I became aware of Marisha Pessl’s Night Film from an article suggesting interesting settings in thriller books. The concept of a reclusive film director, his avant-garde offerings, and a potential murder in his family was exciting and interesting. The lengthy page count kept me away for a while, but I finally took the plunge and read it.
In brief, an investigative reporter (Scott McGrath) is following up on a story of a suicide by a film director’s (Stanislov Cordova’s) daughter, Ashley. He picks up two partners along the way, Nora and Hunter, and they interview people and eventually decide to confront the director himself.
The idea is fantastic. I loved the amount of effort Pessl went into building Cordova’s catalogue of films that never were. The films’ endings don’t give easy answers, leading to a healthy discussion of life in general. The callbacks to the films and what they’re about are sprinkled out through the narrative. This discovery of the director’s art is also a pleasant surprise.
Unfortunately, the book doesn’t live up to its premise. It’s by-the-numbers first half isn’t interesting. Only when they’re discussing Cordova and his legacy does it become intriguing, but of course, a discussion is passive. The plot is meandering through its extensive pages, and the false endings weren’t fun because, unlike a film, the reader knows when a book is ending. Benjamin Stevenson’s first book in his Everyone series has a lot to say about trying to trick the reader before the end. The characters weren’t exciting, and Scott has few redeeming qualities, even after he gets his act together. The characters Scott, Nora, and Hunter interrogate in the first part are simply names that advance the plot to the next unmemorable character, dribbling out little pieces of information on Ashley.
Many who gave this a low review point at the ending. I understand what the author was trying to do, and I applaud her effort. However, while other reviewers may be wrong about the decision to end the book the way it does, they are right that it doesn’t work. Pessl is not Stanley Kubrick or even John Carpenter, directors who could pull off an ending like Stanislov Cordova. Whether in the filmography or the literary arts, you have to walk a tightrope when leaving elements unexplained.
Lastly, I will categorize this as a thriller, but really it wants to defy classification. The problem with this type of book is it looks sloppy rather than inspired. It could be placed in many genres, but I’ll never know which one the author really intended.
Night Film is an ambitious effort. Pages and pages of secrets—unveiled and veiled—lead the reader from New York City and beyond. The novel collapses under its own weight, more pondering than exciting.