At The Edge of the Universe, we review mainstream authors that incorporate elements of speculative fiction into their “literary” work. However you want to label them, we hope you’ll enjoy discussing these books with us.
Like many others reviewing The Night Circus, it was the hype that first drew my attention. Talk all over the internet, a huge display case in the local bookshop, rumours of a movie deal mere months after it had been published – I thought I may as well give in to the inevitable and read it.
In my opinion, every good book requires three things: 1) rich, vivid world-building, 2) a story that captivates the reader, and 3) interesting, three-dimensional characters with equally interesting, complex relationships. Naturally, this is something of a generalization, and obviously not every good book is going to contain all these qualities to the same degree. Some may be missing one of these aspects entirely, but can make up for it on the strength of the other two. Others can utilize all three factors, but only adequately, or manage to capture one so brilliantly that nothing else is necessary. And so on.
But for the purposes of this review, let’s pretend that this three-pronged approach to storytelling is an infallible method of crafting a decent novel – in which case Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus excels in one area, is pretty good in the other, but stumbles on the third.
The draw-card of The Night Circus is (naturally) the circus itself. The Cirque des Reves, or “the Circus of Dreams,” is a gloriously imaginative creation and a dream-like experience to both readers and characters. Beautifully designed and described in prose that only occasionally turns a shade of purple, this is a circus that arrives unexpectedly in the night, consists of dozens of tents in the shapes of pyramids, is entirely monochromatic in colour, and opens only once the sun goes down. Visitors enter through the gate and are free to wander the circular paths to discover the secrets that the tents hold. Every impression is captured: the sights, the smells, the sounds – Morgenstern has crafted a fully immersive reading experience.
Within this setting of a magical circus is the story itself, though it always feels secondary to the world that Morgenstern has created in which to *tell* that story.
The stage magician Hector Bowen (who uses the ironic stage name Prospero, though he’s about as far from Shakespeare’s devoted father and wise magician as you can imagine) returns backstage from a performance to find that his hitherto unknown daughter has just been delivered to his door, her mother’s suicide note pinned to her jacket. His initial reaction to her is not promising, but his interest is raised when she displays telekinetic powers.
Enter Alexander H, an old friend/foe of Hector, who is usually referred to as the man in the grey suit. He proposes a wager, and judging from their conversation, this is neither the first nor the last time that the two men have played such a game. The exact reason behind the wager is unclear, but it seems to have something to do with each man trying to prove the superiority of their magic and teaching methods. The competitors in this game are to be their own protégées: for Hector, it is his daughter Celia, for Alexander, it is Marko, a young boy he plucks out of an orphanage. Neither child knows the rules, they don’t know how to win or when they’ll win, and they don’t even know who their opponent is. Readers who are feeling generous could call this a metaphor for life; others may think it’s just an easy excuse to create the plot.
Only one thing is clear: the Night Circus is the venue. As each child grows into adulthood, each one goes through a traumatizing learning regime under their guardians, who control practically every aspect of their lives. By the time the circus opens, the two are fairly evenly matched: Celia has natural talent but little discipline, while Marko is rigorously pedantic, but lacks Celia’s raw power. The competition begins, and the beauty and magic of the circus grows with each move they make, gradually drawing closer to one another as they construct the sideshows and attractions that surround them.
Divided into five parts of varying lengths, the narrative leaps back and forth in time between the 1880s and the 1890s, and is told entirely in present-tense, the immediacy of which can get a little tiring after a while. Furthermore, certain segments address the reader directly, recounting the various experiences that one might expect in the Night Circus: “You are amongst the crowd, of course. Your curiosity got the better of you, as curiosity is wont to do. You stand in the fading light, the scarf around your neck pulled up against the chilly evening breeze, waiting to see for yourself exactly what kind of circus only opens once the sun sets.”
But a question hangs over the proceedings: when does the contest end? How is the winner decided? And what consequences await the loser? This brings us to the third quality of any decent story: the characters, who make up the heart of almost every novel – and here’s where The Night Circus fails.
