A plastic masquerade

Press, 16 July 1983, Page 18

A plastic masquerade

The Case of Lucy Bending. By Lawrence Sanders. New English Library, 1983. 383 pp. $24.25. (Reviewed by Ken Strongman) Lawrence Sanders could only be a product of American culture, like Miss Universe, Disneyland, or perfect teeth. Hjs writing has the smooth precision of the plastic society and is therefore quite unexceptionable. It can be read with the predictable, automatic ease of eating a television dinner. In spite of this, or what is worse, perhaps because of it, Sanders has been entertaining. “The Anderson Tapes” was exciting in its time, and the “Commandments” and “Deadly Sin” series were reasonably compelling as escapist reading. But when one comes to “The Case of Lucy Bending,” it is as though Sanders has at last written the book he has been working towards since he began. It is clear from his previous books that Sanders has a soft spot for sex, particularly of the more peripheral, not to say bizarre, sort. In this latest book, it is as if he has realised that he has only been toying with sex for all these years. Now he has cut out all those little matters of crime, detection and spying that provided his plots — and left himself free to expand the sex.

Lucy Bending, whose case it is, is a 10-year-old apparent nymphette growing up in the affluence of Florida, where sun, surf and sex cook the brains, and alcohol and other drugs pickle them. Lucy’s parents take her to a psychiatrist, since they are vaguely worried that she keeps fondling middle-aged men. As the shrink (Lucy’s word) delves into her psyche and that of her parents (for 45-minute hours and enormous sums of money), so we learn how they and their friends spend their time. Their lives are dominated by sex and drink, and the general anomie of the easy life has given them more hangups than a clothesline.

“The Case of Lucy Bending” is the sort' of novel which some would describe as showing what you would find under your fingernail if you were to scratch the surface of any American town. The dust jacket blurb styles it, among other superlatives, as “a big novel of unparalleled scope and psychological complexity.” In fact, its Sis narrow and its complexity ;d. It seems to be a novel which masquerades as a serius expose of one aspect of American life, so giving the author an excuse to write about debauchery in an attempt to best sell. Unfortunately, since the reader is given the same excuse, Sanders will probably succeed and a little of the world’s wealth will inappropriately distribute itself into his pockets.