Saturday 25 August 2012

The Death of Van Dine

I recently came across a rather fascinating list published in 1928 by S.S. Van Dine entitled Twenty rules for writing detective stories. He remarks with a self-assured certainty that "for the writing of detective stories there are very definite laws - unwritten, perhaps, but none the less binding; and every respectable and self-respecting concocter of literary mysteries lives up to them."

Ignoring for the moment that Van Dine's detective fiction has fallen completely out of favour, and that the man is now little more than a footnote of the sort he was so fond of using in his novels, it takes such a staggering amount of chutzpah to decide that you're the man to define an entire genre - and to compose a pompous and patronising list of rules that you expect people to take as read - that I'm almost in awe of him. Almost.

As it is, his way of thinking was incredibly restrictive. Even literary rules are there to be broken. Any attempt to escape the supposed limitations of the detective genre - even if it were to end in failure - would be more worthwhile than anything written using Van Dine's mindset. With this in mind, I am undertaking a new project, a self-imposed literary challenge: the writing of a crime fiction story that goes against every single rule Van Dine drew up. You can find it here:

The Death of Van Dine

Monday 20 August 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature #2

Skios by Michael Frayn

Although my intention to read all of the novels on the 2012 Man Booker Prize longlist may well be commuted to "most" or "some" depending upon various factors, the award has captured my attention in a big way. This year's dozen are an interesting cross-section of the work emerging from the Commonwealth, with an impressive variety of styles and genres represented.

Take Skios, for example, in which Michael Frayn offers classic farce of the sort that has fallen out of favour in the 21st century. On a fictional Greek island, the lives of a varied cast of characters are thrown into complete disarray following a series of mishaps at the local airport. Charming conman Oliver Fox picks up the wrong bag, and feeling a profound dissatisfaction with the way his life is panning out he decides to assume the identity of Dr Norman Wilfred. Meanwhile, the real Dr Wilfred finds himself without his suitcase and without his ride to the Fred Toppler Foundation, where he is supposed to be giving a speech the next day. From here, everything falls apart, with the sense of confusion escalating at every turn and only the reader being fully aware of the full picture.

In this sense, the novel acts as a mediation on order and chaos, and how quickly and thoroughly the latter can destroy the former. Indeed, it fully embraces the chaos theory concept known as the butterfly effect, whereby a small change can result in massive differences at a later point. It also questions the nature of identity throughout, asking what it is that make us who we are: is it our actions or simply our names? Characters lose sight of who they are or opt to play the role of someone else, and sometimes even find themselves happier in their new identities.

As with most farce, Skios is plot-driven rather than character-driven, and the players of the piece are archetypes deployed for maximum comic effect. Frayn isn't concerned with developing them, or with watching them change and grow in keeping with their varied experiences; he simply wants to see how they react when they're placed outside of their element. Fox is an infamous gadabout who plunges himself into disastrous situations with such gusto it's difficult not to like him, even if his actions are usually both self-destructive and harmful to others; Dr Norman Wilfred is a typical buttoned-down academic, who veers between delusions as to his own importance and crippling self-doubt; Nikki Hook is a dynamic personal assistant with an obsession for order and her eyes on a promotion; and Georgie is simply looking for a bit of illicit fun with Fox, even though she knows he's bad news. The cast is rounded out by a sprinkling of gangsters, oligarchs, taxi drivers, and disgruntled ex-lovers, all of whom make for very easy company. Frayn certainly succeeds in creating a world you'll enjoy spending your time in.

However, Skios is not without its faults. All of the material focused on comical misunderstandings due to language barriers falls flat, partly because the trope has been beaten into the ground and partly because it has certain xenophobic connotations that do not lend themselves well to comedy. At points it becomes a little difficult to juggle the extensive cast, particularly once identical twin taxi drivers are introduced to the narrative and more characters are given a starring role. And for such a light story to end in such a violent fashion feels unnecessary, meaning the ending reads as though it were taken from a different novel altogether. Whilst such a twist puts an exclamation mark on the novel's points about the often random nature of life, it also undermines the lightness of the events that precede it, damages several of the protagonists (either by letting them get away with murder or punishing them unfairly), and ultimately feels needlessly cruel, which is jarring after all the silliness.

With all this in mind, is Skios the sort of novel that should be winning literary awards? The simple answer is "no." Although Frayn takes the reader on one hell of a ride, he doesn't push the boundaries of the form or the genre, delivering instead a farcical tale that is rather traditional in its leanings. But what it lacks in innovation it makes up for in entertainment value, and the pace the story moves along at means you're never likely to be bored reading it.

