Well, to start with, there’s that awful title, a cheesy pun
(the principal character has a spot which he thinks is cancerous, and which
triggers a series depressive episode) reminiscent of a Norman Wisdom film or
episode of Some Mothers (“Betty, I’m having a spot of bother”). The author
avoids putting much effort into giving the characters a back story, which is
sketched in very faintly, simply by making occasional reference to “that time
the dog got run over in Rhyl” or “the time we crashed the mini in Copenhagen”
(made up examples, but you get the idea). I flicked through the book at random
and picked out these examples (not made up this time) and realised that Haddon
uses this technique a lot more than I thought:
“several years ago when he had fallen from a stepladder,
broken his elbow on the rockery, and passed out, a sensation which he
remembered as being not unpleasant (a view from the Tamar bridge in Plymouth
had featured prominently for some reason)” (page 1
“He had not felt like this since John Zinewski’s Fireball
had capsized several years ago and he had found himself trapped underwater with
his ankle knotted in a loop of rope.” (2)
“Betty’s brother, the one who died in that horrible factory
accident, had made a hat out of a napkin.” (52)
“”Got pulled over by police on the M5 once…wingwalking on a
Volvo roofrack”” (66)
“Coming home from university… spilling that paint over the
cat, losing her passport in Malta.” (233)
And so relentlessly on. All families have disaster stories, enhanced
over time, which cumulatively build the family history. They are important. But
a novelist needs surely to make more of them than this. At first I thought we
would get round to visiting these incidents and finding in them the key to the
principal characters various neuroses – there has to be a reason why a bit of
eczema causes George to have a full-blown nervous breakdown – but it never
happens. I don’t mind doing a bit of work to fill in gaps left by an author,
but this was too much – the characters were cut-outs who behaved as they did
for no apparent reason, take it or leave it.
There is an attempt at farce here, reminiscent of Tom
Sharpe. People mix anti-depressants and alcohol with inevitable results, dog
poo is trodden in, a toddler’s toy is tripped over, a gay couple kiss and
outrage the religious aunt and uncle, and so on. The wedding, which is the drawn-out
climax of the novel ends in a fight, sex, and tears, as we always knew it
would.
Being charitable, I prefer to think of this novel as a dry
run for the much more controlled “Red House”.
PS: like most contemporary novels the cover and back cover
are covered in quotes from reviewers. You get the sense that my luke-warm
response was shared – the Guardian described the book as “readable” and “brisk”,
the Telegraph “entertaining” and the Sunday Times “crisp, light” (like a white
wine?). Damned with faint praise.
No comments:
Post a Comment