By Gregory Alexander, $14.99; Mill City Press; 290 pages
I am going to start by giving you, gentle readers, a caveat to this review: I am culturally a Roman Catholic.
Anne Rice is quoted as having loved this book, saying it's "irresistible, profoundly compelling…" That being said, I do not share Rice's unmitigated high praise of The Holy Mark. It is not that I did not like the book, but I had a rather severe reaction to some elements in it. I thought, "Perhaps it is my inculcated loyalty to the Church." But, no, it isn't that, since I do not take any offense to the subject matter. The Catholic Church has perpetrated an enormous crime that has touched every corner of the Catholic world in ways that resonate with the protagonist, Father Tony.
My biggest issue was the background story—the origins of Fr. Tony. There is so much background story that the actual plot—"dirty priest from powerful, Italian, New Orleans family is disgraced and sent to work at crappy parish in huge cover up"—is relegated to not more than perhaps a hundred or so pages. Honestly, the author could have removed the first 90 pages right off the get-go and the reader would not have been lost at all, since he mentions the priest's past so much already throughout the book. I would have rather read more on the goings-on after the priest's childhood, even if that childhood were moderately interesting.
I also think the premise of the book could be construed as dangerous for gay men. Fr. Tony is a pedophile because he has repressed same-sex longings for his ridiculously hot cousin. Sure, that's messed-up but it also strongly suggests that pedophile priests are latent homosexuals with terrible body dysmorphic disorder.
This is not some deep introspection into the psyche of a sick mind. This is the quick path to what makes a pedophile tick. I really had hoped for the road less traveled. The priest had a thing for his hot, muscular ( this is mentioned in the book almost as much the priest's weird birthmark ), swimmer cousin. Frankly, Fr. Tony is just a pedophile with a penchant for Henry James and dark-haired swimmers. I am waiting for the big reveal of this man's mind, but if one is expecting the kind of creepy similitude of a Gillian Flynn novel, you will not find that here.
The voice of Fr. Tony is wooden and frequently strained. "Ronnie was prostrate in my grandmother's massive old bed, imploring my forgiveness and absolution. We both knew that the only penance that could save his tortured soul was death, so I splashed him with holy water, like a triumphant Dorothy vanquishing the Wicked Witch, and he was gone." One has a difficult time picturing anyone, Southern or Yankee, speaking like this. I get that we are in the mind of a very sick man, but is this how a pedophile would think? It is the language of the monologue that ultimately leads to this novel's disappointment. Even here, in New Orleans, by a priest, there has to be a Judy Garland reference. Gay men—stop it! This is no longer fresh or funny.
Also, so many writers as of late find it imperative to use huge words. Stop using the thesaurus feature; it does not make you sound smart or erudite at all. I understand what may be being said by Fr. Tony's love of polysyllabic words, but it does not actually mean the man is more intelligent. If anything, it becomes distracting and the essence of what was potentially a fascinating story and character is lost in a textbook attempt at "voice."
Ultimately, I think this novel would be much improved by an editor who was not afraid to "kill your darlings." Really, a heavy hand with the scissors and an extra push to the author would have made this the next Gone Girl.
