Review: Dan Baltic’s NUTCRANKR – Scott Litts
September 9, 2024
I’ve always bizarrely respected Terror House’s commitment to vulgarity. There seems to be an incredible amount of useless vulgarity in the world now, but it nonetheless remains an ancient and powerful rhetorical tool in the right hands. And much like the best of Terror House’s catalog, NUTCRANKR’s crassness belies its intelligence. It’s a dark, dirty and absurd story of pseudo-intellectual outcast Spencer Grunhauer, who feels, whether it’s true or not, legitimately disenfranchised and blames everyone but himself. Unlike you, however, Spencer does something about it: he pens an anonymous reactionary manifesto and involves himself in his local BDSM community to enact his world-changing political programme.
One of my favorite things about extremist satire is the game of identifying when and where you believe the line is crossed. What I mean is, Spencer Grunhauer isn’t entirely wrong— if he’d been a completely implausible cartoon then this book would be more spiritually equivalent to a painting of Trump in a diaper. This is partially what makes him a compelling character (and proves Baltic a good writer): Spencer knows something is deeply wrong, as many of us do, but he almost always fails to properly or tactfully articulate it, let alone provide any realistic solutions (part of his character, not a failure on Baltic’s part). It’s a real nightmare being able to recognize something is wrong but having no further capacity to understand what you can and can’t (or should) do about it. It’s also a great jumping off point for both comedy and social commentary. Spencer Grunhauer is a bumbling megalomaniac to not just hilarious but also somewhat poignant effect. He leverages the unfortunately familiar scapegoat of “global Marxism” (whatever that means) to not just cope with his own failures but to continually justify his worst behavior and desires. To me, the point here isn’t that Spencer is just some “right-wing lunatic”— it’s that extremely abstract political convictions are an all-too-convenient means of absolving yourself of any legitimately consequential personal and interpersonal responsibility, no matter what those politics are. Still, there is something particularly funny about the extreme right-wing outcast (and this is something many right-wingers will readily, almost gleefully admit). The motivations for a capital-T Traditionalist worldview can of course be legitimate and intellectually robust— to deny that is ridiculous. But more often (maybe most often) it seems to be the result of an inability to function in modern society, whether due to social ineptitude, emotional incontinence, romantic inadequacy or insurmountable aristocratic lethargy— all subjects ripe for comedy, or at least a certain type of comedy. Spencer is characteristically verbose and pedantic, which can occasionally fall a bit flat, but most often this leads to hilarious, ranting tangents full of strategically awkward turns of phrase (as well as a few cogent points). The book lacking a bit of polish is more than made up for by the force of Baltic’s wit, sense of humor, and sheer commitment to going all the way. And anyway, a first novel being a little rough around the edges is much preferable to one that’s too polished. In the case of NUTCRANKR, this coarseness contributes to its readability, furthering the sense that Spencer and Baltic will continually surprise you and outdo themselves with each chapter. The story is complete with all the familiar little narcissisms, neuroses and defense mechanisms with which one bulwarks their sanity against the onslaught of “modernity,” but beyond this, as you read it soon dawns on you that Dan Baltic might’ve done something unheard-of, and perhaps most impressive of all: he actually had fun writing a book.
I can’t say NUTCRANKR will necessarily appeal, or even fully make sense, to a general audience, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that likely wasn’t Baltic’s intention. This book is a love letter to what’s probably one of the most significant subcultures of our time— one that’s sort of just obscure enough to be interesting, but not so niche that it feels dishonest to say it has actual influence and longevity. And this book could, I think, only have been written by someone not just steeped in that culture, but intelligent and spirited enough to play with and on its outrageousness and excess. Books like this are why I’m interested in independent literature.