There’s a story (probably apocryphal) about Elizabeth Taylor’s umpteenth groom lamenting the prospect of his imminent wedding night with the thought: “I know what to do, the difficulty is, how do I make it interesting.”
A similar problem exists with Malcolm Pryce’s THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING IN ABERYSTWYTH. It’s his third foray into private investigator Louie Knight’s brooding strolls through the mean streets of the eponymous Welsh town. And it proves a case of ‘Been there, done that.”
If I’d read this before Last Tango in Aberystwyth I probably would have warmed to it much more. That book was a joyous introduction to Pryce’s outrageous fantasy world; it was a fresh, inventive, bizarre and a hugely funny original parody of the American crime novels of the 40s and 50s set, incongruously, in a place that must be the very antithesis of LA – the eternally Sunday-quiet and sleepily conservative seaside town on the west Wales coast.
Pryce has, understandably, sought to cash in on his dazzlingly innovative cocktail of Raymond Chandler and the Brothers’ Grimm meet Chapel-World. He populates Aberystwyth with improbable speakeasies, good-time gals, vicious hoods and hard-nosed cops. And his Humphrey Bogart protagonist, Knight, wisecracks his way effortlessly through the pages spraying similes like the indiscriminate bullets from a Tommy-gun. Who could blame Pryce for that? But, as clever and colourful as the initial idea was, this is a one-trick pony. A pony that wouldn’t be out of place among Eeyore’s tired and dispirited donkeys that traipse endlessly up and down the sands of Aberystwyth’s beach.
Ultimately, there is an unbearable lightness about this book. Maybe it’s time for Pryce to stop having Knight lick Sospan’s ice creams on the front and, just possibly, reverse the premise: perhaps he could now consider telling us a surreal tale of an Aberystwyth yokel, on his return from the “Patagonian War”, passing through and being bedazzled by the blinding neon lights and seductively swaying palms of Sunset Boulevard, as he seeks some comfort in the Sun-city’s only Welsh chapel.
It could even feature another monkey and an organ-grinder; different accents, of course.