‘You know how it is. Saturday afternoon. You wake up and you can’t move’
Laura is caught between two worlds. One the one hand, she is engaged to Jim, a concert pianist with a budding international career, and a nice flat in the centre of town; on the other, her best friend and housemate Tyler is an uninhibited force of nature, ‘by turns many things: nemesis, ally, co-conspirator, master of persuasion’. Laura is working on a novel, Bacon, about a priest who falls in love with a talking pig, but progress is slow – the rest of the time she works in a call centre, and drinks. Her life is a battle between the urge to create and the siren call of ‘The Night’, with its ‘deals, promises and gauntlets’. Tyler is The Night’s greatest advocate, and much of the novel follows the women’s hazy adventures through Manchester after dark. Periodically, Jim returns from whichever exotic location he has been performing in to try to restore some balance to the situation.
Animals comes with a cover quote from Caitlin Moran, calling it ‘Withnail with girls’. There are plenty of similarities between the book and Bruce Robinson’s film: both focus on close, same-sex friendships which veer between symbiosis and mutually-assured destruction, both feature would-be creatives who do a lot more drinking than creating, and both even include disastrous trips to Cumbria. But take a minute to think about what life would be like for a female Withnail.
During a recent talk at the International Anthony Burgess Foundation, the critic Olivia Laing argued that there is a double standard in play when we discuss male and female alcoholism in literature. There is, she said, a large audience which wants to hear anecdotes about Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald in their boozy heydays, even if they tend to gloss over the terrible later years; on the other hand if you try to talk about Jean Rhys, drinking herself to death at home, no-one wants to hear about it. Female drinkers are censured, not celebrated (maybe Dorothy Parker is an exception, dispensing withering put downs with a glass in her hand). This disparity is reflected throughout the wider culture. Articles on public drinking are frequently illustrated with images of women, suggesting a greater degree of shame - an approach which has become a cliché, mocked by the BBC website’s paper monitor.
Unsworth is aware of this double standard; while Withnail is allowed to carry on boozing without censure, Laura is subjected to the judgements of the newly sober Jim, who frequently reminds her that ‘you have more chance of conceiving’ if she stops drinking, that booze doesn’t fit ‘with what I want for our future’. This is just the latest version of what Laura has internalised from an early age. She remembers going to a psychiatrist, aged 12, and discussing how she felt ‘pressured’ by the expectations placed on her. The pressure she feels seeps into her narrative, as she feels a need to justify herself to an unseen audience: ‘I sipped. Give me credit for that, will you?’ Her drinking is, in part, a reaction to this, a way of escaping the constant sense of being monitored. ‘The point of intoxication,’ she says at one point, ‘was not to create but to destroy the part of me that cared whether or not I created’. Of course, this is a vicious circle – each bout of drinking is prelude to an attack of ‘the existentials’, which have to be managed with a strict set of protocols: ‘no news, no parental phone calls, some fresh air of you could tolerate the vertical plane’.
While it makes a serious point, though, Animals is also very, very funny. It is probably dangerous to go drinking with Emma Jane Unsworth, as it seems like she has harvested years of night-out anecdotes to include here. The novel opens with Laura passed out on her bed, her half-removed tights caught over the frame; Tyler walks in, surveys the scene, and drawls, ‘Way I see it, girls are tied to beds for two reasons: sex and exorcisms. So, which was it with you?’ Laura’s brain flicks through random, fractured images from their night out: ‘fizzy wine, flat wine, city streets, cubicles, highly experimental burlesque moves on bar stools’.
Sometimes the laughs come from Laura’s outrageous behaviour (the time ‘we dressed up as Paula Yates and John Leslie for a Dead Celebrities party… the time we swam in a loch at lunchtime and had sex beneath a war memorial, causing a group of hikers to call the police’), sometimes from killer one-liners (‘I’m going to do what any rational person should do when they find their days are numbered. Move to Stoke. It’ll seem like longer’). Elsewhere, Unsworth’s blend of smart prose and comic observation leads to such memorable images as ‘a discarded Peperami sheath like an anteater’s condom’.
The structure of Animals is more straightforward than her innovative debut, Hungry, The Stars and Everything, and the pace is much faster, but even as the narrative races along it is clear that Unsworth has spent time crafting her prose. She picks over the ‘shabby tragedy’ of a run-down hotel, ‘its background fizzling bleakness’. A seduction becomes ‘an autopsy with cutlery’. Anyone who knows Manchester will appreciate descriptions of ‘the monstrous blade-phallus of the Hilton Tower’, or the space around Victoria Station, ‘sullen with redundancy… the Green Quarter where To Let signs prickled the front lawns of artless tower blocks’.
Events become increasingly surreal as the novel progresses, reflecting Laura’s fraying psyche. The women find themselves getting chased out of an underground Spanish speakeasy after their friend insults a dwarf; at some point Laura’s work not-in-progress Bacon becomes Killing the Changes, ‘because that’s more mysterious and I want the book to be mysterious and complex even though its about the simplest thing really and that’s love’, her retreat into abstraction reflecting her difficulty in engaging with the reality of her life. A traditional narrative would have Laura hitting rock bottom before getting on to the business of redemption. The nearest Animals comes to this is a confrontation in the toilets at Manchester Town Hall, but this is more a coming of age than a cautionary tale. There is a strand of hope in Laura’s story courtesy of a subplot involving her father, who is diagnosed with cancer but finds solace in the progress of the Mars Rover.
Critics like Sarah Hughes in The Guardian have identified a new trend for ‘literary bad girls’, novels with female anti-heroes ‘happy to live outside society’s boundaries’, including Emma Jane Unsworth and Zoe Pilger as prime examples of the genre, along with the Guardian’s obligatory Lena Dunham mention. Partly, Hughes says that these novels are a rejection of ‘the comfortable romantic lies’ and ‘the petty stuff of domestic life’ which comprise a clichéd view of female literature (I think this is a bit of a straw woman argument – throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries women have been writing dark and intelligent novels - whether they have been heralded or not is a different matter).
I wonder if these recent novels are influenced on some level by a shift in the relationship between power and gender in the internet age. Laurie Penny’s recent essay Cybersexism argued that while many women of her generation had found a voice through online forums, the rise of digital communication had also allowed for a renewed public scrutiny of women’s behaviour – the recent controversy over Women Who Eat on the Tube being the latest example. By creating female protagonists who break taboos and assert control over their own existences, they are rejecting the idea that they should alter their behaviour to suit pre-conceived norms.
Animals recognises the difficulties of this process, but Unsworth is careful not to moralise or censure her characters. Laura’s journey is both realistic and also extremely entertaining. After all, it’s well and good to read Tao Lin detailing the minutiae of post-moral twenty-first century youth culture, and the drug and drink count in Taipei is pretty similar to that of Animals, but sometimes you need a novel to come along with this amount of outrageous energy and élan. I would caution, though, against trying a Withnail-style drinking game with this novel. You might not make it past chapter 1.