Le singe est dans l’arbre. (A review of ‘The Long Midnight Of Barney Thompson’)
English stand-up comic Eddie Izzard has a routine in which he bemoans the uselessness of high-school French.
As if to prove his point, he buys a monkey and sets sail for Calais. (There is also a cat – and a mouse – but I am paraphrasing for the sake of brevity.)
Some time later we find him loitering in a forest, leaning against the trunk of an old cork oak.
In due course a surly French peasant wanders by smoking a Gauloise. Izzard greets him:
- Bonjour, Monsieur
- ‘jour.
- Il fait beau, n’est pas? (Nice weather.)
- Oui.
- Je suis Anglais. (I’m English.)
- Oui?
- Je viens ici en vacances. (I’m on holiday.)
- Oui?
- etc. etc.
After a lengthy preamble, Izzard contrives to bring the conversation around to the tree and at last – many years after learning the redundant phrase – he is able gleefully to state, “le singe est dans l’arbre.” (The monkey is in the tree.)
Of course, I knew this story wasn’t real (you can’t buy a monkey in Britain, you couldn’t take it on a cross-channel ferry, the monkey would bite you and run away etc.) – but that didn’t matter. I was able to suspend disbelief, and enjoy the tale for its ironic humour and much-anticipated punchline.
And so to The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson.
If you can adopt the same ‘stand-up’ frame of mind, you can enjoy this novel.
If, however, you can’t – or don’t want to – suspend disbelief, you will find yourself continually hauling a frown off your brow.
Set in Glasgow, the plot is quite amusing if (intentionally?) clichéd, and the characters distinct and endearing.
The style may grate. The author generally dispenses with personal pronouns and conjunctions. Begins many sentences with a transitive verb. Cuts through the waffle. Writes in short bursts.
The book itself is also short – more of a novella at around 63,000 words – but perhaps well suited to become a screenplay. (And I look forward to watching Robert Carlyle’s directorial debut – entitled ‘The Legend of Barney Thompson’.)
The blurb suggests macabre horror – but the comedy overwhelms any sense of shock or revulsion – at times it’s pure dead slapstick.
The jokes, however, can become tiresome. I felt at times trapped at a dinner party opposite the guest who thinks he should point out every play-on-words and innuendo that springs to mind (that you also thought of, but felt it would be immature to mention).
Overall – well, I made it to the end – so I would say I enjoyed the brief journey, despite the bumpy ride. I swithered between 3 and 4 stars – it’s probably a three-and-a-half but I’d rather round up than down.
As if to prove his point, he buys a monkey and sets sail for Calais. (There is also a cat – and a mouse – but I am paraphrasing for the sake of brevity.)
Some time later we find him loitering in a forest, leaning against the trunk of an old cork oak.
In due course a surly French peasant wanders by smoking a Gauloise. Izzard greets him:
- Bonjour, Monsieur
- ‘jour.
- Il fait beau, n’est pas? (Nice weather.)
- Oui.
- Je suis Anglais. (I’m English.)
- Oui?
- Je viens ici en vacances. (I’m on holiday.)
- Oui?
- etc. etc.
After a lengthy preamble, Izzard contrives to bring the conversation around to the tree and at last – many years after learning the redundant phrase – he is able gleefully to state, “le singe est dans l’arbre.” (The monkey is in the tree.)
Of course, I knew this story wasn’t real (you can’t buy a monkey in Britain, you couldn’t take it on a cross-channel ferry, the monkey would bite you and run away etc.) – but that didn’t matter. I was able to suspend disbelief, and enjoy the tale for its ironic humour and much-anticipated punchline.
And so to The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson.
If you can adopt the same ‘stand-up’ frame of mind, you can enjoy this novel.
If, however, you can’t – or don’t want to – suspend disbelief, you will find yourself continually hauling a frown off your brow.
Set in Glasgow, the plot is quite amusing if (intentionally?) clichéd, and the characters distinct and endearing.
The style may grate. The author generally dispenses with personal pronouns and conjunctions. Begins many sentences with a transitive verb. Cuts through the waffle. Writes in short bursts.
The book itself is also short – more of a novella at around 63,000 words – but perhaps well suited to become a screenplay. (And I look forward to watching Robert Carlyle’s directorial debut – entitled ‘The Legend of Barney Thompson’.)
The blurb suggests macabre horror – but the comedy overwhelms any sense of shock or revulsion – at times it’s pure dead slapstick.
The jokes, however, can become tiresome. I felt at times trapped at a dinner party opposite the guest who thinks he should point out every play-on-words and innuendo that springs to mind (that you also thought of, but felt it would be immature to mention).
Overall – well, I made it to the end – so I would say I enjoyed the brief journey, despite the bumpy ride. I swithered between 3 and 4 stars – it’s probably a three-and-a-half but I’d rather round up than down.
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