“My Last John Irving” by Sheila Eastman

A review of The Last Chairlift by John Irving

The Last Chairlift, Knopf Canada, Available from Chapters/Indigo here.

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I don’t often write book reviews, and I don’t often rant. But My Last Chairlift sits on my shelf mocking me right next to books I respect and love. This 889-page tome occupies even more space than my musty Oxford Dictionary, depriving other books of a spot they’ve actually earned.

The problem is, I can’t let The Last Chairlift go just yet. My resentment simmers. And with this review I hope to release myself from its smug grip.

Does it seem sacrilegious to find fault with John Irving? It does a bit to me. For many years I have loved his humour, the depth of his stories, the surprises! When I learned there was finally a new book being released, bright eyed and bushy tailed I clapped my bunny hands (Paws? Feet?) in delight and ordered it, full price. I was expecting a novel I would enjoy.

Expectations can lead us down the dark path of disappointment.

I loved A Prayer for Owen Meany. It gripped me right from the beginning with Owen Meany shouting away in his bizarre loud voice, and then the suspense of the foul ball that we eventually learn kills the narrator’s mother.

In A Prayer for Owen Meany the story is engaging. The characters are winning and believable.

Owen himself is tiny but a dynamic presence in the book. He is preoccupied with his own death and is a ghostly spectre himself.

“He was the colour of a gravestone; light was both absorbed and reflected by his skin, as with a pearl, so that he appeared translucent at times.” (P. 14)

John adores his beautiful mother, (as does Owen). He treasures his time with her and sets her up with the man (College teacher) who will become his stepfather, also very small.

After his mother’s death John is raised by his grandmother and stepfather. John bears no ill will and the two remain close friends. At Owen’s insistence they fanatically practice a jumping maneuver that will later take on crucial significance.

Religion and politics occupy a large part of this novel. I found the railings about the Vietnam war tiresome (and I admit I skipped pages of the political ranting). But here Irving successfully ties it together.

I liked this book, though the plot is disjointed, jumping around between present and past, I could follow it. Even when characters are beyond odd, I was able to like them and go with the flow.

Wait you say. This is supposed to be a review of The Last Chairlift.

Expectations;

Having read A Prayer for Owen Meany, I was expecting another intriguing funny story, a big present … perhaps like a large Lego kit that I’d assemble piece by piece with delight. Something new, original. A great story where I could follow a plot and like the characters.

When I started into The Last Chairlift I found myself in familiar territory. Too familiar.

The Last Chairlift is also narrated by a young boy who doesn’t know who his father is. Guess what? He also lives in New Hampshire in a rambling house on Front Street (same street even).

His mother is alive but is so absent with the world of skiing that Adam grows up with older people: his grandmother, increasingly demented grandfather, cousins, aunts and uncles. His mother falls for a college English teacher, another very small person with big influence. Size is important throughout.

Adam’s mother says, “No man can be small enough for me, Eliot – or so I thought before I met you.”

Irving brings a variety of themes but so obliquely I need my literary shovel to help dig through a muddy ground of metaphor, irony, paradox and obfuscation. We have reminders of Harold Pinter, whose plays are peppered with characters who cannot communicate, who ignore what others say or completely misunderstand what is very clear to the audience.

Characters in The Last Chairlift misunderstand each other, and some can’t talk at all. Grandfather cannot speak but just sits there in his diapers. I get this – he’s old and demented. But Em, a young character, does not speak even though she is physically capable. She mimes.

Honestly, enough strange characters had preceded Em that I didn’t attempt to understand why she doesn’t speak or why her “friend” Nora misinterprets the miming. But does Em represent a group of people? Or us as individuals? Is this all a comment on lack of communication in our society?

Sex. I’m not sure where to begin. It’s like going to lunch at the Mandarin Restaurant for the huge buffet when really all you wanted was a ham sandwich.

"There's more than one way to love people," Adam is told by Molly, his mother’s lover. No kidding. Irving includes a plethora.

The marriage of Little Ray and Elliot turns out to be a cover for both. They are friends, they do love each other, but not as man and wife. Little Ray is lesbian, Elliot eventually transitions and becomes “she.”

Gay, lesbian, bi, transgender, feminist – they’re all here. He’s checking boxes. Adam is the lone straight guy. Always the odd one.

It’s just too many. I want to identify with a character, to feel sympathy, to have a chance to like them. The character I like most is Eliot the stepfather, but I never get to feel for him. The point of view is steadfastly the narrator’s. Eliot is too far away.

War: Too much. I skipped lots of pages.

Screenplays. Why? Irving also writes screenplays and decides to give us over 200 pages of screenplay in this book. He sets up the first one relating the events at the hotel Jerome in Aspen, where Little Ray had spent most of her life skiing. Adam, the narrator, says he sees it as a movie. What follows is a one hundred pages of screenplay. I tried but gave up.

After some pages of prose, I was faced with another screenplay – 114 pages this time. Again, I tried. It seemed I was jumping into the head of the writer rather than into the characters. Maybe someday I’ll go back and try again.

Similarity to Irving’s life: John Irving's mother, Frances Winslow, was not married at the time of his conception. Irving never met his biological father.

In an interview Irving said, “You’ve gotta make people think they’re having a good time until they aren’t.”

Well, my good time lasted for the first 147 pages. Act One, Irving calls it. The book is 887 pages long. I thought I was having a good time for 16% of it.

Besides being far too long, the book is overly repetitious, muddied up with too many characters. And too many bizarre characters. The plot is disjointed and boringly similar to previous books. (Irving does say it’s autobiographical, but still…).

I wonder how far this book would have gone, had not John Irving been the author. So much goes with the name.

Expectations: Years ago, a short Buddhist nun, Venerable Man Yee, dressed in her brownish robes, little black hat protecting her shaved head from the cold of winter, said to me (when I was being grumpy about someone), “Sheila, have no expectations. You will have a happier life.”

I’m working on it.

But I don’t think my expectations of John Irving were overly optimistic. I see now that the book is overwhelmingly autobiographical. And not just an exploration of his life, but an attempt to sort it out. Good luck to him. He needn’t have shared it with the suffering public, though. And now, having had my say, I can let it go.

The Last Chairlift is My Last John Irving. Would you like to have my copy?

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and five-string banjo (eee-haw) and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour.

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