FICTION:A novelist's take on our economic woes and a property magnate's fall from grace adds up to a compelling modern satire, writes FERDIA Mac ANNA
LAST SUMMER I took the Aerosmith Rock 'n' Roller Coaster at a European theme park. Strapped into an unforgiving metal harness, I shot from zero to 60mph in 2.8 seconds, with Dude Looks Like a Ladyblasting into my ears from the 32,000-watt audio system. My insides remained at the starting gate while the rest of me hurtled at light speed, performing supersaults and inversions to make a grown man scream. I crawled out slack-jawed and limp-kneed yet exhilarated. Once I had located my stomach I couldn't wait for another go.
Reading Capital Sinswas a lot like taking that ride. The novel takes off at page one and crunches to a halt 255 pages later without giving the reader a break from its relentless pace or many suprising twists and turns.
On the surface a novel set in 2006, which tells the story of a corrupt property magnate’s fall from grace, sounds like the kind of dry moralistic tract that could put people off reading fiction. Certainly the lame title and the unconvincing blurb do the book no favours: “Ireland 2006. No one can speak of anything but the price of property.” The general impression is that one is about to pore over some rehashed tribunal documents. Had I happened across this novel in a bookshop I would probably have given it only a cursory glance.
Don't be fooled by the lacklustre wrapping. Cunningham's story is a compelling modern satire that presents the Celtic Tiger disaster as a garish fairy tale, The Emperor's New Clotheswith flashier characters, acrobatic sex and an epic villain.
With the character of Albert Barr, Cunningham has created a compelling contemporary monster. Greedy, corrupt, unfaithful, ruthless, a snob and at times spitefully childish, Albert is an irresistible literary car crash.
The monster's closest cousin is probably Martin Amis's compelling hedonist John Self in Money. Like Self, Albert cannot stop himself indulging in drink, good food, expensive cars, high-class escorts – whatever desirable commodity is going. He is immensely engaging, because there's nothing as reassuring as watching egotistical, wealthy men fall on their faces.
This monster has heart, however, personified by his abject, unwavering and almost noble adoration of his deranged, beautiful wife. Mebh-Marie is the kind of woman who yearns for a rainforest as a birthday gift and when crossed can be handy with an axe. When her passions are up she lapses into Eastenders-style Cockney. The rows – and the relationship – between Albert and Mebh-Marie are marvellous page-turners.
When we meet him Albert has leveraged and cross-collateralised himself to breaking point in a multibillion-euro alliance with bankers, developers and politicians to complete the development of Goose Point, a site that may contain medieval artifacts and has an alarming propensity to become flooded by the Irish Sea.
Albert’s nemesis is hapless, soon-to-be-unemployed journalist Lee Carew, a wannabe novelist who is as unlucky in print as he is in love. The only thing Lee has going for him is his companionship with his irritatingly lovable dog, Des. In a gloriously daft twist, Lee gets laid off and winds up as Albert’s gardener, which brings him into contact with the volatile Mebh-Marie. Lee has eyes for Albert’s missus, removing his shirt to reveal six-pack abs whenever she makes an appearance outdoors. However, he secretly yearns for his shrink: petite, delectable Gwen. In yet another stomach- capsizing plot somersault, Lee, Gwen and the redoubtable pooch stumble on information that could destroy Albert’s grand scheme and bring down bankers, fat cats and politicians alike.
In the years to come we will doubtless suffer from Celtic Tiger fatigue. Tribunals, show trials and countless exposés will sap our appetite for the truth. Our rage may become sedated by information overload.
Cunningham’s blackly comic skewering of those responsible for Ireland’s financial debacle may not put the guilty in jail, nor will it topple a particular bank. But he gives a fresh twist to a yarn we all think we know while possibly offering a more truthful insight into the human nature of the calamity than many po-faced accounts. Because the real joke here is that there is a little Albert Barr in each of us.
Cunningham may be a fine prose stylist who deftly combines the demands of a rattling tale with acerbic and relevant social commentary, but at heart he’s a crusader – the Hemingway of the Celtic Tiger, a dogged journalist who employs fiction as a weapon to uncover the roots of social malaise.
Hemingway once praised Herman Melville for telling “how things, actual things. Can be”. Cunningham possesses a similar ability to strip away mystery and artifice. Cunningham’s target is contemporary Ireland, and he gleefully lambasts it. It’s brilliant fun.
Ferdia Mac Anna is a TV producer, director and novelist. His memoir, The Rocky Years, is published by Headline Books
