In this novel, as in everything else he touches, Stephen Fry alternately entertains, amuses, provokes and alarms, and I found the novel to be part silly, part thought-provoking, part brilliant.
We follow Ted Wallace, a 60-something has-been journalist-cum-poet, who is outwardly and verbally a cynical misogynist. He travels to a country house in an attempt to unravel some rather strange goings-on in a family and finds a bit more than he bargained for. He goes there because he is the godfather of a son of said family, though he had practically forgotten this fact, and because he has to help out a niece of said family, who is his goddaughter, which he had also more or less forgotten. You get the picture. I didn’t really like any of the characters for a long time, but that wasn’t necessary to enjoy the novel nor, I suppose, was I meant to. The reader’s feeling towards the narrator, Ted, change, however, and I enjoyed how this was done – the tone and story balancing strangely between sentimentality and cynicism.
And yet, just as I was thinking to myself that I was becoming positively addicted to Fry and his crazy, wordy ramblings, he threw in a perverse ‘sex’ scene which, frankly, I could have done without (it can hardly be called sex, which is impossible to understand unless you’ve read the book, and I don’t want to include a spoiler here). This over, he took a detour to Hungarian farming (!), and my previous shock was soon replaced by delight when he then departed into a fantastic German-Hungarian accent when suddenly giving us background information about one of the characters’ father (the Hungarian farmer), who rambled on about World War II, Judaism, England and what-not. I loved it, and this alone makes me want to hear, rather than read, everything that Fry writes.
On that note, I agree with another reviewer in here that Stephen Fry could read aloud an IKEA instruction manual and I would probably still be enthralled. His language often strikes me as so much verbal bravado, underlined by his English public school pronunciation in the audio version, yet he can get away with it; in fact, I suppose that is his style, really. And it’s not just words. There are hundreds of facts, opinions and questions, all idiosyncratically Fry-esque, squeezed into the dialogue that I almost had to push the stop button a few times simply to digest something before moving on (just as I had to stop it once in a while when I didn’t catch what he was saying because I had started laughing).
The novel has a cynical and ironic tone which only a British novel can have, but it ultimately also has a heart. And despite the fact that the novel is twenty years old, it doesn’t feel dated. The sign of a good read, surely, is also that the reader immediately wants to read something else by the author, and this is exactly how I feel right now. As much as I enjoy (nay, love) reading, however, I would prefer an audio-version again when it comes to Stephen Fry’s writing; his reading aloud is simply priceless.
Finally, the language is superb. Not a page goes by without Fry employing some interesting, quirky, witty or occasionally just plain wonderful turn of phrase, and for that alone I could easily listen to it all over again. Marvellous; I mentally genuflect before him.
4,5 stars (the half star deducted for that one nasty episode, which I do acknowledge had a role to play, but it still grossed me out).