the entire premise of the story is rendered
inert.
But even before fretting about imprecise plotting and diluted
characterizations, or even the cliché of a thief tempted by one last
heist before going legit, there’s the big, big issue of Taylor’s awkward
prose, an almost insurmountable obstacle in trying to make it to the
last page.
“Such speed... Adam’s awe degraded to embarrassment. With failure shrugged,
Adam got up and tried again. The stranger maintained his distance,
always a few seconds quicker and a few steps away.
The mystery man vanished after running around a corner. Still pumped
with adrenaline, Adam turned the same corner four seconds later. Sewer
steam confounded his weary eyes. Adam’s elusive quarry aggravated a
growing headache.”
Or, better yet, when Taylor gets carried away with descriptions:
“Blackness permeated his clothing, a sooty coal mineshaft midnight black.”
And dialogue hardly persuades, bringing to mind – uncharitably, perhaps the expression “tin ear,” despite Taylor’s earnest attempt to give his
characters a colloquial quality.
This is where I offer a confession, feeling very much like I’m kicking a
puppy even though one must be straightforward about these things: I’m
having hard time writing a review. It’s a task almost as difficult as
getting through the book. Because even unsuccessful books, or movies, or
plays, will have something interesting, some fascinating failure, around
which to craft a critique. With Stingy Jack, however, my impression is
of an unpolished draft not yet ready for publication let alone a
critical discussion.
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