Shaun Micallef is more or less an unknown entity to those in the UK, and this is a great shame. His eighteen years of participation in various Australian media have provided us with some of the most joyous and unique comedy available. Although obviously influenced by classic comedy in the past, which he often references, his voice - a gestalt mishmash of silliness and indignation, once so prevalent in British comedy before it was overthrown by joyless and cynical panel shows or subsidised whimsy - is always a relief, and perhaps made more satisfying by his shows' tendency to fail quite dramatically.
The word 'fail' may be too harsh but at least it doesn't have the overtones of 'cult'. He came to prominence on ABC with The Micallef P(r)ogram(me) (1998-2001), three glorious series of a madly deconstructive sketch show heavily indebted to Monty Python and very possibly Alan Partridge in Micallef's smarmy host persona. Shortly after, network executives - apparently bemused by the spoof interviews which interlaced the skits - decided to give Micallef the shot of hosting his own late-night chat show. He, of course, wanted to bring something of his own humour into the mix and the result - Micallef Tonight (2003) - was an awful misfire. Amusing items were bogged down by dreary, awkward interviews with Ricky Martin and the like. At the same time he was creating a solicitor-based sitcom (Welcher & Welcher) that fell off the map, ratings-wise at least, and while this can be blamed on bad scheduling and poor advertisement the end result isn't that cheering to look at either - lurching between knockabout farce and noble attempts at drama with a certain unease. He has however done quite well of late with appearances on a lauded improvisational game-show and the genuinely innovative Newstopia (2007-8). That brings us to his novella.
Pardon me for being slightly late in reviewing this far-reaching adventure but, given it deals largely with time travel, well, no, I'm still a bit late. Alexander Pruitt, of Birmingham-cum-Yorkshire (the malleability of location is something of a running gag it seems), is visiting his doctor in 2005 when the already sinister physician stabs him with an unwanted, fatal syringe. Pruitt wakes up, rather a long time before, in the body of Richard Cromwell - son of the famed Puritan and Charles I-hater, Oliver Cromwell. Thus follows Alexander/Richard's story of finding his way back to the present in order to stop his unnecessary murder, careless of what this may do to the space-time continuum. The story is told alternately from his perspective and that of an unnamed, fairly adventurous archivist whose interest in unearthing the facts - relating to a plot between the CIA and the Royal Order of Freemasons - puts him in a spot of bother.
This is where we too come into a spot of bother because, as amusing as the book undoubtedly is, Micallef's struggle with the framework of his tale somewhat mars the reader's enjoyment. The main shame comes because the story is indeed quite gripping and one wonders what a slightly more experienced and adept sci-fi novelist could have made of it, or even Douglas Adams whose voice certainly shines through near the novella's demise. Better, as I heard suggested, to treat it as a sketch show in book form since the tangenital zig-zag style is totally disappointing if you wish to actually follow the story. I cannot be too upset as the detail given to each section (veering as the story does from representatio of dull homelife in Northern England - where patients awaiting the doctor read Dead Princess magazine - to explanation of the Roswell incident, touring Hollywood with Tom Cruise to solving the Ripper murders with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, aided by the comically pointless HG Wells) and joy put into each humorous aside is truly addictive.
'The Popes paused and each stroked their chins in thought. They paused again then stroked each other's chins. This did little to help.' etc.
Micallef's strength lies in these amusing asides, often wrapped up in never-ending footnotes which comment on the structural falling apart of the story as it occurs. Perhaps the end of the book (not the rushed end of the novella) is the greatest section, offering a selection of fake book titles and advertisements making full use of the author's gift. Titles such as 'If Dolphins Could Pilot Commercial Jets: A Re-imagining of 9/11' by Lt. Commander Billy 'Tea' Hecuba and 'Gas Pressure Readings in Adelaide, June-July 1934' made the trawl through time and space ultimately worthwhile. A shame that Micallef only had the confidence for such outright silliness at the end, often focusing on verbose descriptive prose for moderate passages of the story proper.
If just slightly better handled in either sense, this could have been a rollickingly absurd endurance test of laughter or heralded as a deconstructuralist novel in the vein of Tristram Shandy or indeed his sketch show (Micallef, not Tristram's). Sadly it falls below the mark for both. Like all of Micallef's work it is a splendid curio, and the positive features so outweigh the negative that once seen it will be fondly remembered.
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