Monkey droppings - Solar by Ian McEwan

The monkey confronts the concept of aging.

The monkey gets depressed.

The monkey confronts the concept of a grilled cheese sandwich instead.


Solar
by Ian McEwan (2010)

He belonged to that class of men - vaguely unprepossessing, often bald, short, fat, clever - who were unaccountably attractive to certain beautiful women. Or so he believed he was, and thinking seemed to make it so.And it helped that some women believed he was a genius in need of rescue.

Michael Beard is in need of rescue, but not in the way he thinks. Michael needs rescue from his own shortcomings, and quickly; the world is hurtling toward the abyss, after all.

From the reading of the jacket copy, it would appear that Solar, Ian McEwan's newest, is a comedy about the end days, where one man may hold the key to humankind's survival, but only if his redemption is forthcoming. A Terry Pratchettesque comic romp through the apocalypse, as it were.

This being a McEwan novel, however, things are rarely as they appear. The author may indeed wield a narrative device ripe with comic intent - and, truly, he succeeds in some wonderfully absurd set pieces - but Solar is in actuality a paean to aging, and a novel as pungent and blissfully thick of wit as the best of John Updike and Saul Bellow.

Michael Beard is a smart man, no question. A Nobel Prize-winning physicist for his ground-breaking Beard-Einstein Conflation, Beard, now in his fifties, has been summarily side-tracked (rather unwillingly) by the scientific demands of climate change, a study in which he has little interest or patience. Finding himself surrounded by vigorous young scientists, Beard is very much unhappy:

After outlining what he expected to read next year in the third IPCC report, Aldous told Beard - and was the fiftieth person to do so in the past twelve months - that the last ten years of the twentieth century had been the warmest ten, or was it nine, on record. Then he was musing on climate sensitivity, the temperature rise associated with a doubling of CO2 above pre-industrial levels. As they entered London proper, it was radiative forcing, and after that the familiar litany of shrinking glaciers, encroaching deserts dissolving coral reefs, disappearing this and that, on and on, while Beard sank into a gloom of inattention, not because the planet was in peril - that moronic word again -but because someone was telling him it was with such enthusiasm. This is what he disliked about political people - injustice and calamity animated them, it was their milk, their lifeblood, it pleasured them.

Worse yet, Michael's wife Patrice is cheating on him. Despite the decades of indiscretions he has had throughout four previous marriages, this table-turning leaves Michael, "not yet a refugee from the near-silent endgame of his fifth marriage," decidedly lopsided of emotion. A trip to the Arctic with a boatload of flaky artists, followed by a surreptitious accident, appear to place Beard on more solid ground, but even so, the book's only one-third over. Starting in the year 2000, and then jumping ahead to 2005 and 2009, Solar evocatively captures the steady erosion of a man to the various elements of age, society, lust, and food, even as his career threatens to bring him to prominence yet again.

Solar finds McEwan neatly interplaying the precise, befuddling world of the abstract physicist - "Quantum mechanics. What a repository, a dump, of human aspiration it was, the borderland where mathematical rigour defeated common sense, and reason and fantasy irrationally merged." - with the world of the aging Lothario, as insane and irrational a world as has ever been discovered. The qualities that make Beard a genius at his work- the irrational leaps of logic, the ability to conceive the inconceivable - are the very same qualities that make him an utter failure as a human being. Beard can make sense of the most abstract qualities of light, yet cannot possibly be bothered to figure out the reasoning behind his latest tryst. Beard is a man "self-sufficient, self-absorbed, his mind a cluster of appetites and dreamy thoughts," and McEwan takes great delight in throwing whatever possible in Beard's path to throw off his equilibrium.

Despite the intensely comedic nature of Solar's construction (has anyone ever so lovingly crafted an ode to the common potato chip?), there is an indefinable but definite core of sadness at its core, the theory that, despite moments of unadulterated genius, man is as little able to control his base impulses as he is the natural world. How can we be expected to halt imminent catastrophe when even the best and brightest of us cannot comprehend nor control the simplest of impulses that drive ourselves?

I don't believe that Solar is perfect; I found my attention wandering from time to time, as Beard's inner meanderings can be somewhat exhausting. But the writing is gloriously smart (as per usual for McEwan), and Michael Beard is a magnificently flawed creation, an amalgamation of the best and worst of man's capabilities.

