A review by paul_cornelius
Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien
3.0
I have begun to think that Tim O'Brien has something of a myopic vision when it comes to Vietnam and Southeast Asia. He simply cannot produce anything beyond a vague image of the settings and atmosphere. There is no feel to his Asia, unlike the case with Graham Greene, W. Somerset Maugham, Norman Lewis, or even other Vietnam War writers such as Michael Herr, Gustav Hasford, or Philip Caputo. And in no fashion can he equal the work of someone such as Christopher Koch. There is always a curtain that seems to hang between the reader and O'Brien's characters and their situations. In some ways, it's like watching an Antonioni film, where physical barriers constantly intrude and block both the viewer and characters from physical and emotional contact with one another.
All of which is underscored when O'Brien turns from the realism of war to the night of imagination and the journey to Paris (and the peace talks). Both Delhi and Paris come alive in detail. The smell, odors, sounds, sights, and people, who seem so muffled and abstract in Southeast Asia, take on a specificity and vividness not apparent in the outpost or on the missions "in reality." This is where O'Brien is comfortable. The West. Asia is forever beyond him, I think. An alien land whose people are faceless villagers; cities which never make more than a token appearance. The best he can do is summon up a single woman from his fantasy, Sarkin Aun Wang, who isn't Vietnamese, although she comes from Cholon, or Chinese, or Cambodian, or Lao, or Burmese. In some vague way, she seems to be of an unidentified hill tribe, someone herself exiled from the main life of South East Asia. She, too, is a refugee. She doesn't belong. Neither does O'Brien.
All of which is underscored when O'Brien turns from the realism of war to the night of imagination and the journey to Paris (and the peace talks). Both Delhi and Paris come alive in detail. The smell, odors, sounds, sights, and people, who seem so muffled and abstract in Southeast Asia, take on a specificity and vividness not apparent in the outpost or on the missions "in reality." This is where O'Brien is comfortable. The West. Asia is forever beyond him, I think. An alien land whose people are faceless villagers; cities which never make more than a token appearance. The best he can do is summon up a single woman from his fantasy, Sarkin Aun Wang, who isn't Vietnamese, although she comes from Cholon, or Chinese, or Cambodian, or Lao, or Burmese. In some vague way, she seems to be of an unidentified hill tribe, someone herself exiled from the main life of South East Asia. She, too, is a refugee. She doesn't belong. Neither does O'Brien.