Review: "The Savage" by Frank Bill

My love affair with the sub-sub-genre of “country noir” has kind of worn thin over the past few years. There are only so many times I can read a book about a slightly over-educated hillbilly with a conscious how overcomes the brutal rule of his family and/or the environment they grew up in (which always involves the ill effects of crystal meth) through shocking violence and casual evil. These kinds of stories are sadly a dime a dozen if you look in the right places, but a two authors who work very comfortably in that genre defy my expectations, and I am proud to say that both come from the Midwest, where I reside. One is Ohio’s Donald Ray Pollock and the other is my home state’s very own Frank Bill, whose third and most recent novel The Savage I have just finished. The life and trajectory of these two talented writers is very similar. I won’t go into the details of each of their lives (you can find that elsewhere), but each of their careers started out with a debut collection of short stories that laid the groundwork for their brutal, unforgiving fictional worlds, their first novel increased the stakes and showed noticeable growth and their third novel feels like a culmination of their talents so far, and marks each one as masters of a growing genre. Despite their similarities, The Savage is a very different book than Pollock’s The Heavenly Table. It goes in an entirely different direction, playing to Bill’s strengths as a writer of dialogue, description and a proud fascination with violence and cruelty. This is not a pretty book, or at least pretty in a traditional sense. Before reading this it would be smart to read Donnybrook, Bill’s previous novel since two out the three central characters are heavily involved and influenced by the events of that book. The setup for the novel is familiar: the American dollar has failed and has thrust the world into a heap of chaos. Among those destitute and one their own is the young Van Dorn, educated by his father in the ways of survival and right and wrong. After almost being killed by a roaming band of drug-fueled psychopaths, he becomes the obsession of the crazed Cotto, a Guatemalan immigrant with cartel ties that feels like an even wilder version of someone out of Don Winslow’s Keller/Barrera novels. He along with his band of methed-out young kids is determined to rule the whole of Southern Indiana. What neither suspect is the arrival of Chainsaw Angus into this picture, the winner of the previous novel’s tournament whose motives and ideals are somewhat hazy but are definitely in defiance of this new world order. The book burns white hot with aggression and animosity, with grotesquely violent scenes of dismemberment and death only interrupted by flashbacks to more peaceful if just as dreary time period. Bill never met a violent metaphor he didn’t like, and while some will claim it goes over the top (which they may have a point), I enjoyed its creativity and the sheer audacity to make poetry from such atrocities. This book isn’t for everyone, but if you are seeking a book that is different and plays by its own set of rules, you’ve seriously got to read this and Bill’s other fantastic books.

Rating: 5/5