The Hippopotamus (Paperback)

Fans of the Larry David show on HBO would enjoy Ted. Like Larry, Ted is a person that most everyone hates, yet he nevertheless remains likeable, somehow. He's a complete boor to his children, his ex, his employers, his friends, yet his sense of humor keeps the reader thinking that somewhere beneath the blubbering bombast there has to be a shred of humanity remaining. As the novel progresses, more and more shreds are revealed.

This is part of the problem. Ted, the wise-cracking curmudgeon, is much more interesting and entertaining than Ted, the suddenly avuncular, caring godfather and father of the last few chapters. Likewise, Fry's plot, which holds up fairly well the first two thirds, unravells rather disappointingly in the finale. One more instance of a very clever writer having a bit of navigating difficulties when it comes to satisfying resolutions. I'd much rather Ted had stayed in character and had kept on being his unpleasant self, with the possibility of Fry picking up the character in subsequent books. I don't see that possibility here.

AS for other aspects of the book, some work, some don't. The epistlatory format is hit and miss. These are some really looonnngg letter writers. The minor characters are more charicatures than fleshed out, believable figures, though this is one of the marks of satirical writing in general and not that big a distraction. Some of the female characters, in particular give Ted every bit as good as they get in terms of verbal skirmishes. A gay character gets to be tiresome with his mannered expressions. He starts out funny, but he's definitely not what could be termed a sympathetic character, by any stretch.

While The Hippopotamus doesn't hurl Fry into the front ranks of modern British satirists, it is a very decent effort. Though it is decidedly uneven, I have no problem recommending it as an often funny, entertaining read. 4 1/2 Stars.

BEK

The Hippopotamus, at least, unlike The Liar, doesn't scrupulously ensure some adulterous reference or activity every few pages, however Fry forces some definitively gratuitous perversion into the plot. The book would have worked perfectly (indeed, far better) if David felt his 'gift' could work through innocent touch, but Fry's hardly incontestable preaching that any sort of sexual activity (sodomy, adultery, fornication, casual, minors, promiscuity, prostitution, bestiality, seduction...) is at worst utterly harmless, and probably beneficial, is the ugly cost of spending much time with his narrative or characters.

In most writers that would be enough to see me dismiss the book entirely - why put yourself in such deliberately offensive company? This question is more than rhetorical, however, as my 'B' grade is meant to reflect the level of ambivalence I have in recommending it. That being said, given the overt and considerable flaws of content and philosophy, there must be some pretty damn redeeming features.

Such as his central character. He's well drawn and likeable - a clever trick given that Ted himself would have the honesty to admit that he's an appallingly selfish old dissolute mongrel. Here and there among all the fabulously rude invective we're allowed to be won over by little examples of his subtle consideration for the underdog. His trenchant diatribes are often thoroughly enjoyable. Moreover the supporting cast are ably painted, and the dialogue in, for example, the big dining scene, powerful and driving. Moreover we get the occasional Lodge-like added pleasure of the same event from differing perspectives.

The setting and plot turn out to happily borrow much from a classic English mannered detective story: there's a mystery, new sensational 'crimes' keep popping up to drive us along (in this case miraculous healings), and our prescribed set of characters interact in a wealthy country house. The climactic revelation - the traditional detective taking his pleasure in unravelling the crime to his decreasingly sceptical audience - ties the book together well enough (not brilliantly, but far better than the scratchy mess of the resolution of The Liar). There's still the deus ex machina of most crime books - the frustrating way events the reader could not possibly be aware of (such as Jane's condition) confirm the detective's otherwise wild theory - but this is bearable.

And finally, stylistically Fry is wonderfully readable. His prose (occasional content aside) is generally a pleasant ride - not Wodehouse or Adams, but not needing to be, and not suffering from the comparison.

I can see how some would relish his books - all the philosophical and sexual bias that put me off would give sympathisers enormous pleasure: what could be more fun than bashing believers and eulogising rampantly promiscuous gays? And over-indulging an over-the-top character like Oliver would be like having an extra helping of dessert - fine if you haven't been feeling nauseous since it initially appeared. And while this might be an inflammatory line to take, it's monumentally ironic that anyone could dare take offense from any attack on a book so deliberately inflammatory and offensive to any Christian reader.

So, there you go. I dare say my reaction is not entirely dissimilar to that of Fry who probably loves much of the work of the many high profile pro-heterosexual fidelity devout protestants in the western literary tradition, but finds the underlying assumptions of their admirable works a bitter pill to have to endure along the way.