SHARP TEETH THE ARTS: BOOK REVIEWS

0 Comments | Sunday Herald, The, Aug 26, 2007 | by Reviewed by Graeme Virtue

By Toby Barlow William Heinemann, GBP12.99

IN terms of literary monsters, are you a dog person or a bat person? Writers generally seem more interested in the immortal ennui and sexual subtexts of vampires, with everyone from Anne Rice to Stephen King echoing or exploding Bram Stoker's literary blueprint to suit their narrative needs. Lycanthropic novels, meanwhile, only pop up once in a blue (full? ) moon. Angela Carter's The Company Of Wolves, from almost three decades ago, was the last story with any real bite.

Toby Barlow is most definitely a dog person, and so are most of the characters in his first book: lost souls inculcated into a well- drilled pack in preparation for some unspecified higher mission. And having sentient werewolves padding around presentday Los Angeles is not the most intriguing thing about Sharp Teeth. It is also a verse novel, the words tumbling over each other in jagged lines, pricking the unexpected prairie of white space on each page. But this is not a salute to the tightly controlled tradition of Alexander Pushkin.

(Instead of sonnets in iambic tetrameter, Barlow has said he was inspired by the repetitive gutter poetry of graphic novel writers such as Alan Moore and Frank Miller. ) Uncaged by metre, the result is scuzzed-up writing of bracing immediacy. There are passages of ferocious violence, where unfortunate, often unsuspecting humans are torn apart like greasy burger wrappers, any physical evidence subsequently eaten, bloodstains licked clean. There are also scenes of animalistic sex; unsurprising considering the canine instincts unleashed by "the change".

But at its panting heart, Sharp Teeth is really a love story.

The nominal hero, Anthony, is a burdened dogcatcher with a useful command of judo, surrounded by work colleagues who keep vanishing.

Top dog Lark is a former lawyer turned pack leader, using his legal training and fearsome footsoldiers to increase his influence in LA while sniffing around for any rivals. When Lark's plans are unexpectedly dismantled, his werewoman unnamed throughout moves in with Anthony, who senses something like salvation in her.

Around this lupine love triangle orbit other ruined characters, including a prissy but ruthless druglord with a fondness for bridge, and a crumpled cop, unsure why he's even investigating the disappearance of stumblebum dogcatchers.

Present-day stories about vampires often get tangled up in outlining vast slabs of undead lore and history, fetishising bloodlines to create courtly intrigue as scowling rivals vie for supremacy. In Sharp Teeth, Barlow barely pauses to explore the origin of his werewolves. These creatures are constantly looking forward, not back, and their altered state is more of a tool or weapon than an end in itself.

It's also a useful disguise to infiltrate the homes of unsuspecting Los Angelenos: who could resist a stray dog that seems to understand what you are saying?

There is a smattering of revisionism;

misplaced love can be more deadly than silver bullets, and while the full moon sometimes casts a cold blue glow over the action, these lycanthropes can morph at will. Most often, the change is mentioned only in passing, the lengthening of muzzle and sprouting of hair uncommented on. But in one horribly vivid scene, a stray bullet slices the cerebellum of an unfortunate hound, sending its transformation into a loop; its body becomes a seething, expanding mess of sinew, fur and cracking bones.

Once you've got over the whole werewolf thing and locked in with the terse verse, there is one final surprise:

Barlow is the executive director of a New York advertising agency, yet he resists the urge to be ironic or flip.

Flashes of black humour puncture the tension, but for the most part Sharp Teeth is deadly serious and almost drainingly downbeat. It's a risk that pays off; what could so easily have been a hip, wisecracking shaggy dog tale manages to achieve a weird kind of profundity.