Set in California in the summer of 1969, The Girls is highly indicative of 2016/17, with the cultural upheaval and the general indifference to structure and authority. Evie Boyd finds herself adrift after her father leaves for his secretary and her mother flounders with the general survival of life. She finds herself drawn to Suzanne and the world she seemingly controls, a young girl who can burn down a house with a single glare. Though Evie makes it redundantly clear that she is aware of the Linus-esque grunge that follows Suzanne around, she repeatedly makes the decision to ignore it in exchange for what Evie can only assume are bigger and better things. Those "bigger and better" things are "Russell," his "Ranch," and what begins as the largest and most infamous cult phenomenon in history.
The description alone is what makes this book fly off the shelves. And though it is hauntingly written, cryptic, and darkly psychological, the writing, at most, creates a grim haze that, either purposeful or not, engulfs the entire story. Cline uses most of her word count to wax-poetic, which is obviously supposed to highlight the story, if there had been one in the first place. There is adequate imagery, mysterious, dismal, and, naturally, the stuff of horror movies, which would also lend nicely to a story line that isn't mostly about the time in between doing drugs, masturbating, and waiting for life to start. And given the premise of the book, it's not surprising that none of the characters are particularly likeable. Lacking base and any sort of substance, Cline's actors are very stoic and one-dimensional; like the robotic ducks you shoot at carnivals. Even highly sexual, angry, too-bitter-for-a-14-year-old-who-didn't-suffer-trauma-or-abuse Evie can't make a story appear where there is none.
Emma Cline's The Girls reeks of poor-little-rich-girl, out for excitement before being yanked back from the brink, and is a textbook case of childhoods lacking an appropriate father/male figure. Evie Boyd is a genius depiction of every adolescent, willfully naive, 14-year old girl spending her summer being too old for everything and being too young for everything. But where Cline goes full-speed ahead on language, the rest of the book is a lot of start-and-go before finally crapping out on the side of the highway. It is gruesome yet vague, and oddly descriptive without actually telling us anything. And though nothing really happens until the last 30 pages, what story line does materialize is obvious and cliche. I had been anticipating this book for an entire year and it was a major let-down. And while I appreciate and respect Cline's obvious writing talent, The Girls felt largely under-developed and mostly like I was reading Cline's diary interspersed with her own personal fantasies; like if the Black Swan danced through the Manson Murders.
