Extraordinary Adventures, Daniel Wallace, Hardcover, 336pp, May 2017, St. Martin’s Press
I was hanging in my local indie, The Curious Iguana, a gift card SCREAMING at me from my wallet to buy something but there weren’t any books I was dying to have or had been alerted to by my vast Twitter network of word and book lovers. So consulted my friendly bookseller and, voila! All I needed was to be told the writer of Big Fish had a new release, Extraordinary Adventures, and I was in.
Okay, true confessions (why do so many of my book write-ups involve confessions?): I never actually read Big Fish. And surely you don’t think me one of those cretins who believes movie content has much of anything to do with the book that inspired it. Ha! Of course not. It was the *MUSICAL version of Big Fish had its way with my heart, memory of which experience prompted me to buy this book.
The blurbs called it quirky and funny and hilarious and witty, and I suppose that’s a decision made by the marketing people, but wow, while I found much to admire in it and was touched by its humanity and tenderness, I did not find it funny.
I asked myself why?
And, alarmingly, the only answer with which I could come up was that, perhaps, maybe, it could be, oh dear, I’m too much like the main character, Edsel Bronfman. He is a reasonably intelligent man, reasonably capable, reasonably kind and good, who has allowed his life to live him rather than he living his life. He waited, he hoped, he wished, but he didn’t do much to make any of his hopes or wishes come to fruition. He did not — maybe — believe he was worthy of the lives he saw others living, the hopes fulfilled, and the wishes come true.
Edsel makes an effort to remedy these things through the course of the narrative (he’s MUCH younger than I am, so, good on him for trying to change) and interacts with a number of extraordinary women, discovers some of his mother’s secrets, develops a fondness for the drug dealer next door who robs his apartment and almost gets him killed, and trips, trudges, and travels through a series of — well, okay — quirky adventures leading up to a resolution — of sorts.
The novel sometimes feels as if it’s trying just a little too hard to be a Bill Murray vehicle. You know, one of those darkish meta-noirs posing as comedies directed by a pair of brothers, the kind a comedic actor signs up for in an effort to gain an auteur-hip patina and an Oscar nomination; the kind of film (definitely NOT a movie) the cognoscenti group-think agree to crow over despite the fact very few of them actually sat through the whole thing.
Which makes it sound as if I didn’t like this book, which is not the case. I didn’t not like it. I just, well, look, I’m having a rough life and I’m a hard sell on believing that your average schlub is going to stumble out of schmo-dom into a happy end.
After my tenth biopsy in four weeks, with insurance the congress is about to strip me of, in a country being run by a misogynist racist mentally unstable foreign plant, well, I’m just not buying it.
And there it is. And here I am, going.
*I saw the final performance of Big Fish: The Musical, to which I was taken as a gift by a dear, dear friend of mine. I had recently lost some people, my life was in what can politely be called chaos, one of the stars of the show — Bobby Steggert — is from Frederick, Maryland, where I live, and I had seen him in shows when he was a youngster, and, I am a sucker for almost every musical ever. Kate Baldwin played the love interest in the show, and during the course of it, as the leading character is dying, she sits downstage center, holds his head in her lap, and sings a song called I Don’t Need A Roof — listen:
During the course of this song I sobbed (you’d have to be an ice cube not to do so) with such vigor and volume not only did my dear friend on my right put his arm around me to comfort me, the stranger on my left grabbed my hand and comforted me as well, sobbing along. So, yeah, that kind of magic? I’m of course going to buy Extraordinary Adventures.