In the end I liked Adam Ross’s new novel Playworld a lot, though getting to that assessment was not easy. Our narrator, Griffin Hurt, is recalling the year when he was fourteen, a year when he was the naively consensual victim of two different sexual predators. One, a 36-year-old married mom and friend of the Hurt family named Naomi Shah, slowly leads Griffin into physical intimacy by way of initially sitting in a parked car and talking, then proceeding to kissing, near-consummation, and finally full seduction. The other, Kepplemen, his wrestling coach, is creepier and more loathsome, a man who uses his professional access to teenaged boys to bully and assault them. However, I’m not sure that Griffin would approve my use of the word assault just now. He’s a remarkably detached observer of the adult actions around him, and at times his reporting of criminal adult behavior is so casually matter-of-fact as to sound comic. In fact, both Naomi and Kepplemen are but two supporting characters in a tale that embraces a large cast. We get to know Griffin’s parents and his younger brother, Oren; we see Griffin engaging with his friends both in and out of school; we ride along for Griffin’s first major crush on a girl from another school; and we watch Griffin at work. He’s a child actor, a very successful one, with a recurring role on a television series and successful auditions for the movies. Ross provides Griffin so much plot that at times the novel reads like a brainstorming exercise in which the protagonist drifts from place to place in hopes of finding a coherent narrative. Yet by the end Ross pulls all the strands of his story into a series of satisfying resolutions. Griffin takes us on an epic adventure in this ambitious bildungsroman, and the annoyances along the way turn out to be negligible.
One of those annoyances is that Griffin alternates between Candide-like naivete and Owen-Meany-level precocity. He repeatedly purports to know nothing about masturbation because nobody has ever taught him about it—a bizarre claim all on its own—but for a kid who has grown up in Manhattan, had a career in show business, spent months in the locker room during wrestling season, and developed plenty of peer friendships, his ignorance makes no sense. On the other hand, when an adult tosses him the keys, he manages with minimal difficulty to drive a standard-shift car around Long Island without a license and without a wreck. Adam Ross is such a skillful writer that I have to regard these distractions as deliberate on his part. He has said that the book is autobiographical—he himself was a child actor—so he’s writing with a lot of authority, but I found these odd collisions with reality to be distracting.
On the other hand, the name of the novel is Playworld, and the world of the novel is full of play. Griffin plays roles on television and in the movies, and he plays roles offscreen with friends, teachers, family, teammates, and predatory adults. Likewise Griffin’s father is an actor always hustling for the next big role and frequently concealing his episodes of cheating on his wife. Griffin gets cast in school plays. His entire year consists of a collection of outsize experiences suited for the stage or the screen. The resolutions to his many challenges come in the form of renunciations, and by the end he joins the parade of so many American heroes as he heads west, even if his destination is merely the west side of Manhattan.
A few days after I finished reading Playworld, abundant and laudatory reviews led me to Roanoke’s Grandin Theatre—you can tell it’s an art house by the way it spells theater—to see Mickey 17, the latest work from Bong Joon Ho (or Bong Joon-ho, or Bong Joon-Ho, depending upon which website you visit). For me the movie did not deliver what the enthusiastic reviews had promised. Unlike Bong’s Parasite, which was consistently fresh and surprising, Mickey 17 was Groundhog Day without enough comedy to leaven the darkness and one of many sci-fi movies to argue that weird alien presences need not be hostile or dangerous. The title character is called “17” because he’s the seventeenth iteration of the same person. Mickey is an Expendable on a mission to another planet, and as an Expendable he’s the go-to crew member to face life-threatening problems. When he dies, as he has done sixteen times already, he’s simply printed out in a new version with all of his stored memories intact. What kept me in the theater for the duration of the movie was the astonishing performance of Robert Pattinson as Mickey. I haven’t seen much of Pattinson in performance (no Twilight, no Batman, no Lighthouse), but I understand now why he’s so respected within and without the industry. He’s an actor willing to go for whatever the role demands, and his endearing turn as the resigned but hopeful Mickey 17 as well as the angry and aggressive Mickey 18 deserves the Range and Generosity Award, a prize which I just invented but am willing to present to Pattinson if he wants to join me for lunch here in Roanoke at Crystal Spring Grocery.