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Irish Fiction, Humorous Fiction, European Peoples & Cultures - Fiction & Literature

Mr. Dynamite

by Meredith Brosnan
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Overview

Jarleth Prendergast is an ex-pat Irishman, an aging punk rocker, a film snob, a copy-shop employee, a dime-store intellectual, and a truly desperate man. His marriage is in tatters and his career as an avant-garde claymation artist is heading nowhere. As the book opens, Jarleth receives a letter from Irish lawyer Sean Reynolds about a possible inheritance from his Aunt Lucy, and promptly falls into fits of delusion as hilarious as they are utterly pathetic. Certain beyond reason that this "cash fuel injection" will turn his life around and casting himself in heroic and sentimental cliches of the cinema, Jarleth enters on a course of rampant self-destruction, narrating it all in his head to his new best friend: Sean, the Irish lawyer. Mr. Dynamite is an extraordinary first novel that melds an Irish writer's high style and penchant for belly laughs with the grotesque smash-and-grab energy of pre-9/11 New York, making for a mad, sad, and profoundly funny book.

Synopsis

Jarleth Prendergast is an ex-pat Irishman, an aging punk rocker, a film snob, a copy-shop employee, a dime-store intellectual, and a truly desperate man. His marriage is in tatters and his career as an avant-garde claymation artist is heading nowhere. As the book opens, Jarleth receives a letter from Irish lawyer Sean Reynolds about a possible inheritance from his Aunt Lucy, and promptly falls into fits of delusion as hilarious as they are utterly pathetic. Certain beyond reason that this "cash fuel injection" will turn his life around and casting himself in heroic and sentimental cliches of the cinema, Jarleth enters on a course of rampant self-destruction, narrating it all in his head to his new best friend: Sean, the Irish lawyer. Mr. Dynamite is an extraordinary first novel that melds an Irish writer's high style and penchant for belly laughs with the grotesque smash-and-grab energy of pre-9/11 New York, making for a mad, sad, and profoundly funny book.

Publishers Weekly

An unruly Irish ex-pat and aging punk rocker living in New York City squalor hopes to improve his pathetic existence upon word of an unexpected inheritance in this first novel by expat Irishman Brosnan. Jarleth Prendergast is desperately in need of the money to produce his experimental puppet film, but predictably it slips through his fingers. The lawyer who informs him by letter of his inheritance suddenly dies, but Jarleth can't let him go, narrating his adventures to the dead man in rambling, whisky-sodden stream-of-consciousness prose. A few weeks later, Jarleth is informed that a new will has appeared and that his bequest is now a bone china teapot. But Jarleth is already embarked on a world-class bender, kicked out of his apartment by his wife when she discovers proof of his infidelity, and obsessed with murdering the Frenchman whom his pathological liar girlfriend says raped her. The misshapen plot careens forward as Jarleth takes up secret residence at the Kwik Copy where he works, buys a gun and stalks the Frenchman. His determination is maniacally strong, but like everything else in his life, the project is doomed to end in failure. Brosnan has a touch of Irvine Welsh's brilliant recklessness, and Jarleth can be blisteringly funny, but his voice isn't consistently engaging enough to carry this shaggy tale. (Aug.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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Editorials

Publishers Weekly

An unruly Irish ex-pat and aging punk rocker living in New York City squalor hopes to improve his pathetic existence upon word of an unexpected inheritance in this first novel by expat Irishman Brosnan. Jarleth Prendergast is desperately in need of the money to produce his experimental puppet film, but predictably it slips through his fingers. The lawyer who informs him by letter of his inheritance suddenly dies, but Jarleth can't let him go, narrating his adventures to the dead man in rambling, whisky-sodden stream-of-consciousness prose. A few weeks later, Jarleth is informed that a new will has appeared and that his bequest is now a bone china teapot. But Jarleth is already embarked on a world-class bender, kicked out of his apartment by his wife when she discovers proof of his infidelity, and obsessed with murdering the Frenchman whom his pathological liar girlfriend says raped her. The misshapen plot careens forward as Jarleth takes up secret residence at the Kwik Copy where he works, buys a gun and stalks the Frenchman. His determination is maniacally strong, but like everything else in his life, the project is doomed to end in failure. Brosnan has a touch of Irvine Welsh's brilliant recklessness, and Jarleth can be blisteringly funny, but his voice isn't consistently engaging enough to carry this shaggy tale. (Aug.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Experimental filmmaker, unlucky in love and finances, writes letters to his lawyer in the great beyond. Jarleth Prendergast is a right likable fellow, at least to his own way of thinking. Late of Dublin, Jarleth has been scrounging around the East Village for some years as an experimental filmmaker. In actuality, he's a thirtysomething nobody who works at a copy shop and sponges off his politically active Latina wife Martha. Like a bolt out of the blue comes a letter from Dublin attorney Sean Reynolds informing Jarleth that his aunt has just passed away, leaving him over $30,000. Jarleth is over the moon and already planning how to get his film career kicked off-tentative title of his magnum (short) opus, done with puppets: "Orange/Green Mould: Mr. Semtex Agent of Death in Toytown"-when he gets another letter informing him that Sean has passed away. This doesn't keep the eternally inebriated Jarleth from composing a series of missives to the late attorney, whom he has decided, in the manner of the drunk, is one of his new best friends. Reduced to sleeping in his studio after being kicked out by Martha (she found evidence of one of his many romantic indiscretions), Jarleth gets word that a new will has been found which leaves him not a dollar. Thus we see Jarleth explode onto the streets of New York with a righteous frenzy, just begging for some sort of demented cause to sink his teeth into. Such a cause appears in the form of a rich man whom Jarleth is convinced once molested an ex-girlfriend of his (the chain of logic is long and stinks of whiskey). Will this man's death become Jarleth's last reason for living? Brosnan has a good time relating Jarleth's expletive-laced rantings in alltheir pretentious fury, a kind of ironic counterpoint to Irvine Welsh's self-glorifying gutter trash. A sardonic little bomb of a book, ripe with black comedy and shivering with anger.

Book Details

Published
August 1, 2004
Publisher
Dalkey Archive Press
Pages
1
Format
Hardcover
ISBN
9781564783530

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