Plotless 'Radio' Falls Flat

"A bus ticket from Tallinn to Tartu costs twenty Estonian kroons,” begins Tõnu Õnnepalu’s "Radio." For a novel’s opening line, the statement is not electrifying. It is a factual observation, devoid of any imagery or unique phrasing to distinguish itself. Yet the simplicity is revolutionary, the statement too full of nuances to ignore. The sentence ends up serving as a perfect introduction to “Radio” and an apt representation of its nature. Tõnu Õnnepalu’s latest novel is almost paradoxical: tiresome but intelligent, dull but thought-provoking, repetitive but unusual.

“Radio” begins with the narrator’s return to Estonia. After a decade in Paris, he regards his homeland with slight disdain, as he describes an unappealing bus ride with a drunken passenger and a gray landscape. But Õnnepalu does not focus on the stereotypical conflict between two places, and as the novel progresses, he weaves a memoir of the narrator’s love affair with an older singer, Liz Franz, and the narrator’s past and current experiences with other characters. As the novel progresses, Õnnepalu adds narrative digressions, deliberations, and an internal conflict—between the narrator’s homosexuality and heterosexual relations with Liz Franz, between his cultural understanding of Paris and Estonia—to weave a complicated tale.

Through its set-up, the novel shines in wisdom and intelligence. The narrator provides background on Estonia’s history and serves as the vessel for  Õnnepalu’s criticism of Estonian society and government. The novel is full of descriptions of the Soviet government’s implementations and their painfully laughable results; all the while, images of Paris feel hollow and similarly ludicrous. The philosophical depth  Õnnepalu achieves is astounding, reminiscent of the thought found in great literary classics and refreshing when compared to most novels published today. His unusual stylistic choices strengthens this impression: oftentimes, he adds the French translation of a word inside parentheses as a way of showing France’s influence on the narrator. Certain words are bolded, certain statements italicized. Terse statements like “Appearance is a great theater. And a question of will,” carry a philosophical weight that adds to the novel’s meditative character. Onnepalu’s ability to weave complexity into simple sentences is worthy of praise.

Yet it is this deft style that ultimately destroys the novel’s appeal. While the commentary is initially illuminating, after several chapters, it becomes excessive. The result is a story too focused on ideas to contain much plot, too caught up in proving a point to develop characters. The narrator serves as the centerpiece for the novel, but, instead of giving readers perspective towards the events and other characters, he becomes the sole object of interest. This is problematic because the narrator, described as “oversensitive and narcissistic” in the book’s blurb, cannot elicit any sympathy. The novel requires an engaging plot and secondary characters to give it power, something it fails to provide.

What little readers know of other characters is based on descriptions alone; dialogue is sparse, and instead  Õnnepalu demands readers to believe the narrator’s opinions. The move has potential, but the narrator is too self-centered and instead reduces the other characters to flat forms. When the narrator talks about Asko, his attractive and young neighbor, he forces Asko into the role of failed sexual interest and a representation of the two’s generation gap. “Asko is an ordinary boy,” the narrator asserts; any personality quirks are irrelevant. The characters become subject to the narrator’s fantasies or biases, until it is impossible to understand the other characters as individuals. Without appealing characters, the novel loses a point of connection with the reader.

The only interesting character besides the narrator is Liz Franz. Her origin, rise to success, and many relationships make for an intriguing story, and her unique traits, such as her interest in tarot cards, paint her as a dynamic individual. Yet her story, despite being the one that finalizes the narrator’s thematic epiphany, becomes lost in the social commentary and narrative digressions. The narrator mentions her in every chapter, but her story blurs into his historical commentary and egotistical ramblings until it is distinguishable and forgettable. It is only near the last third of the novel that the reader discovers how the narrator met her and understands their complex relationship. By then, reader interest is gone, and Liz Franz, like everyone else in the novel, has lost her allure.

General disinterest towards the plot and characters reigns as the novel plods forwards too sluggishly, too focused on interspersing meaningful remarks among the story’s lines. As the pages stretch on, even the once unique testimonies become a bore and grow into something less revolutionary than problematic. “Radio” is a tour-de-force in concepts and a brilliant example of the intersection between language and meaning; without an engaging story or characters, however, the novel loses it spark and ends up feeling like a track played on air for far too long.