Global Warning

IF you want to see what an apoplectic fit looks like in print, check out Michiko Kakutani’s review/denunciation in the New York Times of State of Fear, the latest book from Michael Crichton. Crichton is the author of Jurassic Park, Disclosure, The Andromeda Strain, and much more (or, in the case of Prey, less); in State of Fear he dares to challenge the numbskull pieties of “global warming” and that has made Michiko very mad indeed. State of Fear is, she writes, “shrill,” “preposterous,” and, horror of horrors, “rightwing.” So many angry, foam-flecked adjectives jostle for attention in the text of Kakutani’s padded-cell philippic (I’d use the words “shrill” and “preposterous,” but she got there first) that the fastidious will want to mop the page for spittle before reading.

Crichton’s book is, she sneers, “hamhanded”; the plot of this “sorry excuse for a thriller” is “ludicrous,” its disquisitions “talky,” its facts “cherry-picked,” its assertions “dogmatic,” and its efforts to make a case “lumbering.” Still, at least she spared Crichton contemporary culture’s most fashionable insult, that irrevocably staining mark of Cain, that deepest red of all scarlet letters, that other N-word. The Los Angeles Times does not; according to its reviewer, Crichton has written “the first neo-con novel.” Ouch.

About the Author

Andrew Stuttaford

Andrew Stuttaford is the editor of National Review's Capital Matters.

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IF you want to see what an apoplectic fit looks like in print, check out Michiko Kakutani’s review/denunciation in the New York Times of State of Fear, the latest book from Michael Crichton. Crichton is the author of Jurassic Park, Disclosure, The Andromeda Strain, and much more (or, in the case of Prey, less); in State of Fear he dares to challenge the numbskull pieties of “global warming” and that has made Michiko very mad indeed. State of Fear is, she writes, “shrill,” “preposterous,” and, horror of horrors, “rightwing.” So many angry, foam-flecked adjectives jostle for attention in the text of Kakutani’s padded-cell philippic (I’d use the words “shrill” and “preposterous,” but she got there first) that the fastidious will want to mop the page for spittle before reading.

Crichton’s book is, she sneers, “hamhanded”; the plot of this “sorry excuse for a thriller” is “ludicrous,” its disquisitions “talky,” its facts “cherry-picked,” its assertions “dogmatic,” and its efforts to make a case “lumbering.” Still, at least she spared Crichton contemporary culture’s most fashionable insult, that irrevocably staining mark of Cain, that deepest red of all scarlet letters, that other N-word. The Los Angeles Times does not; according to its reviewer, Crichton has written “the first neo-con novel.” Ouch.