John Banville’s The Blue Guitar enters a literary landscape where novels with predictable storylines often rely on a distinctive narrative voice to captivate readers. Even mundane events can become compelling when narrated by a character brimming with personality – be it amusing, monstrous, deceptive, unreliable, or simply quirky. This novel appears to operate within this framework, as signaled by its title, a clear reference to Wallace Stevens, hinting at a cubist perspective on “truth.”
However, the plot of The Blue Guitar offers little in the way of genuine surprise. It traces a well-trodden path: a man engages in an affair, flees his lover when discovered, grapples with guilt, reconciles with his wife (who has her own secrets), experiences a sense of diminishment, and ultimately becomes the caretaker of his former lover’s aging dog. The narrative style, while competent, doesn’t venture into particularly innovative territory. Oliver Orme, Banville’s narrator, skillfully depicts his descent from lightheartedness to despair, but without employing any remarkable artistic maneuvers. He instigates his own downfall, endures the consequences, and recounts the tale – a rather straightforward and somewhat foolish protagonist.
Orme is presented as a cultured and digressional figure, possessing a certain charm, reminiscent of a roly-poly Dylan Thomas, albeit Irish and lacking the poetic genius. He introduces himself with a notable lack of shame as a former painter and a practicing petty thief (though his thievery is decidedly minor). Narcissist and self-analyst could easily be added to his self-description, particularly given his fascination with exploring the intricate connections within his life. Much like his artistic endeavors aimed to bridge the gap between “things in themselves” and their artistic representation, his acts of theft and adultery become attempts to construct a new reality from fragments of another.
Given that Orme’s endeavors consistently lead to disappointment and failure, a tragic dimension underlies his narrative. Yet, this tragedy doesn’t resonate deeply. Orme’s narration remains too casually affable, too focused on self-deprecation to evoke profound sorrow. Moreover, he comes across as somewhat inept. Does Banville, typically adept at portraying the anguish of love, intend for us to withhold sympathy for Orme? This seems improbable. More likely, by portraying his protagonist as a recognizable fool rather than a figure of immense suffering, Banville aims to foster greater reader identification.
And indeed, we do identify with Orme, albeit within certain limitations. The novel’s modest scope is undeniable. This downsizing extends beyond Orme, affecting those ensnared in his predicament. Gloria, his wife, is depicted as “preternaturally composed” and largely absent – a watercolor sketch amidst oil paintings. Polly, the object of Orme’s affection, is initially portrayed as a cheerful, rosy-cheeked countrywoman with a “childlike” quality. Her husband, Marcus, is a likeable but unassertive watch repairman. Freddie, the local aristocrat, is a generic, mild-mannered toff. None of these characters possess the complexity to serve as a substantial canvas for Orme to project his profound emotions. Nor are they astute or ironic enough to offer alternative avenues for him to express these feelings.
A similar observation can be made about the novel’s setting. Orme returns to his childhood home – an unnamed Irish town populated with generic landmarks mirroring its inhabitants: a grand house, a studio, a gatehouse, a fish-and-chip shop. Any anticipation that these familiar surroundings might rekindle his artistic aspirations is dispelled early on. In fact, his feelings of being “a familiar alien” in this environment contribute to his flirtation with Polly, setting in motion the “grotesque bedroom farce” that drives the plot.
At every juncture in The Blue Guitar (and the novel’s structure and setting are tightly controlled), we remain in the company of a character who aspires to grapple with the significant mess he has created, yet struggles to rise to the occasion. He lacks the capacity for expansive, healing reflection on what he believes to be the root of his current waywardness – the early childhood death of his daughter, which has transformed his and his wife’s lives into a perpetual “aftermath.” This same pattern of self-awareness coupled with linguistic restraint permeates his waywardness itself. In both life and love, Orme remains disconnected from himself. His inherent vagueness has morphed into crippling indecision, focus has devolved into selfishness, and engagement has become weary, passive acceptance. The ultimate conclusion? “One does what one does,” he sighs, “and staggers bleeding out of the china shop.”
