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Judging books by their covers,
Johnny Angel The Lake House Emblazoned across the first of several obligatory testimonial pages that open each mass-market paperback of the queen of romance novels is this pernicious lie: “EVERYONE READS DANIELLE STEEL.” Clever, that. If you’ve cracked the book that far, the lie may make itself true someday. So far, however, it’s still a lie, and the better, I imagine, we all are for it. Sure, I know I shouldn’t slag a whole slew of books if I’ve never read any of them. It’s prejudicial. But if there’s ever been a collection of covers that thoroughly turns my stomach, it’s Danielle Steel’s. And here’s why: I can’t stand the thought of an author being a brand like McDonald’s or Wal-Mart. Taken one by one, her covers are not generally noxious. They’re cleanly done, if not distinctive in any way. The little icons that adorn most of the covers at right must bear some symbolic connection to the plot, but none of that really matters. What matters is that: 1) there’s a large solid background; 2) atop that is the title, large and set in small caps; 3) above the title is an icon of some sort (one of the covers diverges here, but that’s a blip); 4) above the title and icon is a field of a complementary color to the background; and 5) resting regally on that field is the logo of the brand, Danielle Steel®. OK, the registered trademark symbol doesn’t actually appear, but it may as well: on the title page inside, it reads, “The jacket format and design of this book are protected trade dresses and trademarks of Dell Publishing, a division of Random House, Inc.”
James Patterson might as well have that little ® after his name, too, for the way his covers always look. Again, taken one by one, each is fine, not particularly notable. The problem is that every single one looks the same: same big title, same condensed tiny-serif face (which is apparently done custom for each title, presumably avoiding the possibility that a designer would just squeeze the typeface willy-nilly to fit the title on the cover), similar itsy-bitsy illustrations on the bottom (the current case is a bit of a departure here — more on that in a moment). What’s so wrong with the covers of Steel’s and Patterson’s books all looking the same? After all, consistency is nice, right? Sure it is. If you ask me, series ought to look consistent. And even when the books are only related by author, if the covers are particularly beautiful, as was the case with the two Maile Meloy books that I reviewed last month, then I’m happy to make allowances. And true, Patterson’s books comprise a few different series, but the covers don’t distinguish between them. What’s important is not that they’re series but that they’re James Patterson books, first and foremost. And that’s the big reason that the covers here all look alike: it doesn’t matter what the book is about. The publishers are saying, essentially, that all that matters is that it’s a James Patterson book, or it’s a Danielle Steel book, and that their customers need blatant visual cues to find these two author-brands among the supermarket racks and Borders tables filled with their competitors. The publishers have made these author-brands as easy to spot as the Golden Arches on the side of the highway, and just like the meal you would get there, no matter which particular book you pick up, you know that what you’re going to get will be quick, familiar, predictable, and tasty, in that empty-calorie sense. Before I close this review, so that I don’t fall into the same trap as their publishers, I will give individual attention to each new cover. As Danielle Steel covers go, Johnny Angel is pretty bad, though at least typographically it’s a departure from its predecessors. The color combination is garish, and the wings are trite. The James Patterson book also diverges slightly from the others, in that the nondescript image is above the title rather than below it. What I’m about to say may seem paradoxical, since I’ve spent the whole of this review arguing against homogeneity, but since so many Patterson covers fit the familiar pattern, diverging from it at this point just seems arbitrary, and for no good point: since the images at the bottom of his other covers are usually buildings of one sort or another, and the title of this book is The Lake House, for crying out loud, it seems natural to stick with the completely tried and true. Plus it was good enough for him with The Beach House. Other than that, my reaction to the seagull is that it’s, uh, blurry. For the record, my favorite among the clones are Steel’s Bittersweet, because I think sailboats are neato, and Patterson’s Midnight Club, because I like club sandwiches. Judgment: I wish there were a Fast Food Nation for the book industry. I mean, have you seen the parts of the paper pulp that go into making Danielle Steel books?
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