Michael Kelly, Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm (Serapion Books, 2008)«Ulrich Haarbürste has many ways of describing the ecstasy he feels on wrapping Roy Orbison in clingfilm. "The satisfaction is unparalleled by anything in my previous existence," he reports. "Silent white light floods my whole being and I become one with the universe"; and, on performing the act at Christmas, "I am filled with goodwill on earth and peace to all men." Ulrich, a courteous citizen of Dusseldorf with a terrapin named Jetta and an apartment full of plastic wrapping material, has numerous ingenious clingfilm-centred fantasies involving the late pop star, and narrates them in this 180-page book. In the first world war trenches, he must wrap Roy in clingfilm to protect him from a gas attack. He and Roy are in space, and Roy needs a substitute for a spacesuit. At a party with Yul Brynner and Jim Morrison, Ulrich wraps Roy in clingfilm for a game of pass-the-parcel. "Whoa, headfuck," Jim exclaims as Roy is uncovered. When spies set out to kill Ulrich, Roy and Jetta, the trusty clingfilm proves a life-saver. This self-published novel may appear to cater to specialised tastes. But it is highly recommended to non-fetishists, who will find it inventively hilarious.» - Nicholas Clee
«Ulrich Haarbürste’s Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm is the greatest novel of the 21st Century (so far). It begins with five short stories about wrapping Roy Orbison in clingfilm (a.k.a. plastic wrap in the US), and just when you’re thinking, “Well, these are amusing, but no one could possibly stretch this premise any further,” Herr Haarbuste launches into a novella that is a true tour de force. Not since Tristram Shandy has an author so skillfully—and amusingly—maintained such a shaggy-dog premise. The complex, self-reflexive repetition and reconfiguration of certain elements is reminiscent of a Bach fugue.
When I read Ian McEwan’s Atonement, I felt like there was no sense in anyone ever writing a novel again. I’m glad to say I was wrong. The world would be a poorer place without Ulrich Haarburste’s Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm.
The book concludes with three more short stories written in ostensible German. In the way that Spanglish relates to Spanish, so the language in these stories relates to German; I guess they’re in Deutschlish. But they’re just as funny as anything else in the book. Das besitzensuchenzugenmachenubergruppenschnurpenplastische indeed.
...The idea that this brilliant work of real genius was turned down by publishers is like Van Gogh never selling a painting during his lifetime. Someday anybody who’s left after the big Global Climate Change will find it hard to believe that people in our time did not shower Herr Haarbürste with the prizes, accolades, and key to the city of Düsseldorf he so richly deserves.
Thanks for reading my blog post this time, and may God Bless.
And I'm not kidding about that book, either. I mean it.» - The Iowa Firecracker
«Ulrich Haarbürste’s Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm belongs to that subset of postmodernist fictions so classically formal they’re bizarre, and which possess enough faith in their patent absurdity that their authors (thankfully) dispense with all shrugs and sly winks to the reader. Their pleasure lies not in ironic dismissal, but in a genuine investment in the escalating stakes as their authors work to maintain the ridiculous scenario and tone. Here, Ulrich Haarbürste (a pseudonym) quickly establishes the ground rules of his novel’s oddball universe: the narrator spends a long night wandering a heavily-fictionalized Düsseldorf, carrying his terrapin, Jetta, eluding over-polite villains, and at one point attending a costume party hosted by Yul Brynner. (There is also a cameo by Jim Morrison, potential death by earwig, and a flashback to ancient Egypt.) Along the way, Mr. Haarbürste finds repeated excuses to wrap his stoic companion, the rock star Roy Orbison, in plastic. The resulting book is consistently innovative, surprising, suspenseful, and very, very funny. Haarbürste plays throughout with protocol and form, masterfully employing hackneyed literary devices (nearly every chapter ends with a cliff-hanger) and repetitive turns of phrase that quickly grow familiar, then endearing. His mannered prose—the novel is written in an affected, measured style, as though it’s been not-quite-correctly translated from the German—delights and never grows tiresome. That Haarbürste so skillfully navigates his story’s endless play and variation is remarkable; that he manages to resolve its plot so satisfactorily is astonishing. This is the most enjoyable experimental novel I’ve read in years. [+ extended mix:]
The novel’s fifty chapters neatly relate the adventures of a German gentleman, Ulrich Haarbürste, a proper resident of a fantastical Düsseldorf and the owner of a terrapin (conjuring shades of Gérard de Nerval and his pet lobster). Mr. Haarbürste’s greatest passion in life is wrapping the rock star Roy Orbison from bottom to top in plastic wrap—or, as the British call it, cling-film:
I start from the ankles and work my way up. I work quickly and efficiently as though I have been rehearsing this moment all my life and had procured black-suited mannequins on which to practise. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in cling-film. I almost purr with unbridled delight.
