In 1957, “The Incredible Shrinking Man” made its movie debut. As
the title suggests, the story concerns a man who, after being exposed to
radiation and an insect repellant, begins a non-stop voyage to a progressively
more diminutive existence. Interestingly, he’s nearly eaten by a cat, fights a
giant spider, and encounters other dangers as his vertical stature diminishes.
As noted in my prior reviews, the story line in Micro by Michael
Crichton & Richard Preston shows there is really nothing new under the sun.
My reaction to Micro can be compared to a meal I recently
had at a local diner. After all, sometimes a good ol’ allegorical reference
best explains one’s position. On that respective day, in a rather shameful
display of gastronomic urgency, I hurried into the eatery in question, bypassed
the food stained menus, misspelled specials on a blackboard, sat down and
ordered spaghetti and meatballs. I mean, how long could it take the kitchen to
boil water in a battered, dented pot, cook the pasta & roll two meatballs
with the consistency of cement onto an unwashed dish and slap it down in front
of me?
Okay; editorial privilege seems to have gotten the best of me in
that last sentence because the place does have some pretty tasty meals. I’ve
had pork chops there cooked to near perfection, real mashed potatoes, burgers
that are quite tasty, delicious chicken and surprisingly good meatloaf. Nothing
necessarily to die for, but when you think about it, the phrase at the
beginning of this sentence is actually a fine compliment when talking about
food in an eating establishment.
Now, my palate has by no means been trained to consider the more
discriminating tastes of an epicurean feast. In other words, I’m by no stretch
of the imagination a food aficionado. But I do know crap when I taste it.
(Please note that last sentence is meant as a figurative reference; not literal.)
So when my meal arrived, I was totally unprepared after I shoveled the first
forkful into my mouth. There was no disguising it; someone in the kitchen had
simply opened a jar of cheap tomato sauce, heated it up and poured it on the
spaghetti. It was painfully obvious it wasn’t a “name” brand. Rather, it was
one of those knock-off store brands that looks red but that’s as far any
semblance to real food that can be made. Now that you read how good food simply
can’t be compared to bad, I can segue to my book review.
Michael Crichton wrote Jurassic Park, Sphere, West World, Rising
Sun, The Andromeda Strain and several other novels. But when he passed away in
2008, he left a large part of his book Micro unfinished; author Richard
Preston was chosen to complete the novel. This book’s premise is about eight
scientific graduate students who are hired to work at a company that’s
developed a device that shrinks objects. The owner of the business is crazy,
forces all the students into a room, shrinks them all the height of about a
half inch and then has them released in a forest, hoping they’ll be killed. The
rest of the story is their attempts overcome their collective plight while
being chased by voracious insects.
And here’s where my “good food/bad food” analogy comes to light,
as good writing has been replaced by bad. In all honesty, it should be noted
Mr. Preston is an accomplished writer in his own right. A prime example is that
his novel “The Hot Zone” which I discovered served as the loose interpretation
of the 1995 movie “Outbreak” starring Dustin Hoffman.
Since Crichton previously proved himself being able to tell a
story, I found Micro under Preston’s keyboard endeavors lacking in several
areas necessary for me to find a book captivating. First and foremost is the
development of a strong protagonist. I discovered a while ago that medical
thriller author Robin Cook’s lead characters in novels such as Coma, Foreign
Body, Fatal Cure, etc. piqued my interest because they are believable,
possessing both exemplary traits and pitiful foibles. In other words, they’re
real-to-life. I got to know them, cared about them, became concerned with their
welfare.
In Micro, I was about half way into the book when the
character I had assumed was the star or hero was summarily killed off. My
reaction was an immediate WTH? From that point on, successive characters I
thought might take the place of the one who was written off also gave up the
spirit (some quite horrifically, I might add). Perhaps Mr. Preston was
deliberate in this design but I personally found the inability to discern the story’s
main protagonist bothersome and disconcerting.
Not to appear too negative, Mr. Preston does an admirable job of
instructing us about the insects that harass the characters. Remember, this is
not a world most of us are familiar with so his observations as seen through
the graduate students are both enlightening and fascinating. In fact, I feel if
I ever become as vertically challenged as these poor folks were, I might just
make it out alive.
As I recall, there were also at least two occasions when the
segue to different scenes happened so quickly I had to go back and re-read what
had just occurred, thinking I had missed something. I don’t remember the
specific instances of these offenses and therefore am not being overly helpful,
but as a former proof-reader my eyes simply cannot overlook sudden shifts in
developments such as these.
Towards the conclusion of the book, the characters meet a fellow
shrunken human named Rourke, a scientist who worked for crazy business owner
and who has been presumed dead. Rourke has a hidden lab complete with airplanes
that are shrunken but fully operative. Crazy business owner finds the mini lab,
pours gas all around it and sets it afire. Although an ability to fly planes is
never mentioned in the book, three of the remaining characters jump into the
planes and fly off into the night. I think Mr. Preston erred significantly when
not explaining how the three were able to operate the planes. Rourke is also
mentioned as watching the planes take off. Enough detail is given in this scene
to substantiate his re-appearance but he’s gone; it’s another “loose string”
the author missed.
Due to the inconsistencies noted, I didn’t find this an overly
enticing read. And so, I have some advice for Mr. Preston, garnered from the
song “Let It Be” by the Beatles. If he ever has the inkling to try and pick up
the pieces of an unfinished novel by another author, please:
“Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be.
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”
Reviewed by JTP
