A serious, hilarious, quirky, disjointed allegory unfolds, set in the upper-middle-class suburbs of the 1960s. It's a spiritual tale about individuals who have lost their connection to the spiritual realm. Hermetic tropes abound, such as the'magic Negro' faith-healer residing above a funeral parlor in the slums. There are also two alchemists with distinct laboratories, a fairy tale bastard raised by a rich fairy grandmother, a sacrificial first-born son, the summoning of erotic spirits, and a variety of impossible-to-please 'White Goddess' women, alternately known as bitches. The characters consume so much hard liquor that one can almost feel a contact buzz, perhaps even contact alcohol poisoning, after reading the book.

The narrator remains an enigma. In Part I, s/he maintains an anonymous presence while sharing with us, the readers, the history and trials of suburbanite Eliot Nailles. ('Our name used to be de Noailles.' p 20) Part II is a written record by the outsider, Paul Hammer (yes, Hammer and Nailles is a purposeful pun), addressed seemingly to that same unnamed, unknown narrator. Part III is concise and to the point, showing us the inevitable intersection of the two men's lives - insider and outsider, conventional and anarchic, self and shadow.

The word'stranger' recurs throughout the story. In one section, the protagonist Nailles is quoted at length as he retells a significant evening with his 17-year-old only child. Father and son visit an abandoned miniature golf course, which serves as a gothic setting for their encounter. The shabby links are a favorite haunt of'men and boys' on summer evenings. (113) Nailles says: "It was windy, as I say, and there was more thunder and it looked like rain and the light on the course was failing so you really couldn't see the faces of the men who played through. They were high school kids, I guess, slum kids, hoods, whatever, wearing tight pants and trick shirts and hair grease. They had spooky voices, they seemed to pitch them in a way that made them sound spooky, and when one of them was addressing the ball another gave him a big goose and he backed right into it, making groaning noises. It isn't that I dislike boys like that really, it's just that they mystify me, they frighten me because I don't know where they come from and I don't know where they're going and if you don't know anything about people it's like a terrible kind of darkness. I'm not afraid of the dark but there are some kinds of human ignorance that frighten me. When I feel this, I've noticed that if I can look into the face of the stranger and get some clue to the kind of person he is I feel better but, as I say, it was getting dark and you couldn't see the faces of any of these strangers as they played through." (116-7)

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I carried the paperback with me for three or four days as I read it. I would sneak reads in chairs here, in cars there, and even in lines everywhere. I was luxuriating in Cheever's masterful, seemingly effortless, and eternally enlightening (and delightful) descriptions. He writes about lounge light, thanatonic thunder, scary suburbia, mad mothers, fucked-off fathers, and, as always, alcoholism.

It would have made a great Alfred Hitchcock movie. I envision Jimmy Stewart as Nailles and either Robert Mitchum or Cary Grant as Hammer. In my mind-cinema, Mitchum became Grant halfway through the reading, in a Bewitched style. The story has enough tension, comedy, doubling, mirroring, weird-sexy-destructive/desirable blondes, and cryptohomosexuality. Perhaps, no doubt, in some parallel universe, Hitchcock actually made this instead of adapting a Leon Uris novel like Topaz.

Just imagine Hitchcock doing a chainsaw-through-church doors rescue. Yes, please. Instead of something else. For example: The chainsaw won't start...the chainsaw won't start...the chainsaw won't...the chainsaw STARTS! b/w flourish of Bernard Hermann score!

Picked this one off the to-read pile last night. I've already read some Cheever and truly enjoy his art and skill. He's like a pre-Updike, with his focus on the 'burbs around Manhattan (while for Updike it was Pennsylvania and Boston). This particular work has a similar feel to "Falconer," meaning it's very "arty" and a bit surreal. "The Swimmer" also comes to mind. "The Wapshot Chronicle" was earlier and more conventional. It's quite surprising to me that so few Goodreads-ers have read this book. Viewers of "Mad Men" have noticed that the show almost seems to have been written by Cheever. I guess Cheever lost patience with conventional narrative along the way. This one seems to lean more towards absurdism. Although I couldn't precisely tell you what that is, I can say that the narrative quickly departs from conventional reality. For example, at the Hammers' dinner party or when young Tony decides to imitate Bartleby and takes to bed for good. There's no attempt to be subtle in targeting American upper-middle-class life. "Revolutionary Road" is along the same lines, only more straightforward and serious-seeming. Other writers have explored the same cultural territory, like the recently read "A Visit from the Goon Squad."

I'm finding that once I've adjusted to the tone and spirit of this book, it gets funnier and funnier. I actually laughed out loud at something last night. This is indeed a bleak and black comedy. Cheever! I salute you! However, the dialogue does get a bit stilted at times, revealing the book's 1960's origins. The Mrs. Hubbard episode is a real hoot. Cheever likes to write about whatever he feels like. One minute Nailles is going on about how much he loves his son Tony, and the next minute he wants to split his skull with a putter. Talk about surreal: folks (no women or girls) gather at a decrepit and abandoned (no trespassing) miniature golf course in the fading summer twilight to play a few rounds on the battered and decaying course. It's beautiful in a strange way. Perspective switches can be a challenge. Here it's third person, there it's first person. There's so much anger, rage, and frustration. So much "kill"ing thought and talk.

And now we come to the "other" half of the story, which is the first person narrative of Hammer. A man pursued by insanity and depression. That makes three of them in this book: Hammer, Nailles, and Tony. Other reviewers have mentioned this, and if you pay attention, you can see the weirdness building up. Things seem to be falling apart as they come together. I'll see if I can finish it tonight. The saga of Hammer's parenting and naming reminds me of T. S. Garp. Hammer and Nailles each seem to be based on Cheever's own persona. Are they like twins? I finished it all last night. And what's it all about, Alfie? You got me there! The writing is nice, though. There's a hint of "Goodbye, My Love" from "Goon Squad" - the adult-child love story (Nailles and Tony). There are more rage-fueled killing thoughts. As with "The Wapshot Chronicle" and "Falconer," one wonders if Cheever really cared that much about writing novels. His efforts feature beautiful, poetic flowing prose, lost plot threads, disappearing characters, abrupt endings, and mystery. His novels are definitely worth reading, but don't expect coherent outcomes. I'd rate it 3.75*, which rounds up to 4*.

The original article might be something like this: "The movie was so deliciously silly." Here's the expanded version:

The movie that I watched recently was truly so deliciously silly.

It had a plot that was completely absurd and yet, it managed to draw me in from the very beginning.

The characters were over-the-top and their actions were so ridiculous that I couldn't help but laugh out loud at times.

The special effects were cheesy, but in a charming kind of way.

It was one of those movies that you don't take too seriously, but rather just enjoy for what it is.

Sometimes, in a world full of serious and complex things, it's nice to watch a movie that is simply so deliciously silly and makes you forget about all your worries for a while.

It was a great escape and I would definitely recommend it to anyone looking for a good laugh.