Teaching and Doing

THERE WAS ONCE a time when being a writing teacher fell under the old aphorism that "Those who can't do, teach." Nowadays, however, the grim economics of the writer's trade make it almost essential that even successful authors and poets find a steady supplement to their royalties. The majority of America's best authors make at least a portion of their livelihood from teaching writing at universities, fulfilling the literary pretensions of the young while adding a little sparkle to dry English departments.

Harvard has been no exception. One of the few bright spots in Harvard's otherwise undistinguished English department is its creative writing courses, which have been taught for the past few years by Mary Robison, a frequent contributor of short stories to The New Yorker, and Christopher Leland, a novelist. Leland's new novel, Mrs. Randall, is proof positive that the man can do, as well as teach.

The fast-paced story follows. the life of Gambetta Stevenson, from his childhood in a small Southern Town during the first World War to his career as a semi-successful Hollywood actor. Though Leland packs a thick wad of detail to satisfy the historical novel lovers out there, the real story is the obsessive love Stevenson bears for his stepmother, Mrs. Randall.

Leland has almost succeeded in putting together the perfect postmodern Southern novel--you can taste the chunks of Faulkner, Warren, and Flamingo Road that he has dropped in his literary Cuisinart and spread across the pages. The only thing is, Leland has ground his sources so fine that Mrs. Randall lacks the kind of semi-mocking tone that gives the post-modern credo its camp appeal. Instead, Leland has invested his novel with the virtues of the great Hollywood dramas of the 20's and 30's, where plots and characters you had seen many times before were distilled to perfect purity.

Mrs. Randall also moves as quickly as a film, dropping in and out of the important events of Stevenson's life with the assurance of a Welles or Vidor. In a typical twist, Leland gives the mysterious Mrs. Randall a "secret from the past," only to reveal it to the reader in the first chapter. No cheap thrills here, despite a plot so byzantine it might confuse a Dallas junkie.

THE REASON Leland manages to pull together the disparate strands of the book into something more than a skillful pastiche is his sure touch with his characters and his elegant writing style. While he puts about 10% more-adjectives into a paragraph than I like to see, he avoids the egregious literary spew that the South seems to inspire in its chroniclers.

In an ideal world, the mass market's appetites for fiction would be satisfied by the likes of Mrs. Randall; it's conservatively written without being dull, covers almost as much territory as a Michener novel, is shorter, and won't make a literate reader cringe every third page.

Unfortunately, Leland is trapped in the airy territory of hardback fiction, where tastes are as refined as sales are poor. If he's lucky, some canny product get the film rights and turn it into a mini-series which those with brain cells can actually watch. Or perhaps he can persuade Avon books to buy it up, put on a slightly racy cover hinting of decadent Southern sensuality and drag a few suburban housewives into the realm of real literature. Otherwise, Mrs. Randall will remain a pleasure reserved only for those in the know.