Flusfeder’s JOHN THE PUPIL was such a unique a unexpected novel (being both a medieval road trip and inspired attempt to channel how a devout 13th-century monk might describe his adventures en route to Viterbo) that I chased down a couple other books of his. That led me to Flusfeder’s most popular novel, THE GIFT, which is cute enough, I suppose, being a contemporary satire of social niceties (a competitive jerk finds himself repeatedly outdone in an escalating game of “thoughtfulness,” trying to find friends the perfect gift), and eventually to A FILM BY SPENCER LUDWIG, which on paper sounds like it might be right up my alley: a meta-road-movie-as-novel in which a frustrated indie filmmaker attempts to bond with his ailing father as the two make their way to a film festival in Atlantic City. Alas, the book fell short, despite some cute/clever snipes at various cinema clichés. “If this were an independent film...,” the narrator repeatedly observes, rattling off what’s meant to sound like an inferior/formulaic treatment compared to the wild and profound unpredictability of “real life” — which we are invited to pretend is somehow captured in the novel, with its equally calcified conventions. It’s a nice try at achieving some new kind of authenticity that folds under its own sense of self-awareness, like one of those movie scenes in which a character speculates aloud about how things might go if he were in a movie (as in MAGNOLIA, when Philip Seymour Hoffman says, “See this is the scene of the movie where you help me out”). But I’m not convinced that Flusfeder understands what cinema CAN achieve, building to a let-down last chapter (“Spencer has always had trouble with his endings,” we’re told), which follows a lengthy blow-by-blow poker competition with the inevitable “scene where” Spencer and his father struggle to say what two skilled actors could accomplish in a single glimpse if this really were a movie.
Failed to grab my attention after 50 pages. My rule is if a book can't make me care after 50 pages, then it goes to the reject pile. Life's too short to waste on a book that doesn't interest me.