But if Wagner's generalizations about fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, are less than convincing, his portrayals of Bertie's, Clea's and Thad's day-to-day struggles to come to terms with their families' complicated legacies remain deeply felt and meticulously drawn.
He is pitch perfect when it comes to capturing the patronizing remarks dispensed by strangers who feel free to approach the three and discourse upon their parents' lives and careers, and he is equally adept at capturing their own messy stew of emotions -- from insecurity to resentment to defiance.
Almost all the people in this novel speak in the knowing, campy, self-conscious language of Hollywood -- banter that is partly a self-protective mechanism, partly a self-dramatizing display of cynical wit. They manage to name-drop artists like Beckett and I.B. Singer while trying to rationalize a decision to do a commercial blockbuster instead of a small independent film, and they merchandise their innermost secrets while bemoaning the ways in which show business commodifies everything sacred.
From the start of the novel, a nimbus of doom hangs over the romance of Clea and Thad, and sure enough, they ride off into the sunset together, like a slacker version of Bonnie and Clyde or Sid and Nancy. Wagner could have been a lot more subtle about his story's outcome, and he could have refrained from telegraphing the novel's ending to the reader from the start.
Still, this novel ratifies the achievement of I'll Let You Go, albeit in a minor key, demonstrating once again that Wagner is as gifted at making us care about his characters as making us laugh at their exploits and self-delusions.
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