VERDICT: MONKEY LIKES A LOT

Monkey droppings - Dog Blood by David Moody

The Monkey has the taste for blood and gore, for some reason.

Must be a monkey thing. No way humans have that impulse, right?

Right?

Dog Blood
by David Moody (2010)

NOTE: Spoilers abound in this review, particularly if you have not read Hater, Moody's unnerving first novel, and a direct precursor to the events in Dog Blood. Sorry, can't be helped.

When all the living have been infected and there's no one left to kill, what happens next? Does the hunger every go away, or is rotting all that's left for them?

There are a few ways to write a novel from the monster's point of view. One way is to soften the creature, try to make it seem sympathetic while it does monstrous things. See the canon of Anne Rice for many examples of this, taking the terrifying vampire of lore and making him a gothic romantic. There's nothing inherently wrong with this approach, and it can be done quite well - I love the first few instalments of Rice's Vampire mythos, but lost complete interest when Lestat slithered his way into Hell.

The other way is to embrace the monster for what it is, a monster. Something irredeemably grotesque and vile. This is what David Moody does. He started it with Hater and directly continues it with Dog Blood, presenting the monster as pure monster, crafting the story in such a way that the reader gets confused as to who to root for.

Hater posited a world where something (something never explained) transforms a good third of the world's population into violent, bloodthirsty fighters (or 'Haters') who will stop at nothing to kill the unaffected or 'Unchanged.' Moody started slowly, mixing his tale with equal parts Invasion of the Body Snatchers, 28 Days Later, and Night of the Living Dead. Part of Hater's grindhouse brilliance was to be narrated by Danny, one of the infected, a rather unassuming and put-upon father whose brain simply clicks over into destructive mode. There is no explanation offered, there is no room for questions. The Hater exists to kill the Unchanged, and there is no arguing points of logic or intellect.

However, where Hater was an exercise in sustained tension, Dog Blood finds itself firmly in sequel territory wherein the audience is already primed and ready. So, as sequels go, will Dog Blood be an escalation of themes and gore a la Dawn of the Dead or 28 Weeks Later, or will it be, well, a dog?

Luckily for the discriminating reader of hard-core horror, Dog Blood is pretty damn good. It's clumsy, and the writing is rarely more than serviceable, but Moody amps up the violence while driving his pseudo-zombie narrative into some uncharted territory, expanding his own mythos while staying true to the designated monster-movie format of killing anyone and everyone.

Dog Blood opens on Danny, a few months or so after the outbreak has firmly taken hold. The world is already heavily militarized; the Unchanged are kept behind walls that threaten to burst from overpopulation, while the Haters roam free, picking off any remnants of humanity they can find. But as with all addictions - like all good monster stories, the plot is rife with subtext, drug addiction being one of the more obvious - once the supply begins to dwindle, there's very little for the addict to do:

I don't get the same highs anymore, just the cravings. The euphoria has faded, and life's more of a struggle now. It's getting harder to find food, and I'm tired. The gap between kills in increasing, and all that's left to do in those gaps is think.

While Danny still gets a powerful high from killing, enough time has past that he has gained some perspective on the situation. Indeed, he is not the only one, as the Haters are beginning to mobilize and organize, believing that only once the Unchanged are wiped from existence can their lives return to normal. But Danny has a modicum more self-interest than most of his new brethren, understanding the risk concentrated attacks may pose the new world order.

When we're together we become an easy target for the Unchanged to pick out of the sky. Cowardly bastards. Face-to-face they know they don't stand a chance. Long-distance battles are the only ones they can win.

Speaking of subtext, the parallels to America's response to terrorism come through loud and clear. It may be unfair to ascribe a whole mind-set to one novel, but it would appear Moody does not hold out much hope for humanity's chances under sustained periods of strife.

But for Danny, his new comrades are only a tool to help him get what he truly seeks; his missing daughter Ellis, a five-year-old Hater he lost when his initial transformation overwhelmed him. Danny's quest takes him into the heart of the new Hater hierarchy, where the infected able to control their impulses plan a new strategy, that of subterfuge and infiltration.

No mistake, Dog Blood is not for everyone, and there are many who will see little value in its intense cynicism and graphic violence. But connoisseurs of the genre will realize the craft behind the mayhem, and will appreciate Moody's refusal to enliven his grim fairy tale with humour or hope. This is the horror of blood and guts, the horror of vintage Romero and Fulci, and if you're not prepared for it, why are you reading it?

