Audition (Ryu Murakami)

Here’s something that confused me at first: there are not one but two acclaimed writers by the name of Murakami. Haruki Murakami (my hero) is well-known for a quirky, contemplation-filled writing style and a quietly introspective look on contemporary Japanese society; Ryu Murakami also takes an interesting and occasionally controversial approach to social commentary and has quite a following among fans of modern fiction too. The similarities end there though: Haruki’s prose dabbles in metaphysics and a dreamlike, melancholic vibe (reminiscent of the philosophy that’s the namesake of this very blog) but Ryu’s work is darker and edgier.

Takashi Miike’s feature film adaptation of Audition acquired a cult following, which to my shame still sits on my ‘to watch’ list. On the flipside, reading the original novel first sits well with my personal preference for experiencing the original before any adaption, so I now feel even more eager to see Miike’s take on the story. RM’s novel is the tale of Aoyama, a man who has lived several years as a single parent following the death of his wife Ryoko. His son Shige suggests he should remarry so with the help of his friend Yoshikawa he looks for a suitable candidate under the pretext of a bogus film audition; a ruse that introduces him to the enigmatic Asami Yamazaki.

Granted, I’d heard of this novel through the reputation of the film and after seeing a hardback edition in my local Waterstones with a couple of lengthy night shifts ahead of me I decided to take the plunge. It’s not a particularly long novel, and the pace is pitched perfectly to give a brisk yet satisfying read. I never know whether I’m praising the original writer or the translator when highlighting the quality of the prose in a foreign-language novel like this but it’s lively and vivid, without coming across as clumsy or contrived.

Aoyama is interestingly portrayed as a decent yet flawed character, who is shown to have overcome the grief of losing his wife and is raising his son as an independent and respectable young man. Aoyama was not completely faithful to his late wife however, and we learn early on that he had more than one extra-marital affair before her death. The loss had some subtle effects on the husband and son though, who have a realistically awkward relationship and whose respective outlooks on life changed after her passing. The attention to detail in the backgrounds for Aoyama and Shige aren’t necessarily relevant to the content that follows, but give the reader a good grasp on their personalities and offer some telling observations on modern society by the author.

This is a psycho-thriller after all, which is why I was so pleased to see the tension handled so well. There are some subtle bits of foreshadowing tossed in, producing cracks in the flawless image of the new woman in Aoyama’s life, but needless to say he’s the last person to notice. If there’s one thing I’d mark against the novel it’s the amount of development that’s given to Asami Yamazaki’s character: she is portrayed as the harmless, fragile individual at first and a merciless, twisted one later on with no middle ground. The information about the nature and origins of her character are also shown in a detached way that doesn’t allow the reader to see things from her own point of view too clearly.

This didn’t work well me but I suspect it’s intentional that we see her from quite a significant emotional distance: interestingly she is almost always referred to by her full name throughout the novel. Only once is she called ‘Asami-chan’ and even then it’s not in a serious context; she’s never referred to in the text as ‘Ms Yamazaki’ either. The mystique surrounding her prevented me empathising with her as much as I would have liked, but along with the sketchy details she gives about her early life it keeps her motives and feelings concealed, making her seem all the more mysterious and ultimately more dangerous.

The middle portion of the novel plays out like a typical romance story but those moments of foreshadowing cast a dark cloud and make it obvious that things are going to go very wrong. The idea of a fake audition seemed like a dishonest and dubious basis for a romance to me anyway but can an honest relationship be based on a lie? That is an interesting question but is sadly set aside for another, albeit more shocking and interesting revelation. Asami Yamazaki is indeed too good to be true as Yoshikawa fears but the end result is worse than he, or the unsuspecting reader, could imagine…

The finale of the story was a surprise to me, and a brilliantly gruesome and suspenseful one at that. At times like this the quality of the writer’s (and translator’s) prose is paramount, and fortunately didn’t disappoint here. The steady build-up is followed by a brutal and quite abrupt conclusion: I’m not surprised in the slightest that it was given the cinematic treatment because the storytelling and atmosphere carry the same feelings of tension, menace and edge-of-your seat suspense that you’d expect from the best in the thriller genre.

It reminded me a lot of Hitchock actually – I know that’s quite a bold statement but the portrayal of hidden identities, the danger lurking just out of the view of the protagonist, not to mention terrifying situation that marks the end of the story, reminded me a lot of the seminal movies such as Rear Window. The trade-off between consistent characterisation and sheer nailbiting atmospherics is unavoidable really, but in this case it pays off.

Summary

The brevity and pitch of Audition makes for a hard-hitting and exciting read, albeit at the expense of some minor details. Is this a cynical and misogynistic exploitation of the femme fatale archetype to give some cheap kicks? I don’t know much about Ryu Murakami the writer, but at least here I’d not be giving him enough credit if I were to dismiss it so easily. It’s enjoyable as a psychological thriller, but also feels gleefully subversive in that the villain of the piece is on a twisted path of revenge in a society that made her into the monster she is. The moral questioning and social commentary are a fascinating aside but the visceral and gripping prose is first and foremost what I’d recommend it for.