REVIEW: Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt
TL;DR : While comforting in that Hallmark movie way, Remarkably Bright Creatures toys with deeper explorations of humanity but never really commits to either its mystery or its attempt at examining grief and loneliness.
SPOILERS WARNING: I write freely about what happens in the plot for Remarkably Bright Creatures and also reveal major plot spoilers for I Have Some Questions For You by Rebecca Makkai
Shelby Van Pelt’s debut novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures is marketed as a mystery, which is why I added it to my Kindle Library. I’m currently on a generally loose survey of contemporary mystery novels to get a feel for the market, and my exploration has led me to a few astonishing discoveries and, sadly, a few duds. Remarkably Bright Creatures is neither astonishing nor a dud. This may be because it’s not actually a mystery novel. The central “puzzle” of the story is the drowning of an eighteen-year-old boy named Erik in the fictional town of Sowell Bay, Washington. Tova, his mother, now in her seventies, has lived with the unanswered questions surrounding her son’s disappearance for thirty years. The consensus was death by suicide, but she has remained unsure of this. With the recent death of her husband Will, Tova takes a night job cleaning the local aquarium where she befriends the aquatic residents, one in particular. There is a B-storyline that revolves around Cameron, a young man from Modesto searching for the identity of his father, a search that leads him to Sowell Bay.
To continue, I think it’s important to remove the notion of the mystery immediately: outside of a scene toward the end of the book between Tova and a slightly ancillary character who provides only further speculation, we never discover what actually happened to Erik the night he drowned. That’s fine. I believe that when written extremely well, mysteries (and other genre work) can forgo the big reveal in favor of deep exploration of specific concepts of human nature, society, art, what-have-you. I’m thinking of Rebecca Makkai’s deftly realized novel I Have Some Questions For You, in which the main mystery is essentially solved but the perpetrator is never brought to justice and nothing is ever legally proven. As a considered encapsulation of how women are treated in academia, social media, and the legal system, however, Makkai’s novel is a success, its lack of comfortable resolution being the capstone of its thesis. Remarkably Bright Creatures only barely saves itself by doing the same but not well enough to astound, especially considering that we are sold on the premise that the mystery of Erik’s drowning will be solved with the help of—wait for it—a Giant Pacific Octopus named Marcellus.
Marcellus McSquiddles has been kept at the local aquarium for four years after having been rescued badly injured. He lives in his tank alone, observing not only the human visitors, often making quippy observations on their nature but also keeping track of the other exhibits, mainly as potential meals. Maintaining a keen eye on the main entrance to the aquarium, he hopes to someday return to mother sea. After open hours, he regularly escapes his tank to feast and collect bits and bobs left behind by the humans. Throughout the book, short chapters from Marcellus’ POV tease that he knows things the main characters don’t, perhaps even the truth as to what happened to Tova’s son Erik, but as an amateur sleuth, his skills are lacking. An entire chapter (albeit a short entire chapter) is written to convey the notion that Marcellus can recognize individual human fingerprints left as smudges on the glass of his tank. He can remember and identify them all. I made note of this chapter, expecting this to be one of the ways in which he solves the mystery of Erik’s disappearance. After that chapter, however, fingerprints are never mentioned again. Instead, right around the time the reader figures out that Cameron’s father is the previously mentioned, drowned Erik, making Tova his grandmother, Marcellus becomes the plot machination that serves to bring this to light for both grandson and grandma. Once the reader—or, I should say, this reader—put two-and-two together, I was only semi-interested in how Marcellus would go about making this happen. Some flimsy plotting around a drivers license, a sea lion statue, and an engraved class ring achieve this revelation without much fanfare.
That said, I’m always interested in how writers bring human attributes to nonhuman entities. How will they deal with language? Cognitive thought? Lack of opposable thumbs? These are considerations I personally have contemplated the multiple times I’ve been assigned such a task in various writing classes over the years. In fact, in her acknowledgements, Van Pelt states that she wrote the book’s opening scene “in response to a workshop prompt about writing from an unexpected point of view.” This tracks. Marcellus is depicted as being rather wise, professorial in an objective way, his obtuse intelligence deepened by his growing affection for Tova, who rescues him from an entanglement of wires, thus saving his life. There is a slightly discomforting sensuality to his and Tova’s friendship, as every physical encounter between them leaves sucker marks along her arms that she demurely hides from her friends. From their first meeting:
Like a tawny snake, one of his arms slithers toward her. In seconds, it winds around her forearm, then twists around her elbow and bicep like a maypole ribbon. She can feel each individual sucker clinging to her. Reflexively, she tries to yank her arm away, but the octopus tightens his grip to the point where it’s almost uncomfortable. But his strange eye glints playfully, like a naughty child’s.
