[7/10]
The book first came to my atention for its circus connection - a favorite theme of mine. Then I saw it received a lot of glowing reviews from people I follow. Technically, the story is about vaudeville not circus, a related form of showbusiness that knew its greatest popularity at the turn of the 20th century, with artists touring small venues all across America, before the magic of the silver screen replaced it in popularity. I believe Chaplin is the greatest example of a performer starting in vaudeville and moving to cinema. The Troupe is a much more ambitious project that a simple evocation of the period, bringing in an interesting riff on the biblical cosmogony, a lot of fantasy tropes (elves, air elementals, golems/marionettes) and existentialist angst (why struggle if the end will be the same, no mattter what).
In line with other great tales bringing together the performing arts and the supernatural, the tale is a dark one, closer to horror than to what we now label urban fantasy. The narrative shies away from the light of the sun, moving mostly in the shadows, in the dark of winter, under a cosmic cold from which the world may never recover. Danger, death, destruction, despair lurk around every corner, with Armaggedon waiting in the stalls to make a final entrance. The-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it is one of those overused fantasy cliches that can turn me off if deployed without finesse. The jury is still out regarding this present case, with enough positive aspects of the story to balance things out.
The human element raises the novel above the usual supernatural adventure/murder investigation, with very well defined characters and complex interactions involving coming of age, romance, family ties, jealousy, self sacrifice, obsession and so on. The main narrator is George Carole, an orphaned teenager with a native talent for playing the piano, on a quest to find his runaway father on the vaudeville circuit. He comes off the page as an amalgam of ambition and insecurity, romantic yearning and muleheaded obstinacy. Mostly selfish like all youths, he compensates with a solid moral core and a streak of kindness towards the less fortunate. He will be eclipsed in the novel by his alleged father, Heironomous 'Harry' Silenus, Oldest Wanderer, Harvester of Echoes, Bearer of Lights Eternal, Master of Stage and Speech and Song . A cranky authocrat with a foul mouth and an inflexible focus on a mysterious private crusade, Silenus is the leader of the Troupe: a curious collection of supernatural performers whose mystery is compounded by the fact that the audience is struck by a memory loss after each of their shows. Kingsley Tyburn is an elderly gentleman, a former professor who now opens the spectacle with a ventriloquist act. The first comparison that comes to mind is Jeff Dunham and his crazy puppets, but Kingsley has a definite melancholic, even creepy tone instead of satire. Collette is the youngest member before George joins the troupe and she is an exotic dancer, introduced as a Persian Princess. Her role cannot be dismissed simply as eye-candy or love interest, she gets some powerful scenes denouncing the rampant racial discrimination of the period. Franny the strongwoman comes across as more of an animated mummy than actual human being, performing improbable feats of iron bending and safe juggling. She will have her moment in the limelight, in a spectacular finale that has more to do with emotional overload rather than credible demonstration of strength. Last member of the troupe is the quiet Stanley, communicating only by writing on a portable blackboard, perfoming mind/reality altering songs on the cello under the baguette of Silenus. His temperament provides a needed counterpoint to the explosive and aggravating personality of the team manager, an oasis of calmness and common sense.
As I've already mentioned, the tensions and the interplay between the members of the troupe were the highlights of the novel for me. I would have probably rated it higher, but the actual plot, while clever and very well paced, strained my suspension of disbelief beyond reasonable bounds and I often found the dialogue and the info dumps less accomplished than the imaginative powers of the author. Ultimately, I read the story as parrable, a metaphor for life's struggles and the inevitability of death, a magic spectacle were the message is more important than the nuts and bolts behind the curtains. The prose is generally effective in delivering the message, but I cannot help wishing for the pen of a more lyrical writer, capable of making the pages really soar and sing. The comparisons have already been made by other reviewers, and I found them all appropriate, at least in theme if not in prose: Ray Bradbury, Charles Finney, Angela Carter, more recently Erin Morgenstern and Carlos Ruiz Zafon. They all share a fascination for the gothic mood and for the world of show business. Mr. Bennett should be proud of such select company.