You’ve read this before.

True fact.

In this age of “Going Green”, where recycling is chic, Chuck Palahniuk is the uncrowned King of Fiction. Palahniuk’s latest novel Snuff is nothing new. Sure, the premise might be different—there probably aren’t too many novels out there about washed up porn queens going for the world’s largest gangbang record—and Snuff further cements Palahniuk’s boner for the bizarre. And sure, his sense of humor is still in tactless tact. But if you’ve read any of Palahniuk’s novels before you’ve already read this book.

True fact.

Four characters alternate telling their own version of the same story. If you’ve read this before, stop me. Essentially what it boils down to is that they all want to be part of something special to help define—or for a couple of them, redefine—who they are. Give them a sense of purpose, a reason to live. Take control of their life. Stop me if you know where this is going. Basically the crux of why they’re really there is because their parents screwed them up. See Jack/Tyler Durden. See Tender Branson. See Brandy Alexander. See Henry Mancini. See Misty Wilmot. See Rant Casey. In Snuff’s case see No. 72. See No. 137. See Sheila. See Cassie Wright.

In truth Snuff was a better read than when it was called Diary, or Haunted, or Rant. But enough it enough already.

True fact.

The book becomes predictable even before the suspense of what’s really going on is laid out. The characters are all built of the same prefab material that most of his others were sprung from. His penchant for having characters versed in random facts returns. This time around Palahniuk must have watched a month-long marathon of E: True Hollywood Story episodes before he sat down to write Snuff as the characters know way too much about famous people; the way they lived, and more specifically, the way they died. Anymore, these sort are not so much a novelty as they are ridiculous. Unless you’re a glutton for punishment. But picture someone making seven different movies with Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man in all seven of them, and he’s still ready, willing, and able to spout off to you the history of K-Mart in one breath and the odds of the Black Jack hand you’ve just been dealt in the next. That’s essentially what you’re left with.

True fact.

People have been recycling the same stories forever. They change names, and settings, keep them current, and lively. But seldom hijack themselves with the frequency that Palahniuk does. Sure, what he’s doing sells. He’s never been as popular as he is now. Everything he puts out shows up on the Best-Seller lists. He’s credited for getting a legion of younger people interested in reading again, and he’s celebrated—and rightly so—for the passion and respect he has for his rabid fan base. The movie adaptation of Choke hits theaters in the fall, and the rest of his books have either been optioned, or are soon to be in production to follow in Fight Club and Choke’s footsteps. But something doesn’t only seem wrong it. It is.

In Snuff. Sheila is the “talent” wrangler. With her stopwatch dangling from her neck, she walks around the room full of men with their fake bottle tans, and barbeque chip powder-stained fingers, standing in their boxers, or for the more professional types, their silk robes, and she’s spouting off the side effects of the blue pills that she’s selling to these “pud pullers”, these “yogurt tossers,” as she refers to them. She calls the numbers that she’s branded their arms with at random—unless they’ve bribed her with a payoff because they can’t stand to wait around any longer—and in groups of three they walk the stairs to the awaiting Cassie Wright and give her what they’re all there for; the money shot.

It’s not so hard to tell which part Palahniuk plays in this and what part the reader is left with, who is left with the smeared face, and who is left with the smile. Unless you enjoy that sort of thing. If so, you’ve found your book. Again.

True fact.

This post is tagged Chuck Palahniuk, Snuff