Life of Pi - the novel

Why is it so many modern novels - especially those that seem to get categorised in the literary genre - don't grab you sufficiently from the beginning to make you want to keep on reading?   These books are often very well written, as far as the style is concerned, but when it comes to an actual story (and I don't just mean a 'plot' - although many of them could do with something that could be called a plot) they fall down.  I began to read a book last night called How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone by Saša Stanišić - the excellent translation is by Anthea Bell.  It's full of interesting detail, and considerable warmth, and the characters have life.  And yet...something's missing.  There's nothing grabbing you (at least in the first thirty pages or so that I read), nothing that says: keep on reading me; I'm going to take you somewhere.  I suspect that if I persevered, I'd find that it did go somewhere (if the blurb is anything to go by) but why do I have to wait thirty pages or more to find out?

I began to read Felix Holt by George Eliot the other night (I've had it on my shelves for as long as I can remember).  Now, in her time, it was okay to start slowly and gradually draw the reader in.  But Eliot spends several pages of small print giving us nothing but background, and absolutely no characters, and I just couldn't be bothered taking the journey any further.  Sometimes it seems like modern writers (again, I emphasize it's the 'literary' school that's most inclined to do this) don't really care whether their reader keeps reading.  They've written their beautiful book and that's all that matters.  

I read The Life of Pi while on holiday.  Yann Martel manages to keep you reading from early on, though it would be possible to toss this book into the unfinished pile too.  I think the difference is that there's a sense that the book is going somewhere (Stanišić's book somehow misses this, in spite of all the detail), even though again there's no particular 'story' and certainly no plot.  The first third of the book has the narrator telling us mostly about the zoo his father runs, on one hand, and his spiritual journey on the other. The zoo is there for a good reason, but the spiritual journey?  I'm not sure how that relates to the rest of the book.  It almost seems like a sidetrack that Martel enjoyed writing about but which perhaps should never have got into the finished book.  It's interesting, and intriguing and amusing, but is it part of the story?

The first third is all pretty much a prelude to the incredible journey that Pi ultimately finds himself involved in: the ship on which he and his family are travelling to Canada on sinks mid-ocean; the ship also contains some of the animals from the now closed zoo.  Pi is the only human to escape - he winds up on a lifeboat with a tiger, an orang-utan, a hyena and a zebra.  There's some very nasty sorting out of the pecking order amongst these creatures, and finally only Pi and the tiger remain.  They survive an extraordinary trip across the ocean, wind up for a short period on a floating island full of meerkats, escape from its initially unrealised perils and finally drift to the coast of Mexico, where both survive in their own way.  Recovering in hospital he's visited by two Japanese agents from the ship's owners who try to understand what caused the ship to sink.  Pi tells them his story, which they don't believe, so he tells them a totally different (and even more unpleasant) version - and then they don't know which to believe.  And the book ends.  There's also a kind of framing of the whole story supposedly written by Martel, who meets up with Pi at a later stage.  This section also seemed a bit irrelevant, like a kind of framing device that should have been ditched at some point in the various draftings of the story.  

Anyway, for better or worse, Martel kept all these diverse elements in.  The story is full of humour, and is enjoyable for that reason (the last section with the translated Japanese comments is often delightful).  It's full of detail about surviving at sea, and that's extremely interesting, if difficult to come to terms with at times.  It's also extremely grim: if the sinking of the ship seems like an unpleasant experience, it's nothing like the unpleasantness that's described when the four animals gradually dispose of each other, or the horrors of trying to survive for months and months in a lifeboat.  The fantastic section set on the meerkat island begins as a tranquil interlude and then becomes a nightmare. 

Martel keeps us guessing throughout as to what is really going on: who is the real narrator?  Is it Pi or Martel (or Martel's novelist 'character')?  Do we hear Pi's story as he told it, or as the novelist has rewritten it?  How much of it is 'true' and how much a fantasy?  Where does the religious element that's so prominent in the first part come into the rest?  According to some reviewers the book's underpinning is religious, and there are hints scattered throughout that this may be so.  Yet the religious element seems to me to be the weakest.  I don't know what Pi is thinking about spiritually in his long journey, and at the end that aspect of his life seems to be put in the background.  Perhaps I need to re-read it discover what Martel is getting at here, as I seem to have missed what other reviewers have 'discovered' in this regard.  Early in the book a character tells the 'author' that this story will make you believe in God.  I'm not sure how that is supposed to happen.  Pi doesn't necessarily credit his ultimate salvation with being saved by God (and which God, anyway, since he believes in three very different versions simultaneously) and there's no sense of an epiphany - at least not that I recall.  

Anyway, the main point about the book is that somehow Martel keeps you reading.  I'm not sure how he does it - whether it's the sheer inventiveness of the book and its wealth of detail or the perseverance of the main character - but he does it in such a way that it would annoy you to put the book down.  Certainly better than being annoyed because you can't be bothered to read any further!

Tiger Bay

Caught up with Tiger Bay again the other night. I hadn’t seen this since it first came out in 1959. It was Hayley Mills’ first role, and she’s excellent in it, playing the somewhat amoral Gillie, a child who is so adept at lying that she can keep her aunt, the police and even the murderer on the hook when she wants. Not that she’s an unpleasant child: we have complete sympathy with her even when she’s doing something that’s going to cause distress further along the way.
J Lee Thompson was the director, and the film stands up well to the test of time. A few scenes might have been shortened if the film was being made now, but in general things move along at a fair pace. Thompson was probably a journeyman director; there’s little sense of their being a Thompson style or of him being an auteur in the vein of Hitchcock, but he turned out a good number of thrillers expertly, and what more can you ask?
Once again it’s intriguing to see (and remember) just how free children were in those days: they played in all sorts of places adults would now consider dangerous, and they went out of their houses or flats without any great sense of restriction or curfew.
Horst Buchholz made his English-speaking debut in this movie, and there’s little trace of problem with the language. Apparently he was fluent in several languages, which served him well throughout his film career, as he made movies not only in his native Germany, but in various other European countries as well. He was about 24 at the time this film was made, and was already a big star in his native country. He went on to make some classic films (particularly The Magnificent Seven) but I have little memory of him apart from this relatively small-scale British thriller.
Yvonne Mitchell gets fourth billing in the cast list, even though she has only one (extended) scene in the movie. It’s a slightly odd bit of casting – although she’s very effective in the part; she was eight years older than Buchholz, and the age difference makes it seem as though he’s in love with an older woman, rather than one who’s his own age.
Anthony Dawson, the unwitting victim in Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder appears here too, playing the man who’s been having an affair with Mitchell while Buchholz has been at sea. And there’s the delightful Megs Jenkins, who could be relied upon to play any one of dozens of parts that called for an aunt, or a housekeeper, or servant or nurse. Movies seldom gave her strong parts; these were left for the stage.
She was apparently a good friend of a Dunedin actor, Lindsay Campbell, who went to the UK in the late fifties/early sixties, to make his career in acting. A friend of mine was Lindsay’s flatmate, and I stayed at the flat several times, though I don’t think Lindsay was actually ever there (!) Lindsay’s claim to fame is that he appeared briefly in A Clockwork Orange – for about 30 seconds. When I stayed at his flat he was often away because he was working in a long-running tv series – it must have been Weavers Green, I think, as that’s the only series that’s listed against his name on imdb.com. Megs Jenkins appeared in it at least once.