The Illusion of Prestige

                 I started The Prestige thinking it would be pure fiction. That is,  I thought it would describe the life and actions of made up people doing made-up, but presumably plausible, things. Halfway through the book I had established it in my mind as the tale of the two squabbling magicians: a drama mixed with a little mystery and carrying the possibility of romance in the inevitable reconciliation of the two families. Instead The Prestige is a science fiction novel in the early strain – more the horror of Frankenstein* than the sociology of the Foundation series – but this isn't revealed to the unsuspecting reader until they are more than halfway through the book. Before that they have to meet the main characters, which takes longer than normal since the book is made up of five acts with each character in charge of introducing themselves. This was slightly different than normal and, as a stylistic choice, handled perfectly. In the average book we are given only one point of view, and though this limits us a little if we are reading a political novel, we can still tell what's happening because, though the characters color things a bit, they do not lie about actual events. But here the  characters with the largest presence, the magicians Alfred Bolden and Rupert Angier, twist facts and events to suit themselves. It's the perfect format for deception.

The widely different ways in which events are revealed does little to instill confidence in the narrators' sanity, but Bolden and Angier would be candidates for institutionalization anyway in my book. Only a dozen pages into Bolden's account I had already committed him to the loony bin due to his bizarre use of grammar and habit of, shall I say, talking to himself. Then I guessed his secret and had to grudgingly admit he was awful clever. In the end, however, it is  his precious secret which condemns him. He makes quite a lot of it in his own account – now I show you my hands, and all that – which give you a hint of his megalomania (I don't use this word lightly here, he really has a disturbing need to be superior, and his secret is how he satisfies this need). Bolden says he had thought of his marvelous act, and therefore his deception,  while still at home. But for a man to continue the joke of a sixteen year old boy? It's not funny Bolden, just ask your wife. His wife. Oh, wait.

Not that Angier is any better. From the start he only seems slow and a little Monkish – the New York variety, not the kind that meditates. I actually felt for him great sympathy at first, because of the consequences of Bolden's actions against him and because, naturally, of his great happiness. What can I say, I find happily married men attractive. But there's nothing more pathetic than a happiness that ends, and Angier proves that to really mess up a life you have to be the one living it. Questions of morality aside – neither of these men are particularly admirable in regards to their wives, but you feel it more with Angier because Bolden is so deucedly distant –  I can not shake the feeling that Angier is a small man who really would have been better at home collecting orchids, or whatever it is harmless members of the British aristocracy do. He proves me wrong not when he comes up with the (ludicrous) idea of In a Flash - the idea which completely dissolves the solid base of an interesting, if not endearing, fiction –  but with how he handles the prestige. It makes my skin crawl with his callousness. You see, the word "prestige" in the title is actually used as a noun by Priest.  It's where he reveals that his drama is actually a thriller. Prestige is a horrid euphemism which my dictionary tells me is perfectly fitting. Prestige: a feeling based on the favorable perception of another's achievement. A word deriving most recently from the French word for illusion, but ultimately from the Latin praestgiae, conjuring trick. It is through his prestige(s) that Angier gains his prestige, and then, through fate's justice, losses all ability to enjoy it.

                      This brings me to a point where I must confess my own short comings: I like happy endings. Not only do I like them, but I feel that 99% of all books, movies, or TV shows that end tragically could have been saved with some unicorns and pixie dust. I would rather have a deus ex machina than that strange feeling of the unresolved. To me, a story that does not end happily – or, in the case of science fiction, in some state of contentment – can have no real resolution. A book without resolution is a book without end, and a book without end is like a hang nail that's long enough to catch painfully on your clothes and hair but too short to easily cut. Without completely spoiling the book, for the greatest pleasure you'll get from it is in discovering its secrets,  I can tell you that, though both Angier and Bolden die, there is no reason to conclude that any of them are actually dead.** They are both, however, perfectly wretched and twisted by their bitterness. Sunshine? The book ends at night. Rainbows? At night, in the snow. Warm fuzzys? We leave Kate and Andrew standing in the door way with the physical equivalent of a corpse. Sorry Priest. I enjoyed reading about magic and the world of magicians, and I'm really looking forward to seeing your illusions on screen, but your characters weren't very nice chaps and Kate, easily my favorite character, makes no sense unless she knows far more than she is telling. Did you mean to end the book there, or did you just run out of twists? 

Originality: Pretty good. 

Characters: They seem nice and normal, but it's all smoke and mirrors. 

Plot: Slow to start, fast to end. Tied up with a bow and then ripped to shreds in the blender and used as wet confetti.

Content: I'm citing this book for non-descriptive nudity and inducing horror without warning***

* Okay, this really isn't fair to Frankenstein, which is a legitimate look at society in its own right, but the parallels between Frankenstein and The Prestige are overwhelming.  Even the monster's mournful "He is dead who brought me into being" and the following attempt at suicide is mirrored in Preist's books - only, Shelly was content to have made her point while I'm not quite sure what Preist's point even was.  

** Okay, I admit, this is my favorite thing from the book:  "Now I show you my hands . . . . I roll up my sleeves . . . ."  

*** Sudden genre switching is one of the cardinal sins of writing, right up there with having characters act out of character.