This novel is the transitional fossil of comic novels. In its plot you can trace its genes all the way to the ancient Greeks, its mistaken identities and botched schemes; in its prose you see traits expressing themselves, quotations and elegant allusions to every poet and playwright in the canon, from Shakespeare to Harriet Beecher Stowe. And its genetic code appears in every modern comedy worth the name written afterwards, especially any Brit who went near Footlights at Cambridge, but even 4-camera sitcoms, and standup comedians, and Jeff Lebowski.And it's funny. So funny! Drunk jokes, public speaking jokes, constant clever puns and allusions, malapropisms, comedy of manners and meals and muddled misdirection. I recently played through The Walking Dead Season 2, which is a videogame, if you don’t know. It failed to live up to the first season, which in my mind was one of the greatest games of 2012, back when it came out. The first season had such emotion, such power. The characters were all so strong, so realistic, and I really cared about all of them. That first season had a hold on me as I played through to the final episode, and very well broke me into tears by the end of it.Season 2, however, was a mishmash of inconsistency. The characters did things that didn’t make sense, the story was all over the place, at one moment trying to be poignant, the next heart-pounding and exciting, the next reflective and slow, but it all felt so disjointed and unnatural. Worst of all, I didn’t care about any of the characters, they were all nameless thugs to me. I cared about all the characters from season 1, really liked learning about them, seeing their fears and aspirations etc. By the end of The Walking Dead Season 2, though, I was left annoyed, bored, and confused. This pretty much sums up my feelings on Right Ho, Jeeves. I feel like I could end the review there, but I won’t, not just yet. There’s no story in Right Ho, Jeeves. Nothing happens. At all. It’s so incredibly boring, and slow, and nothing at all happens. The characters suck. I’d like to put it in a more eloquent way, but that’s just it, they all just suck. The writing is stuffy, and obnoxious, and trying to be funny, which is the worst. As I was reading this book I kept asking and asking myself what exactly the point was. The title would imply that it’s about Jeeves, but he’s a minor character at best. Jeeves’ master, the Wortrum guy, then? Maybe, but he’s an unsympathetic ass. Fink-Nottle, the hermit looking for love, wasn’t too uninteresting, but his story went nowhere. This entire book should never have been written. Sounds harsh, but I can’t for the life of me think of why it ever was. It’s just so pompous, so British. No one breaks down in this book, has a life-changing moment, realizes something important, or does anything. Nothing, I repeat that, nothing of consequence happens in Right Ho, Jeeves. You’re better off watching paint dry. At least that has somewhat of a story. The paint is painted on, it starts to set, starts to go dry, and then … whoa, it dries! Now that’s a story!
What do You think about Right Ho, Jeeves (1934)?
This is #6 and is included in Life Wit Jeeves (#2, #4, and #6).
—aimie
