Published 2009, 554 pagesCharacters: C
Writing: B-
Plot: C-
Pacing: C
Poignancy: B-
Writing: B-
Plot: C-
Pacing: C
Poignancy: B-
John Irving clearly knew that he had to make up for his last two novels, which were... unfortunate. Last Night in Twisted River is his rebuttal, and at least it isn't awful. There are some lovely settings and ideas present, but the story lacks — disjointed and sloppy, at times even unintentionally hilarious, Irving never quite pulls off the trademark black humor that made his earlier novels so endearing. Instead, Irving is so keen on plundering his own life and trying to throw readers for a loop — readers who may have noticed that he writes about the same things with such frequency that Wikipedia literally has a checklist of "recurring themes" for each of his novels — that the book ends up being little more than a wink wink nudge nudge exercise in authorial playfulness.
Twisted River is, like most Irving novels, a life story from beginning to end. The focus rarely strays from Irving-surrogate Danny and his father Dominic — relegating other characters to offstage observations and inconsequential actions — and yet by the end neither are particularly memorable. Irving's obsession with writing about famous writers means that he's created his own sort of generic stock character by now, one he can't seem to develop any further. It doesn't help that Twisted River is almost hellbent on avoiding complex sexual relationships, or even familial ones beyond the two main characters. Danny's son is a major instigator in the last half of the plot, but he barely receives any page time and almost zero dialogue. In fact, that's true of most characters, who seem to exist just beyond the pages of the novel — even the main characters. The story is never immediate, never moving forward at the same time you are, as if you're supposed to hunt it down yourself. Irving writes with his usual playfully omniscient authorial voice, imparting details and backstory with the casual, easily-distracted air of an uncle rambling on about family history, but in Twisted River he gets hopelessly bogged down by pointless tangents and loses sight of any narrative momentum.
Take, for example, a subplot about an old local cop chasing the two main characters around the country, trying to kill them. In any other novel it would've been the focus of the story, because it's too distracting to function as a minor background element. Here, it's briefly mentioned every now and then. Worse yet, the threat is never once believable. An 86 year old cop who's still hunting a father and son after five decades — yes, five decades — because of an accident that happened fifty years ago? Maybe this would work (maybe) if the cop had received even a little bit of page time, or been described as more menacing than a fat, stupid, illiterate alcoholic. It's almost hilariously misguided, a bizarre reverse MacGuffin, because all it manages to do is move the characters from place to place occasionally.
Twisted River reads like various unrelated stories jumbled together with little coherency, none of which were very good to begin with. In the last 100 pages, Irving spends a few chapters having his character rant about George Bush and Iraq. These political tangents go absolutely nowhere — they literally just pop up with no introduction right before the end, go on for a few chapters and then vanish, having introduced absolutely nothing to the story except Irving's political views. More bizarre is that they come at a point in the novel when Irving can't afford to be treading water. In the last two scenes, Irving introduces a ridiculous deus ex machina that's meant to be cute and uplifting but succeeds only in befuddling. Still not content, he then tosses his faithful readers a cutesy metafictional twist that does little but offer a new explanation for why this book isn't very good: maybe if Irving had spent more time actually coming up with a story and less time fishing for a weighty-sounding first line, there would be more substance between his linguistic hooks. Alas, he didn't, and John Irving's writing isn't nearly as good as he seems to think it is — it's quirky and full of personality, to be sure, but by the end of the book I was incredibly sick of Irving constantly writing over my shoulder, jumping up and down and clapping his hands at every cute little linguistic trick he kind-of pulls off. If you ever want to die by alcohol poisoning, just play a drinking game where you take a sip every time Irving uses italics for emphasis (or adds a narrative hint in parentheses — he loves both).
Twisted River is, like most Irving novels, a life story from beginning to end. The focus rarely strays from Irving-surrogate Danny and his father Dominic — relegating other characters to offstage observations and inconsequential actions — and yet by the end neither are particularly memorable. Irving's obsession with writing about famous writers means that he's created his own sort of generic stock character by now, one he can't seem to develop any further. It doesn't help that Twisted River is almost hellbent on avoiding complex sexual relationships, or even familial ones beyond the two main characters. Danny's son is a major instigator in the last half of the plot, but he barely receives any page time and almost zero dialogue. In fact, that's true of most characters, who seem to exist just beyond the pages of the novel — even the main characters. The story is never immediate, never moving forward at the same time you are, as if you're supposed to hunt it down yourself. Irving writes with his usual playfully omniscient authorial voice, imparting details and backstory with the casual, easily-distracted air of an uncle rambling on about family history, but in Twisted River he gets hopelessly bogged down by pointless tangents and loses sight of any narrative momentum.
Take, for example, a subplot about an old local cop chasing the two main characters around the country, trying to kill them. In any other novel it would've been the focus of the story, because it's too distracting to function as a minor background element. Here, it's briefly mentioned every now and then. Worse yet, the threat is never once believable. An 86 year old cop who's still hunting a father and son after five decades — yes, five decades — because of an accident that happened fifty years ago? Maybe this would work (maybe) if the cop had received even a little bit of page time, or been described as more menacing than a fat, stupid, illiterate alcoholic. It's almost hilariously misguided, a bizarre reverse MacGuffin, because all it manages to do is move the characters from place to place occasionally.
Twisted River reads like various unrelated stories jumbled together with little coherency, none of which were very good to begin with. In the last 100 pages, Irving spends a few chapters having his character rant about George Bush and Iraq. These political tangents go absolutely nowhere — they literally just pop up with no introduction right before the end, go on for a few chapters and then vanish, having introduced absolutely nothing to the story except Irving's political views. More bizarre is that they come at a point in the novel when Irving can't afford to be treading water. In the last two scenes, Irving introduces a ridiculous deus ex machina that's meant to be cute and uplifting but succeeds only in befuddling. Still not content, he then tosses his faithful readers a cutesy metafictional twist that does little but offer a new explanation for why this book isn't very good: maybe if Irving had spent more time actually coming up with a story and less time fishing for a weighty-sounding first line, there would be more substance between his linguistic hooks. Alas, he didn't, and John Irving's writing isn't nearly as good as he seems to think it is — it's quirky and full of personality, to be sure, but by the end of the book I was incredibly sick of Irving constantly writing over my shoulder, jumping up and down and clapping his hands at every cute little linguistic trick he kind-of pulls off. If you ever want to die by alcohol poisoning, just play a drinking game where you take a sip every time Irving uses italics for emphasis (or adds a narrative hint in parentheses — he loves both).
I'm sad to say, this will probably be my Last Night in John Irv— you know what? Fuck it.
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