Okay, so his language is tough, loud and definitely of the street. Even at its most comic, Chicago playwright David Mamet's theatre functions through two emotions: rage and fear. Funny, fast, Jewish, his genius lies in an ear which scripts dialogue which is true to speech as spoken. No one writes better American than he does. Not only did he revitalise US drama with American Buffalo (1975), Sexual Peversity in Chicago (1977) and the Pulitzer Prize-winning Glengarry Glenn Ross (1983), he provides the vital link between Miller and Albee and the present, while also exerting a strong influence on the writing of US screenplays. Be warned his theatre is not for the wishy washy; it hurts because it's shouted, because it's real.
That said, Mamet the novelist - who emerged in 1994 with the surreal, downbeat tale The Village which was far closer in tone to the world of David Lynch and Twin Peaks - was determinedly unlike his theatrical voice. It is a dreamy, mood piece set in New England, far away from the urban universe of his plays. His second, evocatively moving novel, The Old Religion, based on a true story of religious persecution, is as unlike his first as it is unlike his plays. Both novels are quiet, considered - and they work. They also demonstate Mamet's ability to call upon, and sustain, another voice. So far so good. His third fiction, Wilson, is a smugly clever disappointment. Billed as a comedy and mysteriously described as "a modern-day Tristram Shandy", it is neither. Far from a virtuoso performance in humour and technique, it is a fragmented mess.
True, it does reveal Mamet writing in yet another voice, this time a mannered voice far more English than American. It is a deliberate spoof on academic detective work, complete with self-important footnotes and cross references, all intended to create a coherent narrative. Well, well. It may be useful to know this in advance because the novel itself, with its blank spaces, headings, bits of verse and confusion, may leave one wondering what on earth is going on. There is no doubt about it - a writer would have to be already famous to get an oddity of this magnitude published.
So, some time in the future, the Internet collapses and memory becomes lost. The past must be reassembled and it is in the form of a random collection of fragments, many from the confused pen of Ginger, the now-crazy widow of President Wilson. The narrative darts from one squib to another, a high-speed, at times cartoon, collage of unfunny gags, observations and impressions often opinionated, usually pointless. Mamet is certainly intent on displaying his range, but there comes a time when impersonation descends into incognito. No one on earth would suspect this had been penned by David Mamet. It is as if he has set out to deconstruct not only the novel form but himself as well. Tristram Shandy it most assuredly is not. Heck, it's not even Robin Williams on a bad day. If it has a point, aside from keeping the hyperactive playwright and writer occupied, I missed it. Fans of Mamet can live without this book.
Of far greater value - sorry, of some value, however, is Jafsie and John Henry, a slim volume of bits and pieces. Their worth lies not so much in what they say but how much they reveal about Mamet the man. Admittedly it is not his best prose collection - I want him writing on theatre and performance - but even the more personal pieces showcase his aggressive intelligence and likable bluster. Much of the emphasis here is on his awareness of reaching 50, which he did in 1997.
Nostalgia is not exactly his bent but he does include a memoir of his first car, which he sold and then re-purchased some years later when the car, a symbol of his youth, was no longer in its prime. The much-vaunted "Six Hours of Perfect Poker" is no classic but it does testify to his obsessive personality. "Scotch Malt Whisky Society", although it brings us to the Edinburgh of his in-laws, is quite dull except for a great punch line introduced by his admitting to hating travel. "My people don't travel well. For the past six thousand years we usually moved only because someone was trying to kill us." In his introduction he confesses "All my life, as long as I can remember, I've had a recurring dream. In the dream I have killed someone." It's the same dream I've always had but Mamet does not elaborate on the subject. We also discover he likes the idea of hunting but just isn't any good at it; he is a self-confessed inept outdoor man.
Dialogue is his area. Most of the best moments in this book feature verbal exchanges. "I am in the locker room of a gym," begins "December 24". Most, maybe all, the guys present are Jewish. A conversation begins. One man mentions he's been to see the play Diary of Anne Frank and jokes, "No laughs. And I thought it was a comedy." Mamet responds with a line which could have come from one of his plays; "To the Christians, it is a comedy."
Elsewhere he recalls being asked by a "very famous director" to write a new screenplay of Moby Dick. "Sure thing," says Mamet. "One change," cautions the director. "We want you to write it from the point of view of the whale."
Mostly it is as if he is determined to underplay his international stature as playwright and instead wants us to meet Mamet as Joe Citizen, a guy with "an attitude" who will concede, "now men, of course, are by nature arrogant, uncaring, and selfish. And so are women."
No doubt about it: Jafsie and John Henry is readable fare. Mamet misses little and is a good talker, candid enough to lament "the awful thing about not winning an Academy Award is this: you don't get to give your speech. It just rather sits there and festers". Far less engaging is Wilson, which merely confirms that even with writers as adroit as Mamet, sometimes you win and sometimes you don't so much lose as enter a twilight zone of pointless self-indulgence. .
Eileen Battersby is an Irish Times journalist.
