“Life, right from the start, was for the shits, Mooney thought.”—The Shiva
Jim Bartley wrote in The Globe and Mail of Michael Tregebov’s debut novel The Briss, “Tregebov’s Jewish Winnipeg raises echoes of [Mordecai] Richler’s Montreal. I think an equal literary mind might be at work here.” That’s a heady endorsement to be sure and having not read The Briss, not one I’m going to argue against. Yet based on Tregebov’s sophomore effort The Shiva, I think comparisons to Elmore Leonard or Gregory McDonald might be more apt. Certainly there are heavy Jewish themes familiar from Richler’s canon running through the pages, but Tregebov’s use of incisive and often hilarious dialogue draws a stronger parallel to the works of those two American crime fiction masters, both of whom are often singled out for their substantial reliance on dialogue to create atmosphere and plot, rather than descriptive passages.
And The Shiva is chock full of dialogue, informal and intimate dialogue that overlaps conversations like the shuffling of cards, dialogue so rich and smooth it’s like you’re eavesdropping rather than reading. I’m not convinced that Tregebov has the literary heft of Richler (yet), but there’s no denying that The Shiva is a rollicking good read.
Shiva’s picaresque hero is Mooney, a sad sack if ever there was one, the self-described “poorest Jew in America,” a man who believes, “Life was never better when you could reach into your pocket and come up with a wad of cash, almost like pulling a drowning kid by his hair from the lake in front of a big crowd.” Once fairly successful, he let his innate gift for sibling rivalry get the best of him and tried to outdo his brother Tom in business, a disastrous plan that cost him his marriage, his house, and a large chunk of his sanity. Now, living in a small apartment with a dog as companion, Mooney has hit pretty near rock-bottom, a galling predicament, as he is positive Dave stole his inheritance (an idea given to him by his dead father in a dream).
As such heroes must do, Mooney comes up with a plan to both make money and best his brother, by shorting the stock market on the advice of Dennis, a rez Indian and insanely sharp stock picker. As Tregebov sets his comedic novel just before and during the great financial collapse of 2008, the reader doesn’t need much in the way of foreshadowing to see where the plot is headed.
But who cares, when the result is this much fun? The Shiva is, in many ways, a completely legal Ocean’s Eleven replete with a cadre of colourful cronies — Mooney, the leader; Dennis, the brains; Suddy Joffe, the soup mensch; Oz, “seventy-five, looking ninety, and whose second-last bottom tooth had fallen out; and “Eisenteeth” Sammy, all of whom would likely be seated at the schnorrer table after Sunday services (and I’m not going to explain that). Reading their back-and-forth is like listening to the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs if Woody Allen took a crack at rewriting it.
As they haphazardly navigate their way through the complexities of an entire economic system crashing around them, Tregebov keeps his comic sensibilities humming along, resulting in a brilliantly funny and unpredictably melancholy book. By definition, the hero of a picaresque cannot gain wisdom, but as Mooney starts to buck the trend (unwillingly and despite himself), The Shiva evolves from a rousing demonstration of classic repartee into something far more bittersweet: a treatise on the perils of growing old, the fragility of family bonds, and the absurdity inherent in life.
Hmmm. Maybe Tregebov is closer to Richler than I thought.
New Star | 272 pages | $21.00 | paper | ISBN #978-1554200634
‘The Shiva’ by Michael Tregebov
Book Reviews
“Life, right from the start, was for the shits, Mooney thought.”—The Shiva
Jim Bartley wrote in The Globe and Mail of Michael Tregebov’s debut novel The Briss, “Tregebov’s Jewish Winnipeg raises echoes of [Mordecai] Richler’s Montreal. I think an equal literary mind might be at work here.” That’s a heady endorsement to be sure and having not read The Briss, not one I’m going to argue against. Yet based on Tregebov’s sophomore effort The Shiva, I think comparisons to Elmore Leonard or Gregory McDonald might be more apt. Certainly there are heavy Jewish themes familiar from Richler’s canon running through the pages, but Tregebov’s use of incisive and often hilarious dialogue draws a stronger parallel to the works of those two American crime fiction masters, both of whom are often singled out for their substantial reliance on dialogue to create atmosphere and plot, rather than descriptive passages.
And The Shiva is chock full of dialogue, informal and intimate dialogue that overlaps conversations like the shuffling of cards, dialogue so rich and smooth it’s like you’re eavesdropping rather than reading. I’m not convinced that Tregebov has the literary heft of Richler (yet), but there’s no denying that The Shiva is a rollicking good read.
Shiva’s picaresque hero is Mooney, a sad sack if ever there was one, the self-described “poorest Jew in America,” a man who believes, “Life was never better when you could reach into your pocket and come up with a wad of cash, almost like pulling a drowning kid by his hair from the lake in front of a big crowd.” Once fairly successful, he let his innate gift for sibling rivalry get the best of him and tried to outdo his brother Tom in business, a disastrous plan that cost him his marriage, his house, and a large chunk of his sanity. Now, living in a small apartment with a dog as companion, Mooney has hit pretty near rock-bottom, a galling predicament, as he is positive Dave stole his inheritance (an idea given to him by his dead father in a dream).
As such heroes must do, Mooney comes up with a plan to both make money and best his brother, by shorting the stock market on the advice of Dennis, a rez Indian and insanely sharp stock picker. As Tregebov sets his comedic novel just before and during the great financial collapse of 2008, the reader doesn’t need much in the way of foreshadowing to see where the plot is headed.
But who cares, when the result is this much fun? The Shiva is, in many ways, a completely legal Ocean’s Eleven replete with a cadre of colourful cronies — Mooney, the leader; Dennis, the brains; Suddy Joffe, the soup mensch; Oz, “seventy-five, looking ninety, and whose second-last bottom tooth had fallen out; and “Eisenteeth” Sammy, all of whom would likely be seated at the schnorrer table after Sunday services (and I’m not going to explain that). Reading their back-and-forth is like listening to the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs if Woody Allen took a crack at rewriting it.
As they haphazardly navigate their way through the complexities of an entire economic system crashing around them, Tregebov keeps his comic sensibilities humming along, resulting in a brilliantly funny and unpredictably melancholy book. By definition, the hero of a picaresque cannot gain wisdom, but as Mooney starts to buck the trend (unwillingly and despite himself), The Shiva evolves from a rousing demonstration of classic repartee into something far more bittersweet: a treatise on the perils of growing old, the fragility of family bonds, and the absurdity inherent in life.
Hmmm. Maybe Tregebov is closer to Richler than I thought.
New Star | 272 pages | $21.00 | paper | ISBN #978-1554200634