The Last Chairlift, John Irving’s 15th novel, is 11 shy of 900 pages long. And boy, did I feel every one of those pages.
The Last Chairlift follows the life of Adam Brewster, born in Exeter to a ski instructor mother (a deranged, semi-incestuous nymphomaniac, although I think she was supposed to come across as “kooky”) and an (at least initially) unknown father.
Into the mix Irving pours a raft of cliched characters, including “harridan” aunts, chucklingly good-natured uncles, an inspiring, nay, saintly English teacher-cum-stepfather/mother, and huge, bossy, heart-of-gold lesbians.
Alongside these is a baffling amount of weak literary explication and juvenile political opining. All Republicans seem to be gun-toting assholes, while supposedly likable characters “scream” at CNN in rage. We’re given a summary, as well as numerous interpretations, of Moby-Dick, including what I guess to be Irving’s own take on the inclusion of the titular hyphen (a drawn-out joke on possible misinterpretations of “Dick” ensues). Dickens is quoted at length, while similarities are drawn between a character and Jane Eyre.
His leer was so filthy it would have you reaching for hand sanitiser. A man over 40. A man who knew so, so much better
Irishman in Singapore: I wondered if I was foolish to emigrate in my 50s. But I feel more alive than ever
‘My sister’s boyfriend never left us alone at Christmas. Should I confront her?’
The five cheapest cars on sale in Ireland right now. Two are EVs
The most notably shoehorned element (and there are many, including the ghosts that irritatingly scamper throughout) is the inclusion of excerpts of Adam’s film script – so unnecessary and ill-advised in this already flabby book, it’s difficult not to wonder if this might have been a rejected love-project of Irving’s. Later in the novel, Adam says that “an unmade movie never leaves you”, to which I thought, “ah, if only this one could have!”
The truly discomfiting aspect of this book, though, has to be the hyper-sexualisation of the female characters therein. Early on, a young woman’s loud orgasm is described or referenced, by my count, 16 times. Yes, Irving could argue that this is told from a teenage boy’s perspective, and thus that focusing on all things arousing is only natural. But these leering and, again, endlessly repeated descriptions, read more like the errant mental wanderings of a horny older man than the thoughts of a pubescent boy.
There is so much more I could’ve written (such as the fact that The Last Chairlift of the title is not, as one might assume, a metaphor, but an actual chairlift taken by a corpse), but thankfully, unlike Irving, I have a word count to consider.
