Month: July 2010

Chuck Palahniuk, ‘Loser’ (2010)

My first experience of reading Palahniuk – and what an experience.  ‘Loser’ is a portrait of a student who, according to fraternity tradition, has gone along to a recording of The Price Is Right, taken some acid – and is invited to come on down. Palahniuk’s telling is intense, conveying the disorientation of his protagonist, who can’t remember the name of the show but knows it’s not that one,  and is surprised to see bread in its raw state, before made into sandwiches. It may take a moment to return to reality after reading ‘Loser’ – and the story has left me intrigued to read more of Palahniuk’s work.

Rating: ****

Elsewhere
Chuck Palahniuk’s website

Jeffrey Ford, ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams’ (2010)

I find Jeffrey Ford to be a reliable writer of interesting (by which I mean good) fantasy. This story is a fine example of his talent, as what appears at first to be an evening out for a couple in love proves instead to be more of a nightmare – and the price of escape is high. Ford leaves his readers to piece together exactly what is happening in ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams’, and I think that’s the key to the tale’s affect, as the real tragedy of the situation emerges gradually from the happiness.

Rating: ****

Elsewhere
Jeffrey Ford’s website

Keeping it fresh

What does it take to make an old trope feel fresh? I’m prompted to ask this question by the return to British screens of Misfits, which is currently getting a repeat showing on Channel 4 on Saturday nights. If you’re unfamiliar with the show, Misfits is about a group of young offenders who get caught in a storm that grants them (and others) super-powers. The thing is, it’s a much more interesting programme than it sounds; for all that it might seemingly be based on a hackneyed trope, there’s a freshness to it. One reason for this is that, I think, Misfits is determined to stay true to the context of its story.

To explain what I mean, I’ll first take a step back and look at the example of Heroes, another show about ‘ordinary’ people with super-powers (there’s a further similarity in that characters’ abilities were initially related to their personalities and/or circumstances in some way). Heroes was essentially a comic book on the telly, and it came to the television medium with various aspects (both good and bad) of superhero comics – cliffhangers, alternative timelines, and so on. This worked well enough  in season one: the aesthetics were fresh, and I think there were some smart ideas – for example: giving such a visible power as flight to the character who’s the most public figure; giving regeneration to a teenage girl, who’s at probably the only time in her life when such a power would be unwelcome, because it’s a mark of difference. But Heroes went off the boil after that, for a variety of reasons, but including that it got wrapped up in its own continuity and moved too far away from what (I think) made it distinctive. It couldn’t be about ordinary people with remarkable abilities any more, not when some of its characters became so mighty-powered, and not when such extraordinary plots were being hatched.

Misfits strikes me as different. At least in its first season (the second has yet to air), every fantastical happening is filtered through the prism of inner-city teenagers with ASBOs; the idea of ‘super-powers’ is put into the service of a story about that kind of people in that kind of place – and this is what gives the programme its freshness. It’s the same thing that made the ending of Ashes to Ashes satisfy, even though the concept (a purgatory for coppers) wasn’t particularly surprising – it worked because the 1980s, police-procedural aesthetic remained intact throughout.

I’ve seen a similar effect at work in books. There are times I’ve found myself abandoning series of supernatural thriller/detections, because I felt they were relying too much on their built-up continuity to generate drama, instead of the root idea that made them interesting to me in the first place. But, just recently, I read The Radleys by Matt Haig, which is a vampire story with that sense of freshness. And, again, that freshness comes less from the concept – a middle-class family of abstaining vampires trying to get on with life – than the way Haig keeps the theme of ‘middle-class family travails’ at centre-stage, and deploys the vampire trope through that theme.

I’m coming to think that even the most venerable of tropes can be revitalised if integrated thoroughly enough with a particular setting or aesthetic. I wondered if any new takes were possible on the Arthurian mythos; and then, last year, I read Nicky Singer’s Knight Crew, which places aspects of that mythos in a story about feuding street gangs. It’s not fantastical as such, but it uses the significance of Arthurian names and icons for part of its effect, transforming them in the process – and that runs to the very heart of the novel.

This post has tried to put into words some thoughts that I’ve been mulling over for a while. I guess I can sum them up by saying: one way to make a trope fresh is to place it in a different context, and make it serve that context. The results can be interesting.

A.C. Tillyer, An A-Z of Possible Worlds (2009)

Now here’s a book which has clearly been made with great care and attention by its publishers (Roast Books of London): An A-Z of Possible Worlds is presented as a box of twenty-six individually-stapled booklets, one for each letter of the alphabet, each containing its own story. Happily, the tales themselves more than live up to the presentation.

