Page 45 Review by Stephen
"My new thing is no more secrets. All they do is mess shit up."
The darkest hours aren't necessarily at midnight.
Rarely have I read the myriad, complex insecurities of diverse late teens and early 20s laid so artlessly and recognisably bare; and that artlessness is so very rare.
On its first appearance in 2004 I glibly yet succinctly summarised WET MOON as GHOST WORLD for Goths with piercings, pvc and hair dye. That it would develop into something more psychologically chilling was hinted at early on, but I singularly failed to spot its source. As, I'm afraid, do the cast.
For the series' 20th Anniversary the publisher is packaging the two books in one, and of the first I wrote:
Beside the bayou, term is about to kick off for a group of awkward, hesitant, second-guessing, slightly paranoid girls at college, most of them unsure of themselves and their relationships. Audrey - Black, beautiful and gay - is the exception, but Trilby - pale, freckled, Tank-Girl hair falling over a nose-ring and braces - provides a weighty counterbalance by being both relentlessly and remorselessly callous, selfish, moody and disloyal, dismissing anyone's misgivings with "Who cares?" while caring very much that no one walks in her watching Star Trek. She's so two-faced that she'll brief against a friend five seconds before flashing a smile in their direction. But the title's primary focus is Cleo Lovedrop: more open and honest, and therefore vulnerable. She constantly checks herself out in the mirror, and changes her hair style back and forth based on approval or disapproval or anticipation of either.
Body image and explorations of sexuality are as central to the all-inclusive series as vulnerability and friendships, and, refreshingly, Sophie Campbell's eye is for more individualistic forms which she makes such tender and seductive art of. Not for a long time, for example, did I realise that Cleo was so remarkably short. As Campbell refines her craft, her lines grow softer, silkier, her forms even fuller, while her command of tones becomes rich and delicious. Cleo's eyes widen first in doting and doubt and then into enormous, smitten pools of liquid love
Also ahead of its time was some of the cast's revealing attempts to engage with early iterations of Social Media, albeit in relatively closed forums. Campbell captures the naive illusion of privacy to perfection there as well as implying its potential pitfalls should word get around, just as she does the intimacy of Cleo's genuinely private, hand-doodled diary entries. It's psychologically spot-on: the questioning, the self-doubts, and the way in which, in a letter to yourself, you can meanderingly think your worries through on the page in the hope of a better future - or as a means of self-justification. Amongst other truths of youth: bonding over bands and tattoos, embarrassment over enthusiasms sequestered from your friends; the sharing of secrets, the betrayal of secrets; and not quite knowing if you're going out with someone or not: hoping desperately that you are, but not wanting to fuck things up with presumption or the first move.
Campbell is a master of the emotional rollercoaster ride, not just of heartache, but in subtly deployed and stealthily ramped-up, hard dramatic irony. For all along there have been intimations of horror lurking beneath the surface, as if something was simmering in the swamp all around them. But it's been stewing much closer to home, grinding its teeth with a festering, barely contained, seething psychosis before erupting in an act of extreme violence which made everyone I know truly wince.
But scarce is the series which devotes an entire volume of seven to moments of quiet, intimate closure and reconciliation amongst its dazed and bewildered survivors born of self-reflection long after its climax. Reconciliation arguably aside, it's a far more accurate reflection of reality.
Of the second I wrote:
"Uneasy friendships between a group of hesitant, second-guessing, slightly paranoid girls at college," I wrote some 20 years ago. In hindsight I only wish they were more paranoid, for one within them isn't showing her true, seething colours.
The vulnerabilities are beautifully observed, as are the explorations of sexuality.
Cleo's still finding messages left lying around campus saying "Cleo eats it" and one of the chief tensions in this is whether indeed she might be persuaded. She's just bumped into Myrtle (literally) whilst fleeing a class containing her ex-boyfriend, and their new friendship - though as tentative as any of the others - does seem close with Myrtle appearing to be less judgemental than the rest of the crowd who could all Bitch for Britain. Audrey certainly "eats it", but her new friendship with Kinzoku (who does actually appear to have a clue when it comes to love and friendships) threatens to unsettle her relationship with Beth. Meanwhile Trilby - the most mean-spirited and spiteful of the cast last book, who did actually try it on with Cleo - has got herself a boyfriend, but he doesn't seem too confident in the bed department, whilst Cleo herself is disappointed to find out that pretty-boy Glen is [REDACTED].
I think I've just typed "friendship" four times already, so blatantly that's what this series is about, along with body image and sexuality. The cast are constantly checking themselves out in the mirror and pawing themselves, changing hair styles, and then occasionally changing back based on approval or disapproval or anticipation of either.
Some of them are still getting to know each other so there's a lot of naturalistic behaviour like languishing about on beds and sofas, exchanging crushes, secrets and scars, metaphorical and otherwise.
But what about the horror hinted at last time? Yes, that kicks up a notch too, and all those elements seem to meet in Zia, the girl with one arm who photographs herself lying on the ground as if dead, covered in mud and garbage; Fall who wanders around with her mouth open near the swamp, cooking burgers for her mute, scarred and blood-drooling Pa; and fetishist Fern, the uber-rich bald girl whose back bares a butcher's brace of meat hooks. What is up with all that?
Campbell has an eye for the more interesting female body shape, and relishes big, fleshy pierced lips and scowls. Her lines grow softer as she grows into the series, the eyes widen to become pools of doting and doubt, while her command of tones becomes rich and delicious.
It's mesmerising, and actually very pretty except when they're being ugly to each other.
