The Family Fang By Kevin Wilson

'The Family Fang', by Kevin Wilson, was a troubling read for me. It is the story of the Fang Family, two parents and two children. Mr and Mrs Fang are performance artists, staging 'shocking' spectacles in public places in the name of 'art'. Their children are both pawns of their art and sometimes willing, often unwilling participants. The book shifts perspective between the 'growing up' years of Annie and Buster (the kids), and the present of their adulthood. This book seems to be asking the question, "Will he kids be alright, no matter what, as long as they're not abused in a traditional sense?" The answer is a resounding, "No."

Buster and Annie are profoundly not okay. Not at all. Both are addicts, both sabotage their careers, both undervalue themselves except in so far as how they are viewed by others, neither has a stable relationship. After each having their individual lifequake, they find themselves in the last place either ever wanted to be again: home.

I wanted to like this book, and there were definitely shining moments of comedy and pathos that kept me from closing the cover, never to return. It was close, though. The problem is not so much Wilson's writing as the fact that it was so difficult to find a genuine moment in the book, something that caught my attention and especially emotion, making it possible for me to give a damn what happened to these characters. Look, I'll be honest: this book is derivative as hell, of both John Irving (master of the dysfunctional family-remember 'The Hotel New Hampshire'?) and of Wes Anderson (remember 'The Royal Tenenbaums'?). Many of the events seemed to have been pulled out of the 'I gotta do something WACKY now' hat, and in a way that was not at all believable. Irving can do these things, because he has the ability to make all the insane events that occur in his novels BELIEVABLE. He ties them into the narrative in such a way that they seem inevitable, rather than random. Anderson has this same ability. Wilson, unfortunately, does not, at least not yet.  He does seem to have a genuine talent hiding under his borrowed plumage, and I'd love to read something by him when he finds his OWN voice.

I give this two coffee cups out of five, and a fervent hope that in the future this author gives us something from his heart. Mr. Wilson, I'm eager to read that something.