Anne Tillyer has written a set of stories which each concern a place that doesn’t exist. Generally speaking, they stand alone: there are several scattered cross-references and commonalities, but the unity of the collection emerges not from them, but from Tillyer’s style, which I’d broadly characterise, rather unhelpfully, as a ‘storytelling’ style – that is, she captures something of the timeless quality, the flowing rhythms, of folktales. This can lend itself to imagery, such as the following evocation of place:

The central boglands are both the beginning and the end of the world; the place where everything comes to nothing and nothing ever changes. Nature lies in a coma, time has given up trying to pass and the only things that move are the flies and the fog and the driving rain. Here, the natural cycles of birth and decay have unravelled and run in a straight line. Even the rain that falls on the bog is never released into rivers or the roots of trees but seeps from puddle to mud and stagnates there forever. It is the stasis that all life must overcome and to which all life will return. Evolution never made it past first post… (‘The Bog’, p. 1)

This is a long beginning that repeats its point, but I think that very technique works well here: an accretion of detail, like layers of sediment,  that brings home the stifling atmosphere of the bog. (The description continues as Tillyer moves into the story proper, with similarly atmospheric results.)

It’s not all about the imagery, though. There are stories here with fascinating ideas, such as ‘The Labyrinth’, with its people whose ancestors made home on an island generations ago, and who now have no sense of time; reading about their actions is unsettling, but also fires the imagination. There are also tales of the absurd, like ‘The Job Centre’, in which a country’s leader declares that there is full employment in his nation – which is news to the people queuing in the job centre at that moment. A plan must be devised to create work for these people, and the results raise a wry laugh.

As much as the stories in An A-Z of Possible Worlds stand alone, they gain considerably from being part of the whole. Not all of them completely satisfy as stories in their own right – there are some, for example, where a turn of phrase really stands out in my mind rather than the plot – but these are bolstered by other tales, which have complementary strengths. It’s the whole edifice of what Tillyer has created which impresses most, rather than individual pieces of it.

Which is not to say that there aren’t some excellent individual stories here. To pick out two: ‘The Youth Hostel’ concerns a remote hostel which is one day visited by a journalist from an interiors0 magazine, who writes a feature on the place as an example of ‘rustic charm’. The popularity of the youth hostel grows exponentially as a result, but visitors don’t necessarily get what they were expecting. This story is both neatly plotted and makes pointed commentary on attitudes to ‘tradition’.

Another story I liked in particular was ‘The Casino’, which is about a country colonised by the wealthy and turned into their own private playground, where they can enjoy the finest luxuries and the best healthcare. But this lifestyle is threatened by too many people living too long, and the proposed solution is not a pleasant one… Again, this is a nicely constructed tale (there is a certain inevitability about the plotting of both ‘The Casino’ and ‘The Youth Hostel’, but Tillyer’s craft is such that one does not feel short-changed by this), with an added vein of satire, this time on the subject of authority.

The way that Tillyer writes about places in these stories – often in the abstract, without names or many other specifics – they really do become ‘possible worlds’. They’re places that one knows don’t exist, but could, perhaps, if the world had more interstices. Imaginary as they are, though, it is fascinating to explore these worlds in this remarkable collection.

Elsewhere
Further reviews of An A-Z of Possible Worlds: The Fiction Desk, The Literateur, and Vulpes Libris
Interview at The Literateur with A.C. Tillyer, and Faye Dayan of Roast Books

Transworld Summer Reading Challenge

I’m joining in with a book bloggers’ challenge hosted by Transworld Publishers — over the summer, to choose, read and review four books from a list of fifteen. Participants are asked to post the image above, which is the only time that particular book will make an appearance on this blog…

The four books I have selected are:

1. Tim Davys, Amberville

2. Curtis Sittenfeld, Prep

3. Christopher Fowler, Bryant & May On the Loose

4. Matt Beaumont, E Squared

I think that’s quite an interesting mix, but we’ll see how it turns out. As ever, the titles above will turn into links as I blog about the books.

Matt Haig, The Radleys (2010)

There isn’t exactly a dearth of vampire fiction around at the moment, so it would take something quite distinctive to stand out from the crowd. I think Matt Haig’s new novel manages to do just that. The Radleys may appear to be a normal family living in a sleepy North Yorkshire town; but parents Peter and Helen keep a dark secret from their neighbours, and even from their children – The Radleys are a family of abstaining vampires.

The secrecy can’t last forever, though. When young Clara Radley is attacked by Stuart Harper, a boy from school, she defends herself by biting his hand, which draws blood; that first taste gives Clara a strength that she’s never known, and a desire for more – Harper doesn’t stand a chance. Peter does his best to cover up the killing, and (against Helen’s wishes) calls on his brother Will, a practising vampire with hypnotic powers and a distinct lack of morals. The careful charade of the Radleys’ existence may be about to come to an end.

There are two things which, to my mind, make The Radleys work so well. One is that the book has the conviction to take its central idea seriously. Sure, there are some jokes – about, for example, the hidden perils of modern middle-class life (garlic in the salad dressing!), or vampire pop-culture (songs like ‘Ain’t That a Bite in the Neck’) – but the underlying tone is not whimsical, but quite matter-of-fact. What could have been played entirely for laughs instead has some dramatic heft.

