Spoiler Alert: in a world of mortals, all stories possess equal value.
THE BOOK-Written by Paula Fox, released 1970
THE MOVIE-Directed & written by Frank D. Gilroy, released 1971
THE STORY-The Brentwoods are a pair of panic attacks surrounded by pompous triggers in a Brooklyn slowly reassembling into acceptability. Smack dab in the center of class catastrophe, they suck the venom out of sporadic happiness under the hum of a great reckoning.
MIND THE GAP-Desperate Characters went out of print in 1980 and would've missed the '90s altogether if not for the effusive praise of king-pen Jonathan Franzen, himself a maestro of collapsing old buildings. New readers discovered a scintillating wonder of economy, a domestic dissection distinguished by sentences that travel wonderfully within the confines. That Desperate Characters fell out of favor relatively quickly, and that literary hitmakers still struggle acknowledging it as a brilliant "short novel" is down to two factors.
The first factor is obvious--misogyny--but the second factor might not be so clear. Look at that title. Not a bad title. Certainly not an inaccurate title. Probably a title better-suited as the title of a New York Times review of the book itself, instead properly titled Cat Scratch Fever.
The Brentwoods, along with their circle of fellow trouble-tolerators, operate with an intriguing insolence worthy of any Fitzgerald. Overwhelmed by the world's new energy, envisioning enemies in every strange new indulgence, they are worried their undeserved privilege will soon make them an irresistible target. Otto Brentwood is a lawyer whose descent into sallow fatalism stinks up every page he's on. In the film, Otto is played by the awfully miscast Kenneth Mars, who lessens every scene he's in with repugnant stand-in vibes. Shirley MacLaine portrays (flatly, barely) wife Sophie, recent victim of an untreated cat bite. Y'all want metaphors, Otto calls the cat a "thug"!
None of these desperate characters are evil. Oh but that they were. I cannot fathom a one of 'em sneezing. Every person in the book is in the throes of a sincere, severe personality disorder. These people don't converse, they just wait for the other person to stop speaking. These people don't love, they just find hatred exhausting.
"Action is the antidote to despair," said Joan Baez. "Shit or stand!" shouted another JB. "Lose your clothes and find a cheesecake! And mind where the crumbs land!"
The Sixties hangs like a smog all over this shit.
BETTER IN YOUR HEAD-In evaluating Desperate Characters against itself, I must determine which frustration satisfies me the fullest. Because page after page, shot after shot, of marital sniping and vaguely-defined defense mechanisms does nothing more effectively than frustrate.
Of the Brentwoods...theirs is an exaggerated despair. A paper cut sold as a gut shot. Their appeal for readers is largely internal. Thus, the losses incurred by flinging the story onscreen are many and massive. The claustrophobia, the intensity, the desperation, the raison d'être!--all gone. The result is a stage play masquerading as a feature film. The script's divergences are cowardly and pointless.*
Oh, these pretentious twats, obscenely fortunate folks who writhe in envy regardless. Love to loathe you, babies. Skip movie night and treat yourself to "the pleasures of Paula Fox's prose."**
*Otto blowing a hateful load into a slumbering Sophie becomes one of those "guess it's not actually rape because she gave in at some point" argument scenes; the ending is no longer abrupt violence, but abject sophistry.
**© 1999, Jonathan Franzen
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