I laugh a little when I come to a book with a title like this one. Sutton. That is, Willie “the Actor” Sutton, the notorious bank robber during the Depression era.  I would have never guessed.  All the same, I like that epic monolith for a title.  It befits a legend or a myth, and there is something in this story that makes it tremendous, with an almost supernatural feeling.

I have to praise, foremost, the efficiency of author J.R. Moehringer's writing.  There is nothing gratuitous, and all the words and images are driving toward a sure direction.  Not a word seemed to be wasted or carelessly placed, and all this suggests the work of an author who is sure of his story and his ability to tell it.  This plot has a fierce pace and is dense with conflict.  Its details are conveyed with the sort of no-nonsense attitude that seems easier to express than it really is.  There is very little of an ego to be found in this novel, if any at all, and that is something to be appreciated.

True, the author may have had no choice but to be efficient.  He had a lot of ground to cover within the lifespan of Willie Sutton, from his first love to—several thousands of dollars and days of imprisonment later—his first marijuana joint.  Considering that he was dealing with a real-life antihero, the author had to also constrain his creativity to whatever history was available to him, at least so it seems.  Thankfully the story does not read like a string of newspaper accounts.

However, this novel does illustrate some issues I might have with “historical fiction.” The author does a great job evoking the sights and sounds of the period—the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, and so forth.  I will mention again that the author’s attention to detail is impressive, and that his research was thorough.  It was perhaps too much so, since I felt as though this idealized history stole too much of the show from the story of Willie Sutton, and that instead of being immersed in his world and his humanity (as you would expect from a novel simply titled Sutton), this novel was only a very pleasant remembrance of a distant past, with the environment and the people, though accurately recreated, cast in a sort of mythical hue that rendered them a bit surreal and inhuman.  

This all would be similar, I imagine, to setting a painting within a thick, gilt frame tattooed with flowers and cherubs. The frame hones the viewer’s vision, yet by its boundaries it defines the painting as a passive object within its environment, it confines its expression and its relationship with the outside world.  Not to mention the distraction.  The same argument can be made for this plot and its historical framework. It sharpens the focus and provides momentum for the story’s unfolding, all while including small points of interest throughout.  These small points of interest end up a bit too large, they become overbearing, and they define the story too strictly according to its time period, rendering it a sort of historical curiosity, an antique from another time that has no relation to the world of today, or, as I suggested earlier, a myth or legend.  

In fact, the whole story is saturated with a nostalgic feeling that you would expect from great-grandparents, a nostalgia that is a bit delusional, disillusioned, whatever you prefer.  Not that I have such opinions for the great-grandparents themselves, by the way.  All that said, let me excuse myself by saying that I am disillusioned with nostalgia.  You could say I love history, but do not love making love to history.  I better say that I simply like history.  I should not take that any farther, so let it suffice to say that there was a great deal of love-making in this novel.  I guess a romantic subplot is the sort of thing that lends that special richness to our favorite novels.  Perhaps these criticisms as I shape them in my head cannot help but materialize as only more praise for this novel.  Whatever you prefer.