Worth reading? If you're looking for a holiday read that's a cut above the usual offerings, Skios may well be the perfect choice. A lighter-than-air farce that ramps up the ridiculousness (occasionally at the expense of plausibility), it is never less than entertaining, even if you're likely to forget it almost as soon as you put it down.

Friday 10 August 2012

Adventures in Modern Literature #1

The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes

With the 2012 Man Booker Prize longlist recently announced, what better way to start this series than with last year's winner. Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending is a slight novel that deals with weighty themes, and for the most part does so effectively. The first chapter tells the story of a group of young men who stand on the precipice of adulthood, narrated in the present day by Tony Webster, who has retired and thus has plenty of time to think about the past. However, it turns out these breezy recollections are but a precursor to the second chapter, which suggests that everything we thought we knew may be wrong, with the twist being that due to the inherent unreliability of memory, and the tendency we all have to shape past events to suit the narrative we most want them to tell, Tony may not have told the story to a very high degree of accuracy.

It's a clever move that questions the way we remember our lives, offering an interesting take on the unreliable narrator trope. The shift in gears between the two chapters is pronounced, with the novel switching from an amiable ramble through one man's adolescence to a thriller (albeit a sedentary one) with a mystery at its heart. The story becomes more and more engaging as its true nature slowly unravels, with Barnes masterfully building suspense ahead of the final revelation.

Alas, the ending doesn't live up to the build. The tales hinges so entirely on what is best described as an adolescent mistake (of the sort that all of us have or will make from time to time) that its impact is dulled. Of course we'll one day look back on the actions of our younger self and think "wow, I was a bit of an idiot when I was younger." I'm 27 years old and am already plenty familiar with that feeling. If you're going to worry about actions or words some 40 years removed, they need to be earth-shattering, and a nasty letter doesn't meet the criteria. The words he penned were cutting, and more than a little cruel, but they were also fuelled by emotions he was only just learning how to process. The events that unfold (unbeknownst to him) after he sends the letter are unfortunate to say the least; however, he was but one small player in a much wider story, and didn't force anyone to make the choices they did. Put simply, whilst I fully believed that the character felt his past actions were unforgivable, I didn't believe they were myself, which rather fatally undermined my reaction to the revelation.

And then there's Veronica. An ex-girlfriend of Tony's who re-enters (and massively complicates) his peaceful retirement, Veronica is a thoroughly unlikable character whose actions both as an adolescent and as an adult have an artificiality that grates every time she's called into action. She keeps up the pretence of being unknowable for so long that the question becomes not "what happened to make her this way?" but "why would anyone stick around her long enough to find out?" Aside from being a cheap narrative device designed to maintain suspense, having someone repeat variations on "you don't understand and you never will" is a surefire way of turning the reader against them, as it casts the character in question as an irritating barrier to plot advancement (1). By the time she finally becomes knowable (when the reason for her present day coldness is made clear) I disliked her so much that it didn't really matter; it was going to take one hell of a reveal to explain away her vast pettiness, and the reason given wasn't good enough. All of us suffer over the course of our lives, but few can justifiably cling on to hurt revolving around one specific incident for 40 years, and in the end Veronica had no-one to blame for her unhappiness but herself.

So does a denouement that falls flat completely undermine everything that preceded it? In this case, I'd argue not quite, that the journey is as important as the final revelation, and although the behaviour of Tony and Veronica is at times ridiculous, it strains suspension of disbelief rather than shattering it. Barnes offers an interesting take on both memory and the aging process, crafting characters that for the most part are recognisably human and marrying them to a tale that starts off deceptively light before moving on to heavier themes. And in one respect, its brevity works in its favour; had the revelation come at the end of 300+ pages, it would have been a crushing disappointment. Instead, it is merely a minor note in an otherwise impressive work. The precision and economy of the writing stands out above all else, with Barnes rarely wasting a word on unnecessary flourishes but still creating something that is, at times, almost lyrical (2), and rarely less than engaging.

Worth reading?: Yes. Whilst no classic, The Sense of an Ending raises some interesting questions, and is likely to linger in the memory for some time after you put it down. Just don't assume you can trust your recollections of it.

(1) Another problem: after about the third time of Veronica repeating the words, Tony's refusal to tackle her on it became infuriating, and made him more unlikable too.

(2) It could be argued that this becomes distracting on occasion; critic Stephen Lee had a point when he suggested that it "occasionally feels more like a series of wise, underline-worthy insights than a novel."