by Chuck Palahniuk
197 pages, Doubleday
2008

No one is perfect. Authors can’t be expected to write fantastic books every time out. Sometimes they need to be given a pat on the head and told, “It’s okay, you gave it a shot. You’ll do better next time.” But, in the case of the new novel, “Snuff,” the story of a porn star trying to break the world record for serial fornication, author Chuck Palahniuk really needs to be called out for trying to pass off one long gross-out gimmick as a groundbreaking work. He cannot possibly expect us to swallow this.

“Snuff” tells the story of porn queen Cassie Wright and her attempt to break the record for most male partners on camera. For the challenge, 600 willing men gather in a room in their underwear, waiting for their big onscreen moment.

Cassie thinks the challenge of making the movie may kill her (hence the title, “Snuff,” which is the term given to the act of purposely filming an actual death), but the idea doesn’t bother her. She has grown quite tired of her life, and she hopes to leave the film royalties to the child she gave up for adoption at birth.

Along with Cassie, the story is narrated by her assistant, Sheila, and three of the porn bonanza participants, identified by the numbers Sharpied on their biceps: Mr. 72, Mr. 137 and Mr. 600. Mr. 137 is a cheesy B-actor who hopes the video will revive his career. Mr. 600 is a seasoned porn star who has worked with Cassie on many projects. And Mr. 72 is the child Cassie gave up for adoption, who hasn’t decided yet if he’s going to tell her she’s his mother before or after they have sex. Ew.

“Snuff” alternates between crude descriptions of the waiting men as they trim unwanted body hair, clean orifices, eat chips and slather themselves with tanning lotion in the hopes of looking good for the camera; and back stories of the narrators, which are unpleasant and, at times, frankly, nauseating. It’s as if Palahniuk decided to write what he thought would be the most sensational novel he could think of and instead only succeeded in writing the grossest.

It’s not the subject matter that makes “Snuff” a bad book. Palahniuk is known for writing about disturbing things. Take his most famous work, “Fight Club,” in which the protagonist joins an underground organization of men who beat the hell out of each other for fun. Or “Survivor,” in which the hero pretends to choke in restaurants so people can save him and whose hobbies include attending support groups for diseases and habits he doesn’t suffer from. In these, Palahniuk’s use of violence and depravity as social commentary border on brilliant. But “Snuff” isn’t even interesting.

Normally, Palahniuk is a literary M. Night Shyamalan. If you’ve read any of his previous novels, you’ve learned to expect a major twist. But in “Snuff,” he repeatedly makes the big secret so obvious that even Ralph Wiggum would know better than to fall for it.
Too boring to be sick or depraved in a good way, too gross to be sexy or titillating, the only thing shocking about “Snuff” is that it isn’t any good.