Wednesday 2 May 2018

French Exit


French exit 

Noun. French exit (offensive) A hasty exit made without saying farewells to anybody.
I have been a fan of Patrick deWitt's from the beginning, and I believe I've read everything he's written; joyfully revelling in his ink-black, violent comedies. I was, therefore, rapturously delighted to have been sent an ARC – months early – of his latest, and so doubly disappointed when it turned out to be just okay. French Exit begins on a promising note – with a smart-talking Upper East Side widow browbeating her squishy manchild of a thirty-six-year-old son and ignoring the debts piling up at the door – and once the action moves to Paris, and the mother and son somehow can't prevent a whole slew of odd characters from moving into their small apartment with them, I thought, “Oooh, a French farce, how perfect.” But it's not: it's not perfect, and it's not a drawing room farce; it's just some unhappy people trying – and failing – to make connections, with a bit of snappy repartee, a possessed cat, and a lot of alcohol. I gave four stars to Undermajordomo Minor and Ablutions, and if I hadn't read it before I joined Goodreads, I'd have definitely given The Sisters Brothers a full five, so I can't possible give this book more than three stars; deWitt just might be judged more harshly because I'm judging him against himself. (As I read an ARC, quotes used may not be in their final forms.)
“It's important, Mr. Rudy, that you understand my point of view, and appreciate both the fact and scope of my nihilism. Now, you and I know that many of the objects in this house are of an uncommon quality. My effects represent a small fortune. Fifteen per cent of that, even in a hushed, rushed sale? Think of how many socks that would buy.” Mr. Rudy's eyelids dropped, and he became pensive. Frances said, “Now let's walk together, not speaking, to the front door.”
Frances Price – still beautiful, feared, and admired at sixty-five – has been burning through her husband's money in the two decades since his death. With the bank threatening to take away everything she has left, Frances heeds her financial advisor's warning to sell what she can and skip town; make a French exit, as it were. Although her son, Malcolm, is engaged to a lovely and devoted woman, Frances insists that he accompany her to Paris, and Malcolm can't help but comply: ever since Frances pulled him out of boarding school upon his father's death when the boy was twelve, Malcolm has rarely left his mother's side. Many interesting things happen in the present, various characters tell weird stories from their pasts, and there are many scenes urging us to be kind to immigrants, the homeless, the deranged. This book has more scenes with people talking about their feelings and attempting to verbalise their personal philosophies than I remember from previous deWitts, and I'd say it suffers for it.

On the other hand, deWitt hasn't lost his powers for the satisfying turn of phrase. Dr. Touche is “a sleepy-eyed and swarthy man with the hands of a female adolescent.” Ms Mackey was “a slender, melancholic woman of thirty-five with a gap in her front teeth and aching, pale blue eyes”. A night of impotence sees a couple regarding the man's penis, “a glum mushroom caving in on itself”. And, as ever, deWitt shines through his sparkling dialogue:
Julius slept beside Mme Reynard on the couch, which was a foldout, she was delighted to discover. Tapping her chin, she warned Julius, “Talk in my sleep.”

“That's all right.”

“Also I gnash my teeth.”

“All right.”

“And I have sleep apnea, and sometimes I sleepwalk. If you see me set out to wander you musn't wake me. But if I try to leave the apartment, will you steer me back round?”

“Okay.”

Mme Reynard became sheepish. “Occasionally I suffer from nightsickness,” she admitted.

“What's nightsickness?”

“I sometimes – rarely – vomit the bed.”

Julius said, “Sweet dreams, Mme Reynard.”

“I never do dream,” she lamented. “Oh, life!”
“Vomit the bed” for some reason made me snicker, so that was worthwhile. French Exit might mark a more mature style for deWitt – one in which the balance of tragicomedy tilts more towards the tragic – and it might well have been an intentional departure, but I didn't find it very satisfying. (And I get that the cover looks like one of Mme Reynard's line drawings, but I miss the trademark black and red graphic design of his other books.)


The 2018 Scotiabank Giller Prize Longlist: 

Paige Cooper: Zolitude
Patrick DeWitt: French Exit
Esi Edugyan: Washington Black
Sheila Heti: Motherhood
Emma Hooper: Our Homesick Songs
Tanya Tagaq: Split Tooth
Kim Thúy: Vi
Joshua Whitehead: Jonny Appleseed


*Won by Washington Black (but I would have given it to Songs for the Cold of Heart)
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