The Reserve is not like any other Russell Banks novel out there. The gritty realism of the struggling common man is replaced with a post-modern melange of 1930's Hollywood romance cut-outs, insidious sexual undercurrents that would be at home in a Tennessee Williams play, subtle tinges of film noir, characters that might be identified as the uber-elite and in a secluded setting of a wilderness sanctuary deep in the Adirondacks that's exclusive to members only. To do such things as fish and kill rare furry animals. And doing so during the Great Depression. Quite the turn for one of America’s greatest authors and who is known for his sprawling epics.

With the pop approach, the book almost reads like a side project for Banks, as is in vogue with authors these days. It seems like he decided to have a bit of fun with this one. When Russell the Muscle decides to bring out a wily cast that includes Jordan Groves, a wealthy artist who flies about his ego in a sea-plane and traverses the world for new sexual conquests, and Vanessa Cole, a mendacious gadabout that is capital T trouble for everyone that shakes her hand, you can imagine how the irony becomes so heavy you swear the pages are about to fall from the binding. And one can’t help but feel humorously voyeuristic when reading The Reserve, like the narrator is hitting your arm here and there to have you take special note of the juicy parts.

Yet, the book does incorporate serious issues. The usual Banks theme of the sins of the parent inflicted upon the innocent child remains. As well as the blinded difficulties that result when the insatiable male ego does not know when to say when. Or, more importantly, when to acknowledge defeat. And the issue of class division remains as well. Wealthy New England townies don’t survive real well in wilderness cabins without the quaint servant help of the local folk, to do such things as deliver groceries and act as guides through the threatening terrain. In fact, the issues become very serious as the narrative unravels, but the less said the better.

So does the approach work? Does Banks successfully merge plastic with depth? I’d say the novel is close enough where it would be a call to make by each individual reader. I do know that it was a page turner, that I was both humored and appalled, and that I got quite a bit to maw upon when I reached the end. But the book does feel pieced together a bit and I wonder if there was an imbalanced focus upon the plastic rather than the depth. However, despite the characters being presented as ‘types’, there is still enough presented for a reader to feel the blood flowing behind the celluloid.