Frank discusses James Frey's appearance last night on the Larry King show on CNN.
Going mano-a-mano with the master of the softball interview isn't my idea of facing the problem head on, nor is bringing your friggin' mother along to vouch for you. That alone ought to make it clear once and for all that Frey is a punk.
The interview proceeded in a manner that any of us could have predicted. Frey refused to engage the allegations head on, choosing instead to stick to the talking points he'd been fed by the spin doctor, as did momma who, impolitic as it may be to note, had a frightening, dangerous gleam in her eye, like something out of Sunset Boulevard. I only comment on her performance - and that's exactly what it was - because she came off as a deranged stage mother, which might explain why Frey turned out to be such a dingbat.
The beleaguered Frey appeared deeply affected by the accusations, as if it's a real tragedy that he's been put through this awful experience. But of course there was no indication from him that the debacle is entirely of his own making. He avoided the subject like a true weasel; Nixon would have been proud. Frey is not a crook!
Frey said all the right things about memoirs, about how we remember things subjectively, and how nobody complains when we recount conversations from memory, etc. And he was absolutely right in pretty much everything he said about it. Problem is, none of what he had to say on the subject applied to the issue of James Frey lying his ass off in his book and in subsequent interviews.
The issue with James Frey is that he deliberately made things up, claimed that those made-up things were true, issued no disclaimers, and actually elaborated on his lies in interviews. He presented himself as being something he isn't and built the foundation of his credibility as both writer and character on those lies. He is not a Criminal with a capital C, and we should all be asking ourselves if he really even was an Alcoholic or a Drug Addict. What we do know is that he is a Liar. He is a Liar, we now know. A Pathological Liar, probably. Liar Liar. Pants on Fire.
Some people are saying that the book is powerful enough and important enough that it doesn't matter whether it's true or not. Which is crazy. Of course it matters whether it's true. The entire concept of the book hinges on its truthfulness. The book only works if it's true. If it's presented as fiction, it's silly and unbelievable. Which may be why so many of us found it to be silly and unbelievable in the first place - it seemed obvious that it was made up.
James Frey is a disgrace to his profession. He's a hack. A con artist. A poser extraordinaire. And he's not even man enough to admit when he's been caught red-handed - he drags his mother onto national TV to stick up for him and hires a lawyer who caters to celebrities. His actions in the wake of the scandal should be proof enough that he's not what he claims to be - thankfully, the Smoking Gun has provided more than enough corroboration.
It drives me a little crazy that he'll continue to rake in the dough just because in the 21st century everybody's a victim and all a celebrity has to do to deflect charges of impropriety is to simply refuse to admit any wrongdoing. It drives me crazy because I know first hand how hard writing is, and I resent people who take short cuts by using gimmicks rather than going through the arduous, tedious, frustrating process of actually writing.
It is the actual process of writing that separates the writers from the hacks. When you use gimmicks or pile on cliches, you're not really writing. Imagine being a plumber. You may not be the best plumber in the world, maybe not even close, but you know how to fix a leaky faucet. Then along comes some guy who wears a rumpled pair of pants and a blue-collared shirt covered in strategically placed grease-stains. He approaches the leaky faucet like he's tracking a lion on safari. He pulls out three different wrenches from his toolbox, grimacing as he approaches the ornery plumbing. He attacks the faucet dramatically, sweating, swearing, grunting and groaning. What he's actually doing is simply using a rag and some Scrubbing Bubbles to clean up the faucet and sink. When he's done, he wipes his brow and solemnly informs the owner that it's the toughest job he's ever tackled. Everything is sparkling. The owner is thrilled with the work. The sink looks so good, the owner isn't even paying attention to the fact that the faucet is still leaking. And pretty soon, everybody in town is hiring the charlatan and you're out of work. That's sort of what it feels like to a regular writer when a hack like James Frey hits it big.
If nothing else, this scandal shows that there is a difference between a writer and a hack. You don't get to be a writer just because you've decided that's what you want to do this week. You don't get to be a writer just because you've figured out how to milk cliches and ape Hemingway. And you damn well don't get to sell yourself as a Criminal when your record consists of a couple of hours sitting in a police station waiting to be bailed out by one of your fraternity brothers.
You get to choose: You can be a real writer, doing real work that speaks honestly to the human condition, and facing a one in a million chance of ever earning a living, or you can be a mealy-mouthed millionaire dilettante, whinging on Larry King Live as your mother takes up for you and as you pray for a call from your fairy godmother Oprah to make everything go away and put an end to this horrible, horrible mess.
But you can't be both.