‘You are completely wrapped in cling-film,’ I report.
‘Capital,’ says Roy. ‘Now you will see some rock and roll.’
Indeed. And readers will be amazed at the many excuses that Herr Haarbürste’s finds for wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film! UHNOROIC’s primary joy lies in the seemingly-endless innovation that the author wrings from his peculiar and unique genre:
I start at the ankles and work my way down. I cannot help noting and approving how immaculately kept his shoes are. I work breathlessly but competently, not even omitting the soles of his shoes. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in cling-film, even his feet. My eyes roll round in my head and I start to babble and prophesy in several regional dialects.
‘You are completely wrapped in cling-film,’ I say, ‘even your feet.’
‘Capital,’ says the muffled Roy.
Such fetishistic writing proves the correct match for the novel’s content.
The novel comes packaged (in a wonderfully pulpy edition) with Haarbürste’s original twelve “Roy Orbison in Clingfilm” stories, which establish the basic premise. Each one grows better and better, but after reading them I thought, “These are cute, but there’s no way this guy will be able to stretch this gimmick into a novel.”
I was dead wrong. The novel, conventional creature that it is, merely offers Haarbürste more recurring forms to play with. (How refreshing it is to come across authors who understand that form is an opportunity for creation, not obligation!)
For instance, every chapter ends with a cliffhanger, and each new chapter begins with a recap of the previous chapter:
‘Ach,’ says Roy. ‘This is a source of disappointment. I failed to remember that the party is to be a fancy dress party and I neglected to obtain a costume. We will not be able to attend after all.’
Now what can take place! You do not know. But if you wait for the next chapter you will find out. In this matter you are but puppets on my string.
C h a p t e r 7
In the surprising climax of the last chapter an unfortunate situation had arisen wherein Roy looked unable to attend a showbusiness party due to a regrettable lack of costume.
Is he in fact doomed to be excluded from the gathering of his entertainment peers…? Read on and all will be made plain.
As the novel progresses, this pattern, too, evolves, intersecting with other motifs:
Now here is a cliffhanger to kill for! What can happen now? Will I be forced to wrap Jim Morrison in cling-film or will something occur to forestall this foolish and hideous travesty? Do not expect mercy from this quarter for I am resolved not to tell you until the next chapter. I confess the power has gone to my head and I am tempted to forbid you to read it for two weeks at least. But I will not do so.
C h a p t e r 14
I resume without ado as it would be the rankest impoliteness to tarry with preamble after such a shocking cliffhanger.
‘Do not be so foolish,’ Yul Brynner snaps at Jim Morrison. ‘You are like the emulous dog in the fine old Dusseldorf fable who wished to be an octopus and was covered in humiliation. One clingfilm wrapping is more than enough for any party.’ Here I disagree with Yul but as he is the host it would be impolite to say so.
The novel also benefits from an expanded scope; it really is a novel (exhibiting a surprising degree of formal unity—the plotting is airtight). Later chapters introduce not only Jim Morrison and Yul Brynner, but also a Rolling Stone reporter, sinister spies, one of the spy’s similarly sinister mother, and Mitzi Klavierstuhl, “the effervescent weather-girl of Guten Abend Dusseldorf.”
I read UHNOROIC rapidly and with great joy, devouring the brief but suspenseful and addictive chapters during my spare moments: riding the train and bus, while walking through the streets. And although I may have started reading partly to see when the author would finally blink or slip up, after a dozen or so chapters I simply surrendered, delighting in the book’s endless ingenuity and good humor, accepting that I was in the hands of a master.» - A D Jameson
[from Ulli's Roy Orbison In Clingfilm Website:]
«It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.
'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'
'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.
'Ah,' I say.
He apprises Jetta's lines with a keen eye. 'That is a well-groomed terrapin,' he says.
'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'
'Very well.' He says.
Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, 'Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?'
'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.
I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. 'I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,' I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.
'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'
'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'
'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'
Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.
'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'
I nod. 'So then. If you will please to stand.'
Roy stands. 'Commence.'
I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
'Ah.'
I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta's needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.
There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision...
It always starts the same way.
[read more: http://michaelkelly.artofeurope.com/karl.htm]
