Call of the Wilde

FICTION: CLAIRE KILROY reviews The Confessions of Edward Day By Valerie Martin Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 283pp. £18.99

FICTION: CLAIRE KILROYreviews The Confessions of Edward DayBy Valerie Martin
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 283pp. £18.99

VALERIE MARTIN is the author of three collections of short stories, a biography of St Francis of Assisi and nine novels, one of which, Property, won the Orange Prize in 2003. She is best known for her novel Mary Reilly, a reimagining of the Jekyll and Hyde story, which was made into a Hollywood film. The Confessions of Edward Day, her ninth novel, is described on the jacket as a "re-imagining of Dorian Gray", and, indeed, Oscar Wilde is name-checked in its pages, and parallels drawn with that enduring text.

The Confessions of Edward Dayis set in the theatre world of New York in the 1970s and 1980s. From birth Edward Day finds himself playing a role. His frustrated mother, "surrounded from dawn to dark, as she was, by the unlovely spectacle of maleness", had wanted a daughter, and so Edward tries to please her by becoming a mummy's boy. His mother calls him by his gender-neutral middle name, Leslie, and reads to him "tales of girlish heroism" featuring the likes of Nancy Drew, the Dana Girls and Laura in the Little Housebooks. "When I went off to school and became Edward," he tells the reader, "I had no clear idea of myself; perhaps that was why I was drawn to acting."

When his mother leaves the family home to move in with her lesbian lover, Helen, and the couple subsequently commit suicide in a pact, an emotional disconnect takes place in Edward. His emotions still occur, but in a separate sphere from him – “they did battle with one another and I looked on, a helpless bystander”. This predicament of being a neutral, impassive observer of your own life is, according to Edward, the making of him as an actor. “I delved into every nuance of my emotions . . . An actor’s emotions are his textbook. I perceived that my forehead was tight, my upper lip stretched down and pursed slightly over my lower lip. ‘Who am I?’ I asked.” Who is he, indeed. Or, rather, what is he, for Edward becomes so abstract, so cold, he seems less than human, and is all the more fascinating for it.

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The acting world provides Martin with fertile ground for caustic wit. “In general the actor’s memoir is divided into two parts: stirring tales of my youthful artistic suffering followed by charming profiles of all the famous people who admire me . . . Katharine Hepburn got it right when she titled her tiresome paean to herself simply Me.”

When the first of the aspiring actors secures an agent – the Holy Grail in a young actor’s world – we are told that “after every fifth word he said, ‘my agent’.”

A near-death experience is the defining episode of Edward’s life. He falls into the sea and another actor, Guy Margate, dives in and drags him to safety. Guy bears an uncanny resemblance to Edward, and he too desires the object of Edward’s affections – or affectations, rather, seeing as Edward can’t feel anything – the beautiful and unstable Madeleine Delavergne. With the introduction of Guy, the Faust myth is invoked: “I owed [Guy] my life and my obligation was a bond that must endure between us forever. But it didn’t make me like him.”

Guy himself later spells out their relationship in terms of Faust and Mephistopheles: “It’s universally understood that our relationship is special. It’s mythic, actually. You were supposed to die that night, you were a goner, and I had to rob death to save you.” “Jesus, Guy,” Edward exclaims. “Where are you from? It’s hell, isn’t it? It really is hell.”

The Dorian Gray narrative is also referenced. As Edward’s star ascends, Guy’s descends. He grows more decrepit every time Edward encounters him – they appear to be ageing at a different rate. “He’d gone through a fairly marked physical transformation . . . He looked older than me, and I wondered if he actually was.”

Martin's prose is meticulous and perfectly balanced – there is not a word out of place. This is a graceful, epigrammatic novel. Toying with readers' expectations, however, is a dangerous game. Were the novel offered as a study of the acting profession (of the acting pathology, rather), as an evocation of downtown New York and the theatre district in the 1970s, as an exploration of narcissism and misogyny, The Confessions of Edward Daywould be an intriguing, satisfying, atmospheric read. Unfortunately, the novel makes promises that it fails to keep. By invoking the great narratives of damnation, such as Faustand Dorian Gray, but without quite delivering on them, Martin leaves the reader feeling short-changed, thereby undermining the endeavour, which is a great shame in an otherwise riveting novel.


Claire Kilroy's latest novel, All Names Have Been Changed, is published by Faber