Celia and Marko are two of the blandest, most uninteresting protagonists imaginable – and that’s a pretty astonishing feat given the richness of their surroundings and the dangers of the competition that they’re embroiled in. Any other character in the story, from the circus patrons to the performers, are more interesting than these two. As a result, their relationships suffer as well. The reader is given absolutely no reason to invest in the wishy-washy love story, for the two barely interact before we’re lead to believe that they can’t live without each other.
Other relationships, which contained the potential for conflict that could have been riveting, fall flat as well. Though Morgenstern gets some mileage out of Celia and Hector’s strained father/daughter bond, there is nothing on the Marko/Alexander front, and neither child seems particularly phased by the years of neglect and abuse they suffered. Marko starts a relationship with a young tarot reader called Isobel; she later joins the circus in order to spy on Celia for Marko’s benefit, but her thoughts and feelings concerning this matter (and the heartless way in which Marko treats her) is never really explored.
A past competitor is revealed to be working in the circus, fully aware of the new contest, but no insight is given on this potentially fascinating perspective either. We never learn the reason for the rivalry between Hector and Alexander, nor the background to their animosity. A boy called Bailey becomes captivated by the circus and has an important part to play in its fate; yet his obsession with the Night Circus feels perfunctory, more a plot-device than a character trait, and his involvement in the denouement feels more of a deus ex machina than an organic choice driven out of real passion for the circus.
It all seems a dreadful waste. No one in the book feels like a real human being – they’re all as distant and insubstantial as the circus itself. It’s a pity; as their personalities and relationships could have held the necessary grit and realism to ground the dreamy circus atmosphere. A story that relies almost entirely on a mysterious competition that no one can fully understand *needed* strong characters to carry it – otherwise, nothing is at stake. Without characters to invest in, it’s difficult to care about the resolution.
I enjoyed reading The Night Circus. I liked the central conceit and for the most part I liked the execution. But I never found it riveting. I could put the book down for breaks and not feel an urgent need to return to it. Reading it was like eating candy floss: sweet and tasty while it lasted, but dissolving almost instantaneously. Apparently the rights to the books have already been sold to Hollywood, in which case movie-goers are in for a visual feast when the story is adapted for the big screen. Until then, I just wish that the characters were worthy of the fantastical setting and the intriguing plot – which would have been all the more rewarding had the players in it not been so superficial.
Five stars for the world-building, three stars for the plot, and one star for the characters.
Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake
There are countless retellings and adaptations concerning the life and times of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and I’m not even close to having read all of them. Therefore, it’s impossible for me to say that Rosemary Sutcliff‘s version is the definitive Arthurian retelling. However, it’s certainly one of the best. Told in Sutcliff’s graceful prose that is both epic and intimate when need-be, and the tricky subjects like incest, adultery and bloodshed are conveyed without being either too prudish or overly graphic. 
The Once and Future King & The Book of Merlyn by T.H. White
Full Circle by Pamela Freeman
Gatty’s Tale by Kevin Crossley-Holland
Theseus by Geraldine McCaughrean
Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld
A Madness of Angels by Kate Griffin
This is an immensely difficult book to review, simply because the vast majority of casual readers probably won’t automatically enjoy The Children’s Book. It is a dense, complex, ambitious, challenging novel that is not so much a story as it is a detailed portrait of a family, a community and an era. Stretching from 1895 to 1919 and set predominantly in the Kent countryside, A.S. Byatt‘s saga contains no central character or predominant plotline; instead it chronicles the historical, cultural and social context of the Victorian/Edwardian period and the effect it has on three families and their assorted associates. 
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
The Gypsy Morph by Terry Brooks
for example is set during WWII, and with the magical elements removed. 
Dracula: The Undead by Ian Holt and Dacre Stoker
The Door in the Hedge by Robin McKinley
Night Shade by Lynne Ewing
