Joined: Tue Oct 26, 2004 1:20 pm Posts: 7730 Location: Portland, OR
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Isn't it already out? Coupland is doing a book tour right now (he'll be in Portland on the 31st). The NY Times didn't give it the best review in the world, but it's Douglas Coupland... I'll probably read it anyway, bad or good.
All the Lonely People By EMILY NUSSBAUM Published: January 2, 2005, Sunday
ELEANOR RIGBY By Douglas Coupland. 249 pp. Bloomsbury. $22.95.
As far back as ''Generation X'' (1991), Douglas Coupland's characters have been gazing at the sky for signs and portents, dodging meteorites and retreating into the desert. Perpetually four and a half years ahead of his time, Coupland became famous for his neologisms (McJobs, micro-serfs, the ''one-downmanship'' of A.A. meet-ings). But at his best he's been more than a phrasemaker; with a sympathetic eye for self-delusion, he captured the embarrassed spiritual yearning in his characters, the refugees of the new economy -- rendering meaningful that least sympathetic of emotional breakdowns, the ''quarter-life crisis.''
Unfortunately, the narrator of ''Eleanor Rigby,'' Liz Dunn, is one of Coupland's less successful creations. A walking Cathy cartoon with an apocalyptic chip on her shoulder, Liz is (she reminds us again and again) fat, plain and friendless. She's never had a relationship, repels her co-workers with snarky wisecracks and possesses special sensitivities like the ability to sense corpses. On the night in 1997 that the Hale-Bopp comet burns through the sky over Vancouver, Liz is at her lowest ebb: preparing to get her wisdom teeth removed, she loads up on sappy videos, self-pity and Jell-O. Then her life is interrupted by a surprise visitor -- a long-lost son, fully loaded with prophetic gifts and tragic secrets.
It's a soap opera twist with some promise. And at first, Liz's musings on loneliness have a welcome pungency. ''In the same way some people get flashes of light before a killer migraine, I have the aura that precedes a loneliness blizzard, those sweeps of loneliness that feel not just emotional but medical.'' Like so many of Coupland's characters, Liz is a compulsive storyteller. As she unfolds the mysterious details of a high school trip to Italy, she provides a mordant, affecting window into her own unhappy innocence. ''This was when the others began to notice me,'' she recalls of the night she got drunk for the first time. ''But not in a Wow-she's-cool! way, more in a Let's-get-the-cat-stoned way -- but how was I to know? Attention was like ambrosia to me.''
But as they might in real life, her woeful tales lose their effect after a few rounds -- and Liz starts to seem less an unreliable narrator than a glumly self-righteous (and self-conscious) one. ''Don't imagine me as your universal protagonist,'' she warns crankily. ''I'm not Demi Moore, and I'm not whoever is the Demi Moore equivalent of your era. I'm me. I'm real.'' But Liz refuses to grant the same realness to anyone around her: her family members and co-workers are a parade of vapid yuppie cartoons, existing only to confirm her sense of martyred exceptionalism.
Everyone, that is, except for Liz's freshly discovered son, who is wish fulfillment in skater boy form. A poetry-spouting waif with a history of abuse, Jeremy allows Liz at last to experience family intimacy. But instead of a human catalyst, he is an off-putting Tiny Tim, possessing few recognizable emotions other than a saintly compassion. When he's off his medication, Jeremy sees visions involving farmers and an ominous voice from the sky -- visions only Liz is sensitive enough to appreciate properly. And as the narrative descends into a series of wacky, quasi-spiritual coincidences involving meteorites and foreign soul mates, it tranforms from a novel into a Rube Goldberg device brutally determined to produce a nugget of poignancy. It's a lost opportunity. While Liz insists she is unique, she's got sisters -- a legion of cranky-plain heroines from Jane Eyre to Peppermint Patty. Instead of following their path, ''Eleanor Rigby'' dwindles chapter by chapter into a high-art twist on chick lit -- aiming for bittersweet but tasting at last suspiciously of artificial sweetener.
also, here's an interesting interview with Coupland on the very topic you brought up-- loneliness and isolation. These folks on nerve.com think it's his best so go figure....
http://www.nerve.com/screeningroom/book ... scoupland/
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