Brian McKenzie
The tagline for this novel is "Station Eleven Meets Never Let Me Go". The better Ishiguro novel to compare this to would be Klara and the Sun. But that's where the comparison ends, because, unlike Ishiguro's stunning work on the implications of sentient humanoid AI companions, this novel is underwhelming and underwritten. The novel winds it way through pandemic-ravaged USA some decades in the future following the travails of Lilac, a "companion" (i.e. android) with the uploaded consciousness of a murdered teenager. Lilac somehow transcends her programming, goes rogue, and sets out on a mission to find the girl who killed her. With (I think) 8 POV characters, the story weaves a braid of plotlines involving kidnapping, murder, corporate espionage and malfeasance, data piracy, love on the run, and the quest for self. Intriguing concept? Yes. Engaging story? Somewhat. Well executed? Well . . .
My main complaint is that the chapters have difficulty forming a coherent narrative. I don't get too hung up on episodic, disjointed narratives. Done right I find them fun and challenging to read. But something about this one struck me as unintentionally disjointed. I never really got the sense it was going anywhere, as though Flynn started just writing with a handful of characters and hoped a story would eventually emerge. The end, when it comes, lacks any sense of satisfactory conclusion. It kind of just winds up, like Flynn had a contractual upper page limit she couldn't exceed.
If I had to choose the best part, I'd have to say it would be Lilac's back story and her quest to confront her murderer decades after the fact. The other narratives at times seem if not pointless then at least obscure of purpose given the way that, upon their conclusion, they don't fully connect to one another. Their only unifying element is that Lilac is somehow connected to each of them.
I guess we could draw a few other comparisons. Altered Carbon which also deals with persistent consciousness through host bodies (though actual humans rather than androids); Black Mirror, the riveting Netflix series about what happens when our technological obsessions go bad; and even the recent horror movie M3GAN, about a sentient AI companion that goes rogue. And of course we don't want to overlook the post-pandemic dystopia novels of late, including Margaret Atwood's "Maddaddam" trilogy, Jeff Vandermeer's Borne novels, and the aforementioned Station Eleven. But for whatever reasons, Flynn's pandemic world is just setting, and of little significance other than providing a before-and-after point for the novel. The characters are a little scarred from the experience of being in quarantine (the reader can perhaps sympathize) but beyond that, once it's over, it sort of just fades into the background.
I note that this novel appears on a few lists of "pandemic reads" and it has a few favourable reviews. While I don't agree with all the good reviews, I won't go so far as to say it isn't deserving of some praise. My overall sense is that it's just not finished. Perhaps a stronger editorial hand and another rewrite to tighten the overall sense of integration and coherence would have helped.
The tagline for this novel is "Station Eleven Meets Never Let Me Go". The better Ishiguro novel to compare this to would be Klara and the Sun. But that's where the comparison ends, because, unlike Ishiguro's stunning work on the implications of sentient humanoid AI companions, this novel is underwhelming and underwritten. The novel winds it way through pandemic-ravaged USA some decades in the future following the travails of Lilac, a "companion" (i.e. android) with the uploaded consciousness of a murdered teenager. Lilac somehow transcends her programming, goes rogue, and sets out on a mission to find the girl who killed her. With (I think) 8 POV characters, the story weaves a braid of plotlines involving kidnapping, murder, corporate espionage and malfeasance, data piracy, love on the run, and the quest for self. Intriguing concept? Yes. Engaging story? Somewhat. Well executed? Well . . .
My main complaint is that the chapters have difficulty forming a coherent narrative. I don't get too hung up on episodic, disjointed narratives. Done right I find them fun and challenging to read. But something about this one struck me as unintentionally disjointed. I never really got the sense it was going anywhere, as though Flynn started just writing with a handful of characters and hoped a story would eventually emerge. The end, when it comes, lacks any sense of satisfactory conclusion. It kind of just winds up, like Flynn had a contractual upper page limit she couldn't exceed.
If I had to choose the best part, I'd have to say it would be Lilac's back story and her quest to confront her murderer decades after the fact. The other narratives at times seem if not pointless then at least obscure of purpose given the way that, upon their conclusion, they don't fully connect to one another. Their only unifying element is that Lilac is somehow connected to each of them.
