After his first novel did the span of human history without leaving Northampton, and the second took in Heaven, Hell and beyond while largely confining itself to Moore's own neighbourhood, I'd assumed the acknowledged third would be the multiverse as applied to his kitchen, but no; instead we get the first of a projected quintet set in London, or rather Londons. I say all of this observing the polite fiction that What We Can Know About Thunderman wasn't a novel, of course, even though 240 pages is no more a novella than it's my aunt, but in fact The Great When has definite similarities to that one. Not that Jerusalem in particular was free of grubbiness - remember the way that, as it ranged back and forth in time and space, we kept glimpsing that one trodden-on turd? But the exhausted post-War London here, half of it bombed flat and the rest so shabby and seamy it might as well have been, definitely reminded me of the determinedly sordid mood of Thunderman. There's even another spectacularly mortifying wank mag scene, albeit only one this time, rather than geological accumulations of the sods.
Still, that instance of restraint is rare. Sometimes, the excess is absolutely deliberate; whenever we're in Long London, the Fire to our world's Smoke, the intentionally overstuffed prose does an exuberant job of conveying the sheer too-much-ness that threatens to overwhelm unprepared mortal minds. But for that effect to fully come off, Moore would need to rein himself in on the Short London scenes. And, sure, if Alan Moore had once in his life thought 'Is this a bit much?', then he'd probably never have remade a whole medium, so to some extent following his work is all about taking the rough with the smooth. Obviously, lots of what he comes up with does work, because, as we've established, he's Alan bloody Moore. But the profusion risks swamping the dynamics of the novel, not to mention the reader. Every so often there's an absolute clunker of an image; even if you are referring to the progress of a racing tipster who presents himself as exotic royalty, "as stately and involved with gambling as a riverboat" is always going to be an awkward phrase - and yes, this is the worst offender, and yes, it is during a Long London scene, but even so. Elsewhere, little details of the time (salt instead of toothpaste, for instance) sometimes feel crowbarred in; foreshadowing the present in historical novels is always a minefield, and this one keeps losing its feet; most surprisingly, a few times characters deliver exposition to camera in speeches that feel oddly clumsy for how much experience Moore has had getting away with explaining far sillier situations in less forgiving formats over the years.
Or perhaps the exposition felt more glaring to me because I already knew a fair chunk of it. Even in the prologue, with Crowley and Dion Fortune, and the apocalyptic erasing of Cripplegate, I was often on familiar turf, whereas when I'm in Moore's Northampton, I'm being led around terra incognita by a native. I'm aware this is a deeply ungrateful diamond shoes sort of complaint, especially given From Hell was one of my starter texts in the occult history of London, but once the plot proper starts, with heavy reference to Arthur Machen and especially his story N, I started to get twitchy. Oh no, one of my favourite living writers is addressing one of my favourite topics, with particular attention to one of my favourite stories by one of my favourite dead writers! I must be consoled immediately! Part of the problem, obviously, is that since From Hell, there has been some heavy traffic on those ley lines, Gaiman and Mieville only two of the more obvious names to have given us mystical reflected Londons into which the unwary might stumble. When we're back in regular London, the starting point is the book trade, and that just recalls Moore's old mucker Iain Sinclair (credited in the delightful acknowledgements, obviously, alongside Michael Moorcock, one of whose districts is on loan for a couple of cameos). To some extent this feels deliberate; part of Moore's genius has always been polishing up existing materials and finding new life in them, and part of the idea of Long London is that everyone's London is secondhand, third, more, overlaid by every half-remembered tale of the city, which between them are far more real than the mere stones of the place. But even so, and of course this may change in subsequent books, at this point I'm still feeling the familiarity more than the fresh angles.
Exacerbating that, we have the characters. Given the long grudges nursed against Moore by some, I suspect a lot of the criticism will focus on the women, what with the two main female characters being a gargoyle of a landlady, and a gorgeous streetwalker with a heart of gold. But the men, historical and mythical figures aside, are also straight out of central casting, and for the most part reveal fewer further nuances as the novel progresses: the hangdog hack, the witty barrister, and of course our gawky lead, Dennis Knuckleyard. I won't say that he's the least convincing of the lot; yes, it might seem a stretch that he can remember odd little folkloric details he once heard, at the same time as getting instructions on things he absolutely must or must not do back to front, but I have met (and indeed married) the ADHD, so regretfully, I can believe that. But fundamentally, I'm not sure that hapless leads play to Moore's strengths. Or at least, not leads openly presented as hapless; plenty of his previous protagonists were eventually revealed as such, but that's a very different proposition. Obviously there's an element of flipping that here, a fairly straightforward hero's journey under all the debris and urban psychohistory, but he can still be exasperating company at times, and never more so than at the end when his apparent trajectory is brought down to earth by what looks a lot like a punchline that undercuts the story, crossed with a reset button.
That's after the resolution of a second plot, which takes up the slack in the book's final third, once the introductory one has been resolved, and which I suspect will feel familiar to more readers than just the Machen fans. And as I write that, I realise how negative a lot of this review has been. Yeah, it's not the best Alan Moore novel - but that's an extremely high bar, and (as long as we remember Thunderman) it's certainly not the worst either. There's plenty here that's insightful, funny, beautiful, chilling - even some that are all four at once (an extended bit of business with a knife comes to mind). I'm definitely going to give the series one more book, and almost certainly all four, especially after the teasing flash-forward in the epilogue. I just hold wizards to higher standards than everyday writers.
(Netgalley ARC)