The essence of fiction is an unusual presumption. Writer invents characters and tales that are myths, creating incidents that never took place, while the reader accepts this semblance as truth. Any breach from this silent agreement makes the entire construct fall apart. Regrettably, Richard Ayoade, in his first-ever novel, seems to have done just that, effectively demolishing the structure he established.
Much of Ayoade’s prior work as an actor, comic, and TV presenter has always appealed to me. Thus, I anticipated appreciating this upcoming book, which narrates the journey of a so-called playwright, filmmaker, and poet who revels in a season of abundant creativity from 1960 to 1976 before falling into obscurity. The narrative probes into the primary question, “What occurred?”
Where Ayoade falters is his undue immersion into the storyline. The account starts when he’s a teenage lad, coming across Hughes’s The Two-Hander Trilogy in a bookstore. Finding his mirror image in the author’s photograph piques his curiosity and eventually leads him to produce a documentary on his life, interviewing former mates, spouses, lovers, and companions.
Yet, having Ayoade as an actual person, and Hughes as a mere figment of imagination, makes suspending disbelief an impossible task.
Despite the pitfalls, Ayoade does prove his witty nature. A comment about him being only 16 – “and, by that stage, had only authored one or two large theatrical pieces” – got me chuckling. However, the sharpness of the prose only intensifies the futility of the task. “Who would read a screenplay, let alone a screenplay, of an unfinished film?” He inquires about one of Hughes’s incomplete projects, disregarding that he’s authored a book about a non-existent man and is suggesting we delve into context-less snippets from his made-up work.
In 1998, William Boyd pursued a comparable venture, debuting a fictitious narrative about an American painter, Nat Tate, as a ruse. However, in the period before the arrival of the internet, this was somewhat simpler to achieve. If Ayoade’s The Unfinished Harauld Hughes is designed to trick us, it certainly falls short. If it was meant for amusement, then it leaves the reader feeling at the butt end of the jest. I firmly believe Ayoade has the potential to pen a genuinely hilarious masterpiece and I would eagerly await such a reading. Regrettably, this effort does not meet those expectations.