Snake? Maypole? Clinging? Naughty? Oh behave. But, whatever; it doesn’t matter if a true, human-like friendship can or can’t exist between homo sapien and cephalopod. We’re in the realm of fiction, where anything is possible.
Where Remarkably Bright Creatures verges on exploding with light but doesn’t quite crackle is the multilayered complexity of Tova’s character. She’s a woman separated from the world around her for various reasons, some less serious than others. For instance, in her seventies, she has chosen to deny modern day technology, leaving her in a tedious predicament: since so many interactions and exchanges now happen digitally or virtually, being an active participant of society requires a personal, analog translation by helpful souls. For instance, how does one purchase a vintage concert t-shirt off an auction website or e-sign important real estate documents when one doesn’t have WiFi, let alone a computer? Or, how does one not startle so severely at the vibration notification of an incoming call that they drop the casserole they’re holding because their friends forced them to finally get a smartphone they’re not yet used to? While small, this characteristic continually places her at odds with existence throughout the story. One thinks that an iPad, cursory knowledge of Google, and ApplePay setup with her checking account would save this woman a lot of time.
But, to turn away from being flip for a moment, the most compelling aspect of Tova’s character is that she has found herself alone. Not only did she lose her son thirty years ago but she also recently, prior to the events of the novel, lost her husband (Erik’s father) to cancer. My favorite chapters were those in which she goes about her everyday life and must interact with her friends and intimates, most of whom have families and partners. It’s in these moments that Remarkably Bright Creatures poses one of the stronger questions it’s attempting to answer: how do I face my third act alone? Tova has no adult children to take care of her. She has no husband to walk into the sunset with. Despite meaning well, her friends (cloyingly called the “knit-wits”) and their children are constantly, annoyingly it must be said, worrying about her despite the fact that she’s kind of doing great on her own. Yes, there is the pale mist of loneliness and a theoretical failing of health, but Tova continues to take life on the chin in a way she is seemingly comfortable with. Ever the pragmatist, she has set into motion the process of selling her custom-built house and retreating to a senior community. Upon discovery of this, her friends express concern almost to the point of indignation:
“Tova, pardon my language, but would you cut the shit for once and tell me exactly why you think you have to do this?”
Ah, so that’s what this is about. “I beg your pardon?”
“This!” Janice waves her hands around, as if the interior of the restaurant, with its quirky macrame wall hangings, is the offender. “Selling your house! Moving out of Sowell Bay! You’ve lived here all your life.”
“Charter Village is very nice,” Tova says mildly.
“Maybe it is, but these are our golden years. Why do you want to spend them with a bunch of strangers?” Janice’s voice cracks. “What about us?”
Sheesh. No wonder Tova’s new BFF is an octopus. At least Marcellus McSquiddles doesn’t say things like “cut the shit” to a seventy year old woman whose only son died tragically at sea under unknown circumstances. Marcellus doesn’t say anything, and that might be the very point. Like I mentioned earlier, these human friends really do mean well, but the fascinating irritant of their intentions is that their concern is tainted, warped even. Yes, they have genuine concern, but Tova’s friends have spent the last thirty years trying to relate to and maneuver around the fact that she’s experienced a tragedy none of them will ever know or understand. By their children’s survival, they have privilege over her. How does one be sensitive to a best friend's needs when one hasn't the slightest idea as to the depths of their grief? How often is one allowed to bring up the lost son? Is there a moment when the group should simply ignore the tragedy? What if not bringing up Erik for too long is perceived as insensitive? What if Tova thinks we’ve forgotten him? How much are we allowed to talk about and celebrate our own children’s achievements around her? Like, is it okay to invite her to the wedding? Why doesn’t she realize that we can take care of her now that she’s getting older? Why can’t she set all that grief down with all the caring we do for her? Watching the knit-wits attempt to take care of Tova while Tova herself must navigate and negotiate her response to these interpersonal dilemmas is the true heart of this book. It’s these scant moments of all-to-human human interaction that I looked forward to as I kept reading. Remember, an octopus will never make a social faux-pas regarding your dead son. Marcellus McSquiddles will never awkwardly ask you if you’re okay because he feels he must say something in the face of not knowing what to say at all. That said, by the end of the book (now that grandma and grandson are reunited and Tova has decided to try her luck at dating the caricature of a Scottish grocer who’s had designs on her the whole novel) I found myself wishing that the mystery and octopus aspects of the story hadn’t been included. I would have loved an earnest, gimmick-free examination of a human being reaching her third act as she continues to carry the grief and social burden of being the last living member of her immediate family. Instead, we’re only given glimpses of this rich humanity scattered among what can only really be seen as a marketing point.