'The Loved One'

     Recently finished 'The Loved One' by Evelyn Waugh. One of those short novels that punctuate his post-war literary output. A narrative exploring the vulgarity of popular culture in California (which in itself is the death of culture, or perhaps represents a culture of falsehoods, of simulacra, like one of those buildings in a American Ghost Town, that is all façade with a hut lurking shamefully behind), and its particular manifestation in the culture of death. It is soon evident in the novel that Waugh was in turns baffled, disgusted and intrigued by what he experienced on his trip to California in 1947, specifically a visit to the famous 'Forest Lawn Memorial Park' in Glendale which he satyrises as 'Whispering Glades'.

     All that said this is an oddly jerky novel, at times a bit below par, and rather like football it is a game of two halves. The first half bears a certain resemblance in style to his early novels while the second is much tougher and, frankly, more compelling. To begin with we find ourselves in the world of ex-pat Brits, classy ones at that, struggling to make and maintain a name for themselves in Hollywood. It is precarious existence. The studio system ruthless and the Americans generally are largely indifferent. Some of the expats behave as though they were missionaries with a calling to maintain correct standards in the face of barbarism. One of those struggling along is the young poet, Denis Barlow. He is rather like one of those characters in Waugh's early novels such as Paul Pennyfeather in 'Decline and Fall' - an innocent abroad, more sinned against than sinning. Well, at least to begin with.

     Things begin to change when Barlow encounters death and enters the world of 'Whispering Glades', the realm of oleaginous Mr Boyjoy to arrange the funeral of a senior member of the expat community. Then all of a sudden the narrative jerks off in a different, flinty direction. The funeral Barlow has had to arrange fails to materialise, and Barlow's expat community fades to the distance. Inexplicably one feels. Both would offer a rich seem of comedic potential. A bleaker narrative takes over and with a ruthless logic drives towards its bitter conclusion. 

     Waugh could always be a brutal, spiteful writer. There is a recurrent cruelty in both his work and his life, and I think this is quite possibly its most naked display. However, it does save the novel.