“I mean suspense, twists are almost impossible these days. People are blogging your endings from their cinema seats.”
– Danny Boyle
When the next Michael Bay monstrosity crashes into cinemas the endorsement blurb will doubtless resemble something like: “a taut, sexy, and suspenseful adventure. A worthy sequel to the sequel.” I have endured Mr Bay’s cinematic immolations, so I know that the blurb roughly translates as “a series of explosions punctuated by shallow, but thankfully brief moments of dialogue, engendering an acute sense of déjà vu.” Literature fares little better, with the success of 50 Shades and its fan fiction acolytes seeming only suggestive of an appreciation of pornography in a somewhat tamer guise. All in all, contemporary entertainment relegates suspense to the condensed moments between action and sex scenes performed by the impossibly good looking. Some kind of explosion must be imminent or the audience will tune out.
My criticism here, for the most part, is limited to blockbusters and bestsellers, but that does cover much of the film and literature landscape. Suspense, as a powerful creative device, often feels sort of cheapened.
This is, however, a book review, and I hope my lengthy throat-clearing has kept you in suspense as you arrive at a recommendation of Fiona McFarlane’s debut novel, The Night Guest – a literary rejoinder to the notion that contemporary entertainment is the exclusive property of the mindless and the mundane.
At first glance, however, you may think that the novel defies convention by offering boredom: the protagonist is Ruth Field, a 75 year old woman living on the Australian east coast. Her lonely existence is punctuated by phone calls from distant sons and lingering thoughts on her dead husband. All this changes, though, with the arrival of Frida, a government worker who takes Ruth into her care. Put off? Don’t be. Ruth is also convinced that her solitary nights are being invaded by a tiger. As the story plods along, we slowly throw into question Ruth’s reliability, Frida’s motivations and whether what is really happening is, well, real. Even the existence of a tiger comes to seem almost possible. McFarlane creates and disarms the suspense with wonderful concision – as Ruth lies in bed, awaiting the arrival of her feline guest, “she listened for any hint of the tiger, but it all seemed safely herbivorous.”
McFarlane resists and flirts with familiar tropes and concepts, presenting them in a fresh and interesting light, despite the advanced age of the protagonists. There are flashbacks to a distant and tropical past, the return of an old lover, and the questionable character of Frida, who may not be all that she seems. There is even some geriatric hanky panky, which isn’t even the novel’s most discomfiting scene.
Prodding and unnerving the reader seems to be McFarlane’s intention. This is no light and uplifting tale of friendship between an old lady and her government worker. The tiger and Ruth are McFarlane’s vehicles for the exploration of unsettling territory: the deterioration of Ruth’s memory illuminates and casts unnerving shadows on the insecurities of the aging process, and this is the novel’s central theme. There is one particularly arresting image of Ruth, under her son’s instructions, making a weekly trip “to sit in the car and run the engine; doing so, she experienced a busy, practical sense of renewal followed by the disquieting feeling she was about to drive herself to her own funeral.”
Any reader who has had a parent or grandparent slip away will find familiarity and discomfort in McFarlane’s story. My grandfather’s memory, too, is making a departure, and, confusing his pills with his grocery list, recently asked the doctor to refill his prescription for TimTams. McFarlane masterfully evokes this experience of losing someone who remains painfully, tragically, and often humorously present.
The plot’s final stretch and conclusion might be underwhelming for some, but subtlety and understatement seem to be more suited, and consistent with the novel as a whole. Readers will have to make up their own minds. For me, though, McFarlane’s novel kept me in a suspenseful grip until the last page.
The Night Guest is a worthy contribution to Australia’s bookshelf, and its recognition in the review pages of the international press is also wonderful to see. At the very least, after reading McFarlane’s debut, you may think twice on the frivolity of our entertainment culture, how a senior citizen’s mind is a far more interesting locale for a suspense thriller, and how explosions and car chases, in comparison, come to seem timid and banal.