It's the possibility of a new working world after the devastation that drives much of Dog Blood; in many ways, it is a sister novel to Octavia E. Butler's masterful Clay's Ark, about a space-borne pathogen that slowly alters the whole of the human race. Moody, like Butler, isn't interested in the whys of the infection, but in the consequences. In both stories, man is slave to his passions, and all the intellect in the world can only hold it at bay for so long. Moody isn't afraid to show the unpleasantness of his universe; despite Danny's identifiable personal quest, he's a conniving monster, as are his cohorts, and the rampant violence in Dog Blood is not for the squeamish.

In the end, Dog Blood, like Hater, is a true grindhouse horror movie translated onto the page. It is vile, nauseating stuff, done with verve and more style than you'd think. I recommend both books to the devoted horror fanatic who can appreciate both good art and good trash. I'd also recommend skipping lunch before you start.

VERDICT: MONKEY ENJOYS, IF THAT'S THE CORRECT TERM

Monkey Droppings - Parrot and Olivier in America by Peter Carey

The Monkey grapples with feelings of vague disappointment in the face of overwhelming opposition by the majority of critics.

Ah, who needs friends anyway.

Overrated, really.

Parrot and Olivier in America
by Peter Carey (2010)

Peter Carey is unquestionably one of the more celebrated novelists around. The two-time Booker-winner has proven time and again that he is a master of language, and every new novel from the Australian author is a tempting treat.

His most celebrated works, such as Oscar and Lucinda, tend to be historical tomes, and as such Carey’s newest effort, Parrot and Olivier in America, would appear to be another possible award-winner. Yet no author can maintain a perfect record; coming on the heels of his under-appreciated novel His Illegal Self, Parrot is sadly a lesser work.

Parrot and Olivier in America is set as a picaresque travelogue between two disparate personalities, representing class ideologies of the 19th century. Carey loosely bases Parrot on Alexis de Tocqueville, a French political thinker whose treatise Democracy in America is considered a magnum opus of social analysis.

Olivier de Garmont is a French nobleman, a lawyer sent to the burgeoning country of America, ostensibly to write on a dissertation on their prison system. Olivier is rather stuffy, described by his travelling companion thusly: “The trouble with the general class of Garmonts is that they cannot imagine the life of anyone outside the circle of their arse.”

John Larrit (or Parrot) is Olivier’s servant, an older Englishman acting as Olivier’s protector/transcriber during his voyages. Parrot is a rough-and-ready sort, an artist who has lived a truly Dickensian life of turmoil.

Together, the duo travels a period of great historical upheaval in Europe and North America. It is the time of France’s July Revolution, or as Parrot opines, the time when “the Frogs had once again become maddened by their king and went around the capital smashing anything that reminded them of their own stupidity.”

As they travel America, Olivier becomes enchanted with the future of governance, despite warnings that democracy is “a tiny tender fruit, but it will not ripen well.” Parrot maintains a more skeptical attitude, observing, “Democracies and monarchies, it does not matter—the world is filled with poor men tortured by the state.”

Historical novels are often a means by which to critique modern society, and Parrot is no exception. There is a harsh glee in Carey’s words when Olivier states, “Americans carry national pride altogether too far...Most of them boast about it without discernment and with an aggressiveness that is disagreeable to strangers and shows but little intelligence.”

While there is much humour to be found in statements such as “The common American people preferred their leaders to be as uneducated as they were themselves,” Parrot rarely achieves its potential. Carey has sketched out a novel weighted with political and philosophical concerns, but the story feels fragmented, by turns episodic and shallow.

Unlike Margaret Sweatman’s recent, similar novel The Players, Carey only occasionally achieves a balance between themes and characters. Rare for the author, Carey’s adventurers remain ciphers throughout, although Parrot is far more interesting than his titular counterpart.

It is impossible to label anything by Carey a failure, and Parrot and Olivier in America contains some set-pieces that likely rank with his best. Parrot is an interesting, sometimes lyrical foray into the roots of American democracy, but the novel’s unevenness proves its undoing.

VERDICT: MONKEY LIKES, BUT COULDN'T HOLD BACK THE YAWNS

Originally published (expurgated version) in the Winnipeg Free Press, April 24,2010.

