Trauma, Glossed: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine (2017)
Photograph by Yoojin Shin
By Yoojin Shin
For a novel that attempts to deal with the devastating tragedies of human life, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine (2017) is, surprisingly, a feel-good read that borders on the saccharine. In retrospect, this shouldn’t have been a surprise, because I did do a quick search on the internet before beginning the book and found that Reese Witherspoon optioned it for film. But still, the book’s back cover mentioned words like “loneliness” and “survivor” and wrote that Eleanor Oliphant drank two bottles of vodka every weekend. This made Eleanor immediately interesting and I picked up the book, expecting a rich, captivating story of personal struggle and avail molded into the frames of modern Scotland. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Eleanor Oliphant, the protagonist, is a nearly thirty-year-old woman who works an office job as a finance clerk. She has a spare, almost clinical routine to life, and most of all, she’s cripplingly lonely. As per the cover, Eleanor does drink an immense amount of vodka every weekend, mostly to help her sleep and forget, which hints at her tendency for alcoholism. Then there emerges Raymond, the most ordinary man and work colleague who instigates a small ripple in her life that, throughout the various events of the novel, works its classic, well-visited butterfly effect to change her life.
The greatest flaw of this novel is its benign, organized goodness, carried out by its nice, well-meaning characters. Every single emotional development of Eleanor is neatly laid out before the reader. As the story progresses, Eleanor explains cleanly and almost instructively the causes of her troubles, until the reader is left with absolutely nothing to contemplate or wonder about. Raymond, who is the biggest supporting character, is a highly readable human being, seemingly incapable of any character flaws apart from his “doughy” and pink appearance and “chomping” eating habits. Gail Honeyman, the author, describes him as “the sort of ordinary, kind, decent man who doesn’t often get featured in fiction”; indeed, he is exactly that, a nice person—nothing more, nothing less.
In real life, simply being described as nice is the single greatest indicator of a person’s cookie-cutter blandness. Of course, nowadays, finding someone who is decently nice is becoming more and more difficult, and being nice is surely a feat of its own. But this doesn’t change the fact that nice people are consistently reliable—they find you when you’re alone, they come to your rescue when you’re in danger, and they never get irritated—which makes the read annoyingly predictable at best.
The story has a predictable plot line, with a predictable escalation of events that is meant to mark a predictable climax. Eleanor had to change, something had to trigger that change, and after the climax, she does. She faces her past, confronts her demons; she progresses into a new chapter in her life. Meanwhile, Raymond is nothing but wholesome and supportive; her boss is wholeheartedly understanding of her absence; and she has an excellent, albeit unusually dressed, therapist, who seems to repeat: “you’re doing excellent, Eleanor” (Cue Kris Jenner). The entire experience, in retrospect, felt like an instructive booklet geared towards teenagers: this is how it can feel to be alone, sad, and depressed, and this is how you can overcome it. Talk to people. Seek out help. Be kind. Don’t judge people.
Again, in real life, where things usually don’t work out as nicely as you’d like, the traumas of abuse, crime, and alcoholism are often the causes of lifelong struggles. In your journey to understand yourself, you meet people who are hostile to your efforts, people who belittle you, and people who want to help but in intrusive, and sometimes offensive, ways. Friends don’t always turn up at the right moments. People get sober, relapse, and try to get sober again. Sometimes you lay alone, hoping that someone will come, but no one does. Such experiences are grim and depressing, but utterly human—something that Eleanor Oliphant fails to show.
In the book’s Q&A, Honeyman said that the novel was built around its character, Eleanor, and this is absolutely true: her eccentric marvels, discoveries, and curiosities provide the oxygen necessary to make the story come alive. But for a supposedly character-driven story, the depth and substance of both Eleanor and Raymond fall weak. Beyond her peculiarities (which mostly arise from her superb vocabulary and general social maladjustment), Eleanor comes across as a deceptively simple person, who generally just goes along with the flow of things without giving it a second thought. Her thoughts are exceptionally clear and matter-of-fact. Her past—which is supposed to be the element that piques the reader’s interest in her life—is left largely unexplained and unexplored, which means that her most horrifying experiences don’t feel any more visceral than words written on paper. Raymond, on the other hand, simply comes across as beige and bland. Surely the guy must have some shortcomings or desires that aren’t textbook appropriate and make people uncomfortable? Surely, as a human being, he has some layers beyond his “heart of gold”?
Perhaps it wasn’t Honeyman’s aim to focus on—or really, delve into—Eleanor’s struggles or Raymond’s personality. In fact, it’s not difficult to guess what Honeyman wanted to say: small gestures of kindness make a difference in someone’s life. What Honeyman wanted to tell was a story of hope and change, not a story of victimization and struggle. But still, you don’t have to have a cookie-cutter, feel-good story in order to deliver a message of hope: what you do need to achieve, however, is the feeling of suffering that transmits itself from the pages and into your bones. If you want to tell the story of a woman who suffers from childhood trauma and intense, crippling loneliness, you have to do more than invent eccentricities and surround her with nice people. If she’s spiraling into depression, you have to show the emotional tumult rather than tell it. You have to acknowledge her impulses, habits, and pitfalls arising from trauma. Then, and only then, do the struggles of its protagonist feel real and the glimmer of hope even more vibrant. In such aspects, Honeyman’s efforts fall disappointingly short.
Even so, Eleanor Oliphant is an incredibly humorous, absorbing read. I often found myself literally laughing out loud, and that, in and of itself, was enough to make me want to keep reading. In Eleanor Oliphant, there are no lyrical composition or word play or hard-hitting questions—most likely, it won’t be remembered in the annals of literature as a contemporary classic, nor will it ever win a Pulitzer or a Man Booker. Rather, it’s a nice, comforting read to spend your weekend with, filled to the brim with good feelings.
Yoojin Shin is a writer, editor, and translator who has been nurturing a lifelong love for the creative arts. After accumulating an eclectic range of experiences in journalism, academia, and the fine arts, she launched the Baram House with Natalie Anderson over a plate of cheesecake. You can see more of her work on her website and Instagram (@yoojinshin1).