I guess we could draw a few other comparisons. Altered Carbon which also deals with persistent consciousness through host bodies (though actual humans rather than androids); Black Mirror, the riveting Netflix series about what happens when our technological obsessions go bad; and even the recent horror movie M3GAN, about a sentient AI companion that goes rogue. And of course we don't want to overlook the post-pandemic dystopia novels of late, including Margaret Atwood's "Maddaddam" trilogy, Jeff Vandermeer's Borne novels, and the aforementioned Station Eleven. But for whatever reasons, Flynn's pandemic world is just setting, and of little significance other than providing a before-and-after point for the novel. The characters are a little scarred from the experience of being in quarantine (the reader can perhaps sympathize) but beyond that, once it's over, it sort of just fades into the background.
I note that this novel appears on a few lists of "pandemic reads" and it has a few favourable reviews. While I don't agree with all the good reviews, I won't go so far as to say it isn't deserving of some praise. My overall sense is that it's just not finished. Perhaps a stronger editorial hand and another rewrite to tighten the overall sense of integration and coherence would have helped.
Without knowing anything about the author or his previous work, my main impression throughout this novel was that it was little more than a fleshed-out script for a Made-For-Netflix thriller in the vein of the countless Harlen Coben series there.
When I took creative writing back in my university days, I was taught to think in scenes. Limit each scene to the necessary dialogue and exposition to move the plot and character development, and move on. This novel takes that advice and turns it up to 11: it contains 67 chapters in just over 340 pages, with some fewer than two pages in length. Deliberately cinematographic, the only thing missing is the slug lines for the camera operator, you know, "CUT TO:" or "CLOSE UP:"
Everything about this novel strains credibility, from the inciting crime to the funhouse psychiatric institute to the cutout characters to the deliberately murky overlapping plotlines to the secret diary that, as these things do, eventually exposes the truth in what is supposed to be a "stunning" reveal (CUT TO: THEO SHOCKED).
The psychiatric-patient-murder-mystery genre is crowded. Countless tv shows, movies, stories and books have sought to find new and clever ways of exploiting mental illness and using it as the cause of antisocial behaviour while the white knight doctor/therapist seeks to "cure" the malefactor with stubborn, uncompromising (if unconventional) treatment, even as the haters and doubters say "you're wasting your time, it's a lost cause". And, usually, guess what?
I'm not a spoiler so I won't get into too much detail about the tangled plot. I will say that it telegraphs its punches. I will also say that it relies on highly improbable events, coincidences, stock characters (EXIT: UNSYMPATHETIC HOSTILE COLLEAGUE; ENTER: GRIM-FACED DETECTIVE) and a ridiculously overwritten diary.
As I mentioned, I knew nothing about the author prior to reading this novel. After finishing, I see that he is a screenwriter, having at least two movies to his credit that are - surprise - suspense thrillers. He also has a string of follow-up novels that I didn't bother to examine but I imagine are also mystery thrillers.
If you like paint by numbers stories that eschew meaningful character development or examination of moral decision making in favour of plot complications and story hooks, by all means this is for you. If you want something thoughtful, respectful, reflective and even somewhat connected to the way things truly are in this world, move on.
Without knowing anything about the author or his previous work, my main impression throughout this novel was that it was little more than a fleshed-out script for a Made-For-Netflix thriller in the vein of the countless Harlen Coben series there.
When I took creative writing back in my university days, I was taught to think in scenes. Limit each scene to the necessary dialogue and exposition to move the plot and character development, and move on. This novel takes that advice and turns it up to 11: it contains 67 chapters in just over 340 pages, with some fewer than two pages in length. Deliberately cinematographic, the only thing missing is the slug lines for the camera operator, you know, "CUT TO:" or "CLOSE UP:"
Everything about this novel strains credibility, from the inciting crime to the funhouse psychiatric institute to the cutout characters to the deliberately murky overlapping plotlines to the secret diary that, as these things do, eventually exposes the truth in what is supposed to be a "stunning" reveal (CUT TO: THEO SHOCKED).