Critical Monkey entry #6 - Treasure Island - “The secret has been told to the parrot.”

Having suffered mightily at the hands of James Patterson and his abysmal King Tut “non-fiction” meanderings (I still don’t have peripheral vision in my left eye), the Critical Monkey had to take a well-earned rest for a bit. But time heals some wounds, although not altogether cleanly. There is still a scar on my soul, and I find I cannot bear to try and conquer another bottomless pit of despair just yet.

So instead, I’m going old-school. 19th century old, to be precise. I’m taking to the high seas to read a youthful classic I have somehow avoided up to now:

Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson (1883)

Why I might like it: As per the rules, I have never read Stevenson, nor have I watched any of the cinematic adaptations of Treasure Island (not even the Muppets version). I have, however, greatly enjoyed the movie versions of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (the Frederic March version in particular) and The Body Snatcher. And there must be something to it; Treasure Island is a novel that has withstood the test of time and has entered the lexicon and popular culture. You may not have read the book, but if you haven't heard of Long John Silver, you must be living in a cave or something, and should really get out more.

Why I might hate it: I hold no particular affinity for pirate stuff, or novels about seafaring. This doesn’t go for films: I enjoyed Pirates of the Caribbean (all three movies, actually), I can watch The Sea Hawk endlessly, I love submarine films, I'll never get tired of Gregory Peck battling giant whales, and I consider the movie version of Master and Commander to be one of the great ignored classics of the 21st century. But reading and watching are entirely different things, and frankly, I find most of my readings to date on naval goings-ons to be as dull as dirt (and I include pretty much half of Moby Dick in this). I claim no expertise on the matter, I do not mean to malign artists or their craft (I really should read at least one Patrick O’Brian), and I fall back purely on my own ignorance of the genre.

The verdict: Fun. Not earthshattering, not spectacular, but a decent-enough adventure novel for the younger set.

The plot is standard adventure story boiler-plate, but considering the age of the text, I’ll give it a little leeway for a lack of originality. Jim Hawkins is a young lad bound for adventure, chosen by circumstance to join a gang of buccaneers on their search for buried treasure. While consumed with the headstrongedness of youth, he’s also savvy enough to survive many scrapes that would kill lesser boys. Or men. I admit to being unprepared for Stevenson’s body count, quite high considering the novel’s reputation as a classic of young adult literature. I thought this might be because it was written more for adults, but as it was apparently written first as a serial for Young Folks magazine, I guess that people gave kids a little more credit than they do now. Still, I rarely hear of challenges to Treasure Island, but I guess that’s because killing is fine, but finding love among one’s own gender, now that's unacceptable (sorry, editorializing).

For a young adult novel, Treasure Island has a surprisingly malleable take on morality, embodied through Silver's handling of events. Most of the pirates take rather a bleak view of mankind; as the two-timing Israel Hands eloquently puts it:

For thirty years...I’ve sailed the seas, and seen good and bad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o’ goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don’t bite; them’s my views—amen, so be it.

Silver, however, twists and turns all people to his advantage, but somehow still ends up on top. He's not all evil, just opportunistic, which is some instances is even worse. At least with evil, you know where you stand. It is this flexibility of moral coding, as well as the theory that a gentleman's word is his bond and honour, that adds a weird ethical ambiguity little seen to such an extent in young adult literature.

Yet as the pages flipped by, I admit to a fair degree of boredom on my part; this despite the presence of copious amounts of pirates and pirate-related mayhem. Jim may be a daring avatar for a younger reader, but to an adult he reads as woefully one-dimensional; shrewd and capable, yes, but as a character he's rather flat. The adults are either upper-class English types or roguish layabouts, and while the latter is infinitely more preferable to read about, neither group (outside of Silver) is much fun. I also am perplexed by the reputation of some of the characters; I had heard of Blind Pew before, and on the rear cover of the book jacket Pew is described as being evil incarnate. But he's barely in the novel, he's dead long before the actual seafaring begins, and while he's undeniably unpleasant, I fail to see why he has garnered any reputation at all.

I'm glad I read it, though, even if I was underwhelmed, and I'll put Dr. Jekyll on my list, as I'd like to see how Stevenson wrote for adults.

THE MONKEY IS SO-SO, BUT HE SURVIVED, SO LET'S CALL THIS ONE A WIN