TRANCE
By Christopher Sorrentino
Farrar Straus Giroux. 516 pp. $26
T rance is a panoramic, documentary-style novel based on the final months of Patty Hearst's tenure in the Symbionese Liberation Army. Christopher Sorrentino is most interested in capturing the 1970s zeitgeist, and his obsessive narrative eye rambles almost haphazardly after one character, then another, like an extended Robert Altman opening shot that covers 500 pages.
It is, at times, a compelling piece of work. Sorrentino is best at capturing the inbred logic of the radical revolutionary cell and their members' instinctual mistrust -- even hatred -- of the individual human heart. For example, here is Sorrentino following a heartbroken Tania (a stand-in for Patty) after she watched on TV as half of the SLA was incinerated in a massive firefight:
"They killed them. They killed him. They killed her. She crawls on hands and knees to the bathroom, closes the door with her shoulder, and then wedges her upper body in the space between the tub and the toilet, feeling the cool of the porcelain and tile against her skin. . . . She will never see Cujo again [her SLA captor and lover]. They've taken him. She will not know this grief again until she repudiates him in open court. But that is twenty-one months away. . . . Yolanda starts banging on the door.
" 'Come out here, Tania!' she says peevishly. 'You're not being very respectful of our fallen comrades!' "
Over hundreds of pages, Tania becomes a symbol of the 1970s (will she or won't she disown the social revolution?). But sadly, no rounded, living, breathing Tania, no literary reincarnation of a flesh-and-blood Patty Hearst emerges in the novel. There's no explanation of how her change from preppy to revolutionary occurred.
Here we are in Tania's mind while on the run early in the novel:
"Three nights at the Cosmic Age. Every minute, all thirty-seven hundred of them, meaningless, each a sort of obstacle to be overcome by the habit of being. First you put one foot down. Then you put the other in front of it. . . . Her job is to stay in the room. Just another face in an upstairs window, she parts the drapes to survey the parking lot, the cars rolling in and out. Vacationers, deliberately insulated from the news, arrive wide-eyed, like refugees from the road, the desert's affectless serenity."
The only fresh snippet here is Tania parting the drapes to look out. All the rest is the author's philosophical voice intoning rather flatly. Did the words "habit of being" or the "desert's affectless serenity" ever really cross this girl's mind?
Instead of revealing Tania, Trance shadows various players involved tangentially in the final acts of the SLA drama. When the characters are worthy of this extended attention, the novel works, even if you're wondering what Tania and her SLA pals are up to as you head to Manhattan with, say, writer/hustler Guy Mock, who's pitching a book based on his ties to the SLA. (Actually, these pages provide some needed comic relief and cut through the radical inertia that pervades the novel.)