What combines with this seriousness of tone to make the book such a success is that Haig roots his story so firmly in everyday life, and, by doing so, he is able to move beyond it. The problems of the Radleys are the problems of many a family like theirs – teenage children trying to work out their own identities, parents wishing to protect them from life’s dangers but not necessarily being able to, and so on – but given a particular twist because they’re vampires. It is tempting (and possible, to a degree) to read the vampirism as a metaphor –think of it as a murky past, for example, with Will the wayward uncle who might lead the kids astray; for blood, read booze or whatever – but I don’t think anything fits quite perfectly. And I’d say that’s a good thing – the fantastic is more real within the story if can’t easily be reduced to a single metaphor.

It would be reasonable to observe, I think, that The Radleys is not doing anything drastically original. But it is different enough from the norm, and so well crafted, that it’s a great pleasure to read.

Elsewhere

Reviews of The Radleys at Chrissie’s Corner and Book Chick City
Matt Haig’s website
Canongate

Lawrence Block, ‘Catch and Release’ (2010)

Block’s protagonist calls himself as a catch-and-release fisherman, but what he goes after most often is not fish, but women — he used to kill the women he caught, but now he lets them go (without their necessarily even knowing that they were ‘caught’), and instead imagines what he would have done to them. But perhaps it’s time for a change…

Naturally, this character’s mind is a deeply unpleasant place to be, making ‘Catch and Release’ disturbing to read. But the story achieves its effect well, as Block maintains the suffocating (for the reader) focus of his protagonist’s viewpoint, and ramps up the tension as the tale moves towards what may be  (though one hopes not) the inevitable.

Rating: ***½

Rowan Somerville, The Shape of Her (2010)

There are three narrative strands in The Shape of Her, Rowan Somerville’s second novel. The main one takes place in the present day, and concerns a young couple, Max and Tine, who are spending the summer together on the Greek island where Tine holidayed as a child. All begins happily, as Max particularly is full of the joys of young love; but Tine grows standoffish, and it becomes apparent that the secrets of the past may be about to resurface. The two other strands delve into the protagonists’ childhoods – specifically Tine’s holidays on the island, and Max’s time at boarding school – to explore what’s behind the events of the present, before everything converges at the end…

I’m torn, here: I think some aspects of The Shape of Her are very good, but then I have reservations about the whole. On the plus side, Somerville has a deft turn of phrase; for example, one image that stood out to me was when Max and Tine were described as sitting on their plane,  drinking ‘brackish coffee from  cups  the colour of prosthetic limbs’ – I find this such an unexpected comparison, yet it works so well in conveying just what those cups of coffee must look and taste like, and the atmosphere in which they’re being drunk. Also, the three plot-lines contrast each other well, as we gain a very different view of the two protagonists – Tine’s first-person voice when narrating her memories is much spikier than Max’s love-struck view of her might lead one to anticipate; and Max was almost a completely different person at school, a sense only added to by the use of his surname in that strand.

With so much that’s good, why the reservations? It’s the resolution of the three narratives that doesn’t quite work for me. The two childhood strands inform the ending of the present-day one in a way that seems to me to reduce their own intrinsic interest – as though the main focus is on what they can give to the contemporary narrative, and less on what they might offer in their own right. But, even if the destination of The Shape of Her may not be everything one might hope for, the journey is still an interesting one to make.

Peter Straub, ‘Mallon the Guru’ (2010)

A relatively short piece about a young guru named Spencer Mallon, who is travelling in India with his spiritual leader Urdang, when he discovers that his genuine powers of healing may not be the unalloyed blessing he thinks they are. I wasn’t sure what to make of this story when I read it — it was well-enough told, but it didn’t seem to have much in the way of consequence.

Since then I’ve discovered that the character of Mallon features in A Dark Matter, Straub’s latest novel, which may help to explain things somewhat — I wonder if the story would work better for me if I’d read the novel and knew more about Spencer Mallon’s life. But, really, I’d prefer stories that are presented as stand-alone to actually stand alone, and ‘Mallon the Guru’ doesn’t do that very well.

Rating: ***

Elsewhere
Peter Straub’s website

Michael Swanwick, ‘Goblin Lake’ (2010)

Reading Michael Swanwick tends to remind me that I should read him more often, and that’s what happened with this story.

‘Goblin Lake’ has the atmosphere and style of a folktale, but with a metafictional twist. During the Thirty Years’ War, a soldier named (of course) Jack is, for a prank, thrown into a lake whose waters are said to change anything they touch. Beneath the surface, Jack finds a whole other world where time passes rather differently, falls in love with the king of the lake’s daughter, and so on.

Except it’s not ‘and so on’, because the world is not as Jack thinks, and he has a decision to make. This is a beautifully told tale, which engenders a frisson of that true fantasy feeling towards the end as one allows oneself to consider, just briefly, what it might mean if the story were true. Yes, I must read more Swanwick…

Rating: ****

Elsewhere
Michael Swanwick’s blog

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