[book review] The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry
(Yes, THAT Stephen Fry.)
Ted Wallace is a cantankerous washed-up poet whose loathing of other people is surpassed only by his loathing for himself--and he rather loathes other people. He's a double-divorcee who has been fired from the paper for which he writes theater reviews because he heckled during a performance. That same play is now doing smashingly and he sees it as further proof that modern Britain has zero taste. As a once-lauded artist used to the finer material things in life, he is quite hurting for money when a goddaughter he hasn't seen in decades commissions him to spy on the extended family, hoping he will experience a miracle as she did when she was last out on the estate. He thinks that's about as likely as the rest of the country suddenly developing a sense of propriety, but there is money behind the request, so he ingratiates himself to his fifteen-year-old godson, who lives on the estate, and secures an invitation. That same godson, who hero-worships Ted and is himself an aspiring poet, is the source of the 'miracles', and the whole family seems to be buying into it, too.
It's appropriate that the cover of the American paperback release has Fry peaking above the rim of a bathtub, playing, as I assume most people picture it as Ted's portions are in first-person, the titular character. The book's 'revelation' occurs in a bathtub. Dry wit and self-loathing aside Ted Wallace could not be further from Stephen Fry, the former being a conservative, womanizing misanthrope and the latter being liberal and seeming to love 'humanity' in the abstract even if individual examples piss him off. As a 'talent' Stephen Fry has become difficult to separate from the characters he plays; he's become a near damn archetype for dry British wit. It is an example of typecasting becoming a form of backhanded compliment.
The standards for celebrities who want to publish books are often sharply lowered, or, at the very least, the books are given more editing than would be wasted on hoi polloi authors, and ultimately publishers are a business. In other words, this book wouldn't have to be very good to get published, at least in Britain--Stephen Fry's name attached to it is advertising enough. As I (American) understand it he's a favorite son. And maybe subconsciously I am more generous with my assessment, having already been a staunch fan and in an anticipatory mindset when I read the book. But I truly do think Fry is a polymath, as much a writer as he is an actor and comedian. The book is just goddamn funny. And, in the last sheaf of pages, shockingly poignant and profound. The writing style is lovely, unadorned and lacking the usual pitfalls riddled throughout the works of relative amateurs, usually people with great story ideas or jokes but little experience writing prose. Given that Fry is primarily a comedian and TV personality I would have expected that; it's common with people who transition from screenplays or sketch to pure prose. Characterization, dialogue, etc, may be excellent, but the words themselves filling in between bits might be painful. That is not the case here.
I'm impressed by how organically the conclusion comes about. It's not hard to find a story about a cynical misanthrope who has a Life-Changing Experience and reaffirms his faith in humanity; most of them just suck. They feel contrived. Either the misanthrope wasn't really that bitter, or the revelation wasn't that profound--usually a level mixture of both. Wallace is a bitter, angry, fucking hilarious old man. He really is an asshole. And the revelation is something real, something with weight, that made me set the book down after I had finished and think for a while. It's so goddamn simple everybody missed it. This hateful old man develops a newfound respect for a person he thinks is boorish in the extreme (and it's not the character you'd think, either) for being boorish in the extreme.
The title comes from a poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Hippopotamus", the relevant excerpt of which is sampled at the front of the book, and upon finishing I think it is an excellent allusion. I'll let you meditate on that yourself, should you choose to read the book.
Ted Wallace is a cantankerous washed-up poet whose loathing of other people is surpassed only by his loathing for himself--and he rather loathes other people. He's a double-divorcee who has been fired from the paper for which he writes theater reviews because he heckled during a performance. That same play is now doing smashingly and he sees it as further proof that modern Britain has zero taste. As a once-lauded artist used to the finer material things in life, he is quite hurting for money when a goddaughter he hasn't seen in decades commissions him to spy on the extended family, hoping he will experience a miracle as she did when she was last out on the estate. He thinks that's about as likely as the rest of the country suddenly developing a sense of propriety, but there is money behind the request, so he ingratiates himself to his fifteen-year-old godson, who lives on the estate, and secures an invitation. That same godson, who hero-worships Ted and is himself an aspiring poet, is the source of the 'miracles', and the whole family seems to be buying into it, too.
It's appropriate that the cover of the American paperback release has Fry peaking above the rim of a bathtub, playing, as I assume most people picture it as Ted's portions are in first-person, the titular character. The book's 'revelation' occurs in a bathtub. Dry wit and self-loathing aside Ted Wallace could not be further from Stephen Fry, the former being a conservative, womanizing misanthrope and the latter being liberal and seeming to love 'humanity' in the abstract even if individual examples piss him off. As a 'talent' Stephen Fry has become difficult to separate from the characters he plays; he's become a near damn archetype for dry British wit. It is an example of typecasting becoming a form of backhanded compliment.
The standards for celebrities who want to publish books are often sharply lowered, or, at the very least, the books are given more editing than would be wasted on hoi polloi authors, and ultimately publishers are a business. In other words, this book wouldn't have to be very good to get published, at least in Britain--Stephen Fry's name attached to it is advertising enough. As I (American) understand it he's a favorite son. And maybe subconsciously I am more generous with my assessment, having already been a staunch fan and in an anticipatory mindset when I read the book. But I truly do think Fry is a polymath, as much a writer as he is an actor and comedian. The book is just goddamn funny. And, in the last sheaf of pages, shockingly poignant and profound. The writing style is lovely, unadorned and lacking the usual pitfalls riddled throughout the works of relative amateurs, usually people with great story ideas or jokes but little experience writing prose. Given that Fry is primarily a comedian and TV personality I would have expected that; it's common with people who transition from screenplays or sketch to pure prose. Characterization, dialogue, etc, may be excellent, but the words themselves filling in between bits might be painful. That is not the case here.
I'm impressed by how organically the conclusion comes about. It's not hard to find a story about a cynical misanthrope who has a Life-Changing Experience and reaffirms his faith in humanity; most of them just suck. They feel contrived. Either the misanthrope wasn't really that bitter, or the revelation wasn't that profound--usually a level mixture of both. Wallace is a bitter, angry, fucking hilarious old man. He really is an asshole. And the revelation is something real, something with weight, that made me set the book down after I had finished and think for a while. It's so goddamn simple everybody missed it. This hateful old man develops a newfound respect for a person he thinks is boorish in the extreme (and it's not the character you'd think, either) for being boorish in the extreme.
The title comes from a poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Hippopotamus", the relevant excerpt of which is sampled at the front of the book, and upon finishing I think it is an excellent allusion. I'll let you meditate on that yourself, should you choose to read the book.