David Leavitt's novel "The Page Turner" works in much the same way. There is no denying the grace of his deft pivots of movement and pacing that advance the story, unfortunately with more style than substance. His ripples of time and memory can be astounding, yet disconnected from the actual event, akin to watching a freeway alive with zooming cars, but without the sound. Even after the most provocative of passages I found myself quietly awed by Leavitt's gift with minimalist detailing, but left cold by the sheer boundary that very aspect creates.
David Leavitt lovingly swaddles "The Page Turner" in the milieu of classical music, anchoring his performance on the affair between 18-year-old Paul Porterfield, and former wunderkind pianist on the brink of middle age, Richard Kennington. A few months after they meet for the first time at a San Francisco concert - Paul as hopeful pageturner floored by his idol, Kennington achingly aware of his power over the boy - they begin an affair in Rome. The romantic city serves as the cultural backdrop for the affair, a device cleverly used to transform their short-lived rendezvous to the stuff haunting memories are made of, wistful fleeting afternoons long gone from grasp.
Paul and Kennington come off as stodgy and unfeeling artist types at key moments in the book, because of their lack of reaction. At times I forgave the uptightness when Leavitt delicately breathed personal history and relevance into his story, using alternating vantage points; tantalizing scenes bankrupt of point of view, and consequently emotion, are harder to appreciate. For instance, a verbal foreplay scene between Paul and Kennington is rendered with only a few visual details from Kennington, and nothing but from Paul but a naif's dialogue. There's no insight into how Paul feels while having his first sexual encounter, with his musical hero. As for Kennington, is it safe to say this adoring fan was just another tour-time screw? Or did he feel something different, even if just a glimmer. I've got my theories, but I'll never really know. What ensues is left tastefully, predictably, to your imagination.
(Margaret Wappler)
- The Page Turner
copyright 1998 New City Communications, Inc.