Well, well, well.
I've been reflecting on this one for a few days and my main thought is that there's no way this would have been published with a biggie if it had been written by a lowly noir indie writer. That's no reflection on the quality of the prose and the poetic turns of phrase which are both excellent, but is more down to the content and the perversities of the protagonist. Bunny Munro is the kind or lowlife scum you're likely to bump into over at All Due Respect boooks, or Shotgun Honey or others of the darker indie presses out there, the kind of publishers who do it for love and likely make a loss rather than a profit on most of their ventures. It made me a little sad to be reminded, once again, that so many great writers out there don't possess the calling card of fame or celebrity to get through the front doors, past security and into the head offices.
And none of that is Nick Cave's fault. All he has to do is create what is in his mind, work on it and produce things that the rest of us can enjoy.
Bunny Munro is a salesman. Mostly he has sex on the brain, but he also has sex on the bed, in hotel rooms, in restaurant bathrooms, with the lifeless and by himself. When this addiction is weaved within a pattern of alcoholism, it's innevitable that he hits the skids. For Bunny, his decline is almost entirely of his own making- rather than respond to his wife's needs, he leaves her hanging and when he returns home, he finds his son, Bunny Junior, is motherless.
Bunny is now screwed in a very different way. He takes his son on the road as he travels from door to door peddling his wares. Sometimes he sells, sometimes he shags, sometimes he gets the crap beaten out of him. Before long, he's faced with his comeuppance, a new kind of hell that feels well-deserved (it's unusual for me not to have sympathy for an addict, but Bunny is an extremely unlovable rogue).
I didn't find this one easy. Some of the sexploits and being inside the head of such a mind made me feel unclean. I might have ducked out early if it hadn't been for the sense of exploration, the occasional miracle of phrasing, the cuirousity, the humour and the barbed tenderness of the father/son relationship and the originality of the whole piece.
I'm so glad I stuck with it as there's so much treasure to find.
Can I recommend it?
Within limited circles.
Will I be watching the TV adaptation?
Highly bloody unlikely.