The psychiatric-patient-murder-mystery genre is crowded. Countless tv shows, movies, stories and books have sought to find new and clever ways of exploiting mental illness and using it as the cause of antisocial behaviour while the white knight doctor/therapist seeks to "cure" the malefactor with stubborn, uncompromising (if unconventional) treatment, even as the haters and doubters say "you're wasting your time, it's a lost cause". And, usually, guess what?
I'm not a spoiler so I won't get into too much detail about the tangled plot. I will say that it telegraphs its punches. I will also say that it relies on highly improbable events, coincidences, stock characters (EXIT: UNSYMPATHETIC HOSTILE COLLEAGUE; ENTER: GRIM-FACED DETECTIVE) and a ridiculously overwritten diary.
As I mentioned, I knew nothing about the author prior to reading this novel. After finishing, I see that he is a screenwriter, having at least two movies to his credit that are - surprise - suspense thrillers. He also has a string of follow-up novels that I didn't bother to examine but I imagine are also mystery thrillers.
If you like paint by numbers stories that eschew meaningful character development or examination of moral decision making in favour of plot complications and story hooks, by all means this is for you. If you want something thoughtful, respectful, reflective and even somewhat connected to the way things truly are in this world, move on.
One of my favourite comedy bits is Robin Williams pretending to be Elmer Fudd singing Bruce Springsteen's "Fire". In a similar vein, I imagine that, in sitting down to write The Manual of Detection, Jedediah Berry asked himself "what if Terry Gilliam channeled David Lynch pretending to be Franz Kafka writing a Sam Spade novel?" You can almost sense him smirking and glancing over at you as you read along, as if to say "you get it?"
This is a fun novel. It's not exactly weird, it's more unsettling, like a strange noise in the upstairs bathroom when you're home alone and the cat's curled up in your lap. Everything is just . . . off: the endless rain. The retro-futuristic setting. The rigidly bureaucratic, hierarchical Agency. The preoccupation with umbrellas, wet socks and squeaky shoes. It's hard to get a handle on where and when it's taking place, and even harder to pin down the mood. 20 pages in I checked to see if I had missed an opening chapter or prologue; I felt like I was missing some key piece of information that would establish context. Like I said: unsettling.
But then I just surrendered to it and let the story carry me along like a lazy river. The protagonist, Charles Unwin, is a clerk in some kind of monolithic corporate detective agency reminiscent of Pinkerton's. His job is to write the official case reports of his assigned detective, Travis Sivart, based on Sivart's narrative notes. It is a job at which he apparently excels and takes great pride in doing. As the story opens, he finds himself unexpectedly promoted against his will to detective, replacing Sivart who is mysteriously absent. Completely unprepared and unqualified, he sets out to obtain an explanation for, and reversal of, this decision and stumbles upon the murder of Sivart's Watcher (i.e. supervisor) for which he is framed. This sets everything in motion.
All the 1940s detective story tropes are there: the beautiful femme fatale, the mysterious woman in distress, the hardboiled detective(s), the sassy secretary, the frame-job murder, the hapless patsy. But again, things are off. For one, what exactly is the nature of this detective agency? For another, why are people so strangely somnambulant? Why does Unwin's choice of hat matter to his job? What are we to make of the clipped, Edwardian prose, so curiously flat and detached?
The mysteries include the mummy with modern dental work at the Municipal Museum, the theft of the 12th of November (you read that correctly), the 7:27 a.m. train that always runs a minute late, a defunct carnival, dream infiltration, a casino where sleepwalkers gamble with alarm clocks, and a man who has died 3 times. How they are related to the missing Travis Sivart, the murdered Watcher, a recently-resurfaced magician, the menacing, formerly-conjoined twins who drive the steam-powered carriage, and the museum cleaner who wrote the titular "Manual of Detection" makes up the meat of the story.
And what a story. Again, lots of fun, but I confess at times I allowed my attention to wander largely, I think, because of the flat prose style. It's necessary for the key plot point, the dream infiltration reminiscent of Inception, but until you understand that, keep the background music off and eliminate external distractions so that you can focus on the narrative.
