I became infatuated with Frank Conroy after reading his marvelous 25 page essay on Steve McQueen for Esquire magazine, an essay he later disowned. Intrigued I read his memoir Stop Time and found it ordinary - wordy without conveying intensity or showing why his life was unusual and worth reading about. His novel Body and Soul felt overextended, sentimental and slack, and the attacks on Schoenberg seemed simpleminded. I loved Midair, but rereading the collection discovered that the story I once found weakest - Car Games - I now found strongest. Car Games captures masculinity's scary unpredictability and has a sensuous attentiveness to the beauty of automobiles and driving through snow and unleashing anger without knowing or caring where it comes from. The narrator doesn't know himself or why he is unhappy - it just happens, and the mystery at his core, because unexplored, feels real. This same quality is flashed in the racquetball game (37-39) in Celestial Events. Conroy is at his best with masculine ritual and unfocused, mysterious anger, which is threatening because we know not its source.
However, these stories mostly deal with more ordinary emotions and events and with older people. Midair suffers from a lack of charisma; it feels old. The hole left by the departure of youthful swagger isn't filled in with the insights of maturity. The prose I once found tough and clean now seems flat and plain. As the leader of the Iowa Workshop Mr. Conroy edited fiercely, but the stories here are NOT honed to the bone and they lack Ernest (a writer Conroy may have disliked) Hemingway's poetic flair. In retrospect I believe what attracted me to his profile of my favorite actor was the fact that Conroy is very cool and very male and leaves a lot unexplained yet hinted at. You feel like he and McQueen recognize each other's special brand of cool and thus an unspoken bond is created between them. You want to hang out with them too, to be admitted into their privileged circle, to win their approval and be deemed cool.
Here that uncanny magic only occurs in moments where he delves into masculine ritual: Car Games, the racquetball game, the violent movie in Gossip (111-113, the basketball game that climaxes the collection. Everything else is observed truthfully and accurately, but without enough detail, in prose so flat (page 107 indicates he mistrusts metaphors and romanticism), so undifferentiated and almost anti-intellectual, it could come from Time magazine. Without digging beneath the surface to illuminate the infinite aspects of each experience, we recognize the accuracy without feeling anything. The second best story here is Gossip but its ending hints at profundity without revealing anything profound. Transit features the type of line that recurs throughout the collection and reveals its main problem: "The scenes below were hinting at something, as if some great principle was about to be revealed." It never is.