“This is 1968, Elfrida. Look around you. Germany, France, the USA, Vietnam. The world is on fire, changing. Don’t go backwards.”
“They are still people, Calder. Human beings ...” Elfrida wondered what she would say next. “And people come to us, us novelists, looking for information.”
“About what?”
“About other people. About all the other people in the world. What we’re thinking, what we need, what we dream about, what we hate. What makes us tick, basically. People are opaque, utterly mysterious. Even those dearest to us are closed books. If you want to know what human beings are like, actually like, if you want to know what’s going on in their heads behind those masks we all wear – then read a novel.”
Elfrida Wing, a middle-aged novelist struggling with writer’s block and late stage alcoholism, goes to her agent and tries to sell him on her latest idea for a book: the final day in the life of suicidal Virginia Woolf. Her man Calder is unimpressed, he wants something with plot and thrills for a modern audience.
This is the same issue I imagine William Boyd had to deal with when he told his publishers that he wanted to write a novel about three damaged people who go through a midlife crisis, an introspective character study in three parts. How can he sell this?
Let it play out as it may, he thought, there was nothing to be gained by fantasising. He almost laughed out loud. There was everything to be gained by fantasising; surely fantasising kept you sane, interested in life, connected to events, to all manner of agreeable, hypothetical possibilities. Maybe, he considered further, the very ability to fantasise was a fundamental feature of our human nature.
I believe we can sell it the readers on the strength of Boyd’s talent for coming up with flesh and blood, believable [fictional] people, people that somehow become representative of what he calls the ’fundamental features of our human nature’. And he does this with a style and subtlety that make labels such as postmodern or classic irrelevant, at least for me.
The framing story that gathers the three subjects of Boyd’s study of depression is the production of a movie in Brighton, in the year 1968. A midlife crisis can be triggered at any age, apparently:
Elfrida Wing, wife of the movie’s director, has known early success in her literary journey, and reviews comparing her style to Virginia Woolf, but hasn’t written anything in more than ten years. She starts her day with a couple of vodka and orange cocktails.
Anny Viklund is the star of the movie, a young American actress on the rise who tries to control her insecurity by seducing available men to protect her and medicating herself with stimulants and anti-depressants.
Talbot Kydd is the London based producer, an dapper elderly gentleman who abhors conflict and tries to be pleasant company while keeping a secret apartment in the metropolis where he indulges his homoerotic fantasies.
This film, Ladder to the Moon, was like weather: both unpredictable and unavoidable. You had no idea what the next day would bring, but it would bring something: wind, rain, sun, storms, drought. The simple overriding ambition was to survive, to maintain some degree of normality.
The making of a big budget movie provides the plot with conflict and with the interesting side characters that ease the reader into the secret inner landscape of this trio of improbable partners. To be honest, Boyd makes little effort to make his main actors likeable, especially Elfrida, whose descent into alcohol paranoia is painful to watch. Similarly, beautiful and successful Anny is a packet of raw nerve endings who seeks constant rescue from the men in her life: a former husband that is an ideological [and actual] terrorist and has just escaped from jail, a current boyfriend that is a successful philosopher and journalist in revolutionary Paris and the young and enthusiastic playboy who is her co-star in the movie. Always somebody else cast in the role of saviour, never herself.
Talbot Kydd eats ulcer pills like popcorn, having to deal with his arrogant arthouse director Rodrigo, people stealing his film stock, his Levantine partner trying to push him out of the production company and volatile actors making unreasonable demands. A lifetime of hiding his feelings and living a double life is about to catch up to him as he looks at the younger generation and society at large becoming enmeshed in the sexual emancipation he is still to afraid to acknowledge.
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I confess I have been a fan of William Boyd ever since I read An Ice-Cream War sometime back in 1991 or 1992. That debut novel shares a surprising number of literary devices with his latest offering: an in-depth character study of a young man with a boisterous imagination, caught up in interesting times in colonial Africa, written with elegant prose and provocative ideas about identity and motivation.
Over the years, mr. Boyd may not have changed his basic approach to fiction writing, but he has definitely gotten better at his game, striking a balance of sorts between revealing secret thoughts through character interaction and inserting his own editorial commentary.
The mention of Virginia Woolf and the questions about the relevance of her work to a modern audience brought the goods home to me when I asked myself what is the point of Trio , as well as a later reference to Talbot reading A la reserche du temps perdu for about the seventh time:
Desire, longing, hatred, revenge, love, shame, frustration, jealousy, yearning, and so on – all your adult emotions failed to equal or come close to the intensity of those emotions that you experienced as an adolescent. Which was why, the argument continued, adults were always searching for a repeat of that level of experience, that emotional truth, because they already had a touchstone, a template, that they remembered vividly. But they searched in vain, because the original experience – the vivid, heartfelt one – was always out of their reach, buried deep in their past, unrecoverable.
Is redemption possible for this trio of damaged people? Mr. Boyd tries to show empathy and kindness towards the problems they have to deal with, but it is hard to help people who do not want to help themselves and who live in denial. I think he wrote the novel in an attempt to find an answer out of this dilemma.
We cannot control most aspects of our lives, he thought, but those we can try to control, or at least influence, we should protect and cherish.