Once the pieces start falling into place, the pace accelerates and, again like in a classic detective novel, the good, the bad and the ambiguous all meet their various rewards. Plot twists, big reveals, character reversals, and comeuppances abound. It seems like we're back on traditional ground, but it's all clever parody, subversion, and (God help me) deconstruction. The book leaves us with a number of questions about the surveillance and control, the illusions we trade for reality, and what it means to be "awake". It's not for everyone, and, judging by some other reviews, a lot of readers couldn't/didn't finish it. But if you are looking for something subversive, original, a little confusing, and, yes, fun, give it a go. You might just enjoy yourself.
One of my favourite comedy bits is Robin Williams pretending to be Elmer Fudd singing Bruce Springsteen's "Fire". In a similar vein, I imagine that, in sitting down to write The Manual of Detection, Jedediah Berry asked himself "what if Terry Gilliam channeled David Lynch pretending to be Franz Kafka writing a Sam Spade novel?" You can almost sense him smirking and glancing over at you as you read along, as if to say "you get it?"
This is a fun novel. It's not exactly weird, it's more unsettling, like a strange noise in the upstairs bathroom when you're home alone and the cat's curled up in your lap. Everything is just . . . off: the endless rain. The retro-futuristic setting. The rigidly bureaucratic, hierarchical Agency. The preoccupation with umbrellas, wet socks and squeaky shoes. It's hard to get a handle on where and when it's taking place, and even harder to pin down the mood. 20 pages in I checked to see if I had missed an opening chapter or prologue; I felt like I was missing some key piece of information that would establish context. Like I said: unsettling.
But then I just surrendered to it and let the story carry me along like a lazy river. The protagonist, Charles Unwin, is a clerk in some kind of monolithic corporate detective agency reminiscent of Pinkerton's. His job is to write the official case reports of his assigned detective, Travis Sivart, based on Sivart's narrative notes. It is a job at which he apparently excels and takes great pride in doing. As the story opens, he finds himself unexpectedly promoted against his will to detective, replacing Sivart who is mysteriously absent. Completely unprepared and unqualified, he sets out to obtain an explanation for, and reversal of, this decision and stumbles upon the murder of Sivart's Watcher (i.e. supervisor) for which he is framed. This sets everything in motion.
All the 1940s detective story tropes are there: the beautiful femme fatale, the mysterious woman in distress, the hardboiled detective(s), the sassy secretary, the frame-job murder, the hapless patsy. But again, things are off. For one, what exactly is the nature of this detective agency? For another, why are people so strangely somnambulant? Why does Unwin's choice of hat matter to his job? What are we to make of the clipped, Edwardian prose, so curiously flat and detached?
The mysteries include the mummy with modern dental work at the Municipal Museum, the theft of the 12th of November (you read that correctly), the 7:27 a.m. train that always runs a minute late, a defunct carnival, dream infiltration, a casino where sleepwalkers gamble with alarm clocks, and a man who has died 3 times. How they are related to the missing Travis Sivart, the murdered Watcher, a recently-resurfaced magician, the menacing, formerly-conjoined twins who drive the steam-powered carriage, and the museum cleaner who wrote the titular "Manual of Detection" makes up the meat of the story.
And what a story. Again, lots of fun, but I confess at times I allowed my attention to wander largely, I think, because of the flat prose style. It's necessary for the key plot point, the dream infiltration reminiscent of Inception, but until you understand that, keep the background music off and eliminate external distractions so that you can focus on the narrative.
Once the pieces start falling into place, the pace accelerates and, again like in a classic detective novel, the good, the bad and the ambiguous all meet their various rewards. Plot twists, big reveals, character reversals, and comeuppances abound. It seems like we're back on traditional ground, but it's all clever parody, subversion, and (God help me) deconstruction. The book leaves us with a number of questions about the surveillance and control, the illusions we trade for reality, and what it means to be "awake". It's not for everyone, and, judging by some other reviews, a lot of readers couldn't/didn't finish it. But if you are looking for something subversive, original, a little confusing, and, yes, fun, give it a go. You might just enjoy yourself.
