Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d’Art.
By Christopher Moore. William Morrow. $26.99.
Could it be that
Christopher Moore is, you know, maturing? That the creator of a San Francisco vampire
trilogy, of Island of the Sequined Love
Nun, of a book in which Death is an adorable little girl, of “The Gospel
According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal,” of the world’s funniest sex scene including
a prehistoric monster and an oil tanker, is becoming a careful stylist, a
master of building events slowly, of revealing deep secrets only a bit at a
time, of exchanging slapstick for a sense of the sinister, some genuine
eeriness, and maybe even a little profundity?
Nah.
But Sacré Bleu nevertheless shows a very
different side of Moore from the one that has been on exhibit ever since his
first novel, Practical Demonkeeping,
came out 20 years ago. In fact, the new
book bears comparison with Practical
Demonkeeping, for in some ways it deals with the same issue: supernatural
evil in the everyday world, how to manage it (if it is in fact manageable) and
how to survive it (if it is in fact survivable). But where Practical
Demonkeeping was lewd, rude and crude (and hilarious), Sacré Bleu is – and please, Moore fans, do not regard this as a
turnoff – subtle. After the story ends,
Moore imagines readers telling him, “Well, thanks loads, Chris, now you’ve
ruined art for everyone.” (He adds,
“You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”) But Moore has ruined exactly nothing, any
more than he ruined Shakespeare with the delightfully raunchy Fool, which shows zero understanding of King Lear and is a far better book for
its utter irreverence toward one of the masterpieces of Western literature.
In the same way, Sacré Bleu shows little comprehension
of art – although a considerable amount of understanding of artists – and as a
result is a wonderful interweaving of the true, the almost-true, the
ought-to-be-true, and the cannot-possibly-be-true-unless-it-is. The book is filled with art – literally: it
includes reproductions of quite a few great paintings, mostly from the 19th
century, their titles given accurately but their captions being drawn from
dialogue in the book. For instance,
Manet’s Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe
(“Luncheon on the Grass”), the famous 1863 painting of a nude woman in the
foreground and a woman bathing in a stream in the background, while two fully
clothed men talk and gesture amid scattered food items, gets the caption,
“Looks to me like she’s deciding which of these two she’s going to bonk in the
bushes.” That is pure Moore.
Or impure Moore, which
is pretty much the same thing. For as
accurate as his portrayals of the various artists are – and they are accurate; Moore has done his
research – Moore’s skewed sensibilities are everywhere in this story of the
color blue (a specific color blue),
its meaning through art history, the various ways it has been created for
artists’ pigments, and the supernatural means through which the color and the
muse of artists who use it have passed through the ages. Oh…and why Vincent Van Gogh, who everyone
knows committed suicide, was actually murdered.
Moore mixes up reality
and near-reality so deftly and often so seamlessly (as when he displaces
certain real-world events to have them coincide with other real-world events
that in fact took place at different times) that he pulls readers of Sacré Bleu into a whole series of
impossibilities long before they have realized that such things simply couldn’t
be. Unless they are. How, after all, can anyone really believe in
a learned professor trying to reproduce the chariot races in Ben-Hur by using rats and mice as horses
and charioteers, respectively?
But…uhh…that part happens to be true.
Well, how can anyone believe that a baker once raffled off a painting by
Camille Pissarro and that the girl who won it asked for a sticky bun
instead? Well....uhh…that really happened,
too. So what in this wildly inventive
book didn’t happen? That is for readers to discover as they
meander through its pages, likely wondering for the first 100 or so what the
heck is going on, then gradually figuring out that there is something sinister,
even frightening, but very enticing happening; and then slowly, slowly learning
just what that something is. Sacré Bleu is a journey of discovery
for many of its characters (who include most of the famous painters of
mid-to-late-19th-century France), and also for readers – and therein
lies its subtlety, which Moore possesses here to a greater degree than in any
of his other books. This is a book about
art and artists – and artists’ muses. It
is also a book about men and women, about love and lust (and where they
intersect), and about everyday life and the artistic life (and where they intersect). The subtlety here extends even to details of
the writing – a first in Moore’s books.
For example, when a woman describes a man with a curious phrase that
proclaims him “my only and my ever,” this is a small clue to what is going on,
or will be going on, or did go on; Moore brings the phrase back later, in fact,
to tickle readers’ minds into realizing that something distinctly unusual is
happening here. And something distinctly
unusual is happening: Moore, an
excellent writer, is becoming a better one.
Like everything by Moore, Sacré
Bleu is funny and sexy (sometimes simultaneously); but unlike most of his
books, it is also thought-provoking and wry.
As impossible as its central premise certainly is (well, maybe is), Sacré Bleu raises just enough questions so that readers will be
left, at the end, thinking as well as chuckling. Sacré
Bleu – c'est merveilleux !
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