“Frances Price – tart widow, possessive mother,
and Upper East Side force of nature – is in dire straits, beset by scandal and
impending bankruptcy. Her adult son Malcolm is no help, mired in a permanent
state of arrested development. And then there’s the Prices' aging cat, Small
Frank, who Frances believes houses the spirit of her late husband, an
infamously immoral litigator and world-class cad whose gruesome tabloid death
rendered Frances and Malcolm social outcasts. Putting penury and pariahdom
behind them, the family decides to cut their losses and head for the exit. One
ocean voyage later, the curious trio land in their beloved Paris, the City of
Light serving as a backdrop not for love or romance, but self-destruction and economic
ruin – to riotous effect. A number of singular characters serve to round out
the cast: a bashful private investigator, an aimless psychic proposing a
seance, a doctor who makes house calls with his wine merchant in tow, and the
inimitable Mme. Reynard, aggressive houseguest and dementedly friendly American
expat.”
Part of the charm of reading Patrick deWitt (Undermajordomo
Minor, The Sisters Brothers) is getting wrapped up in his slim
plotting that is filled with such wonderful oddness.
In French Exit, we get a strange
tale filled with strange people and –perhaps- a magical cat.
Neither Francis or Malcolm (or most of the people they interact with) for
the most part are very likable -but I believe that’s part of the charm of this
satirical short novel. As the blurb on the paperback version says, you may
never “invite them over to dinner, but they sure make for fun reading.” Both
are utterly and hilariously dysfunctional, including Franklin (the husband and
father who died 20 years ago) who we see through flashbacks and other descriptions.
The book also moves rapidly from one unbelievable situation to the next.
Frances does remind me a lot of Lucille Bluth
from Arrested Development through most of the book. Here is a
character that was used to being rich, pampered, and able to get away with
almost anything (much to her late husband’s dismay). Much like Lucille, Frances
uses her cutting comments, her penchant for drinking at all hours, and her
domineering ways with everyone, including the coddling of her thirtysomething
man-child son Malcolm (who is now bumbling around through life because it’s
always been steered by his mother) to get through a life she seems bored with.
There is an absurdist aspect about the whole
novel, which includes the Price family’s financial situation and how things
seemly always work out for them; and whole theme of the book being about the
“tragedy of manners”. And it even gets a bit fantastical with the reveal that
their cat, Small Frank, is harboring the “spirit” (?) of Frances late husband.
The subtleness and easy acceptance of this -and the fact that deWitt decides
not to explain any of it- is somewhat enduring as well.
As the book proceeds to its
end, you understand where it closes at, and even that’s hinted in the title,
which “refers to leaving a social gathering without saying your farewells. One
moment you're at the bar, or the house party, or the Sunday morning wedding
brunch. The next moment you're gone.” Other terms include an Irish goodbye, and
ghosting. Still, deWitt writes beautifully and, as always, I love his bizarre
humor:
“What’s the opposite of a
miracle?” Malcolm asks.
Frances sat upright in her
bed. “How many letters?”
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