jane charlotte is a-lying to you: matt ruff's "bad monkeys"

what a waste! i used to be (still am, actually) a great fan of matt ruff, as i often enjoy authors whose works osciliate between literary ambition and flat-out entertainment value. might it even be an option to consider the idea that both forms of writing are, in fact, not mutually exclusive? in case of ruff, this certainly holds true for his best novels, "fool on the hill" and - probably less known, but equally great if not better - "sewer, gas and electric: the public works trilogy". read them if you haven't. plus, he used to have awesome pieces on his favorite writers over at his website. unfortunately, they're not there anymore, but he's responsible for turning me on to john crowley, on whom i'll certainly write something once i finish "the solitudes."

back to topic: ruff's definitely one of the master storytellers of the "new weird," a label sometimes attached to writers like himself or neil gaiman, whose works display an inspired merging of different genres ranging from conspiracy thriller to bildungsroman. so, what happened in case of his newest novel "bad monkeys"? well, the problem seems to be that, just like some people who can't type anymore once they're aware of what they're doing, ruff's playing his cards all too self-consciously this time. the basic idea is familiar from movies like "nikita": the heroine, in this case jane charlotte, is recruited by a secret organization and becomes an assassin in the name of a somewhat dubious greater good. then, she realizes that her "department for the final disposition of irredeemable persons" is only one of many secret orders whose plans and actions seem to be interrelated, and thus, multiple plot twist and unexpected revelations ensue. a surprise ending in the vein of m. night shyamalan included.

the problem, however, is precisely the intricate plotting and ruff's constant play with the reader's expectations. there is one very essential thing lacking to back up the charade in order to turn it into something more than a self-reflexive exercise in cleverness: characters. yes, good-old fashioned characters you care for, until quite recently a strenght of ruff's writing. now, there'll be people in my imaginary audience of lit-crit afficionados who'll tell me: that's the point. this novel is all about ambivalence. it's all about the subversion of our atavistic need for stable, sympathetic hero figures. the novel's i-narrator, who relates the story to a psychologist while imprisoned, is quite the unreliable type, after all, and you better not take a thing she says for granted. add a few passages which are told from a third-person point of view and you get a novel that feels artificial and forced. there is virtually nothing gained from the juxtaposition of different levels of narration beyond a sort of stereotypical, hollow "my-expectations-are-being-toyed-with" sensation.

when i think of ruff's earlier novels, it's never the whole plot i recall - it's the beautiful college love affair gone mythical in "fool on the hill" or the foul-mouthed head of ayn rand in "the public works trilogy." i remember the christmas i got these books as a present and the next few days spent in the company of wonderful, albeit fictional characters. as so often, the real world couldn't hold up. well, if i were only less clumsy with girls, it just might one day. but it couldn't possibly get better than a thanksgiving dinner on the snowed-in campus of ithaca. let's hope ruff will return to form - there are christmases and desolate love lives to be saved.