Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic

I live an hour away from Beech Creek, Alison Bechdel's tiny hometown and the setting for much of her graphic memoir Fun Home. I've always found the area oppressive: dark, looming mountains casting perpetual shadows on impoverished, dying valley towns. But after reading Fun Home, I revisited Beech Creek, to see Bechdel's childhood home and the grave of her father Bruce, and to remind myself of how cruelly ironic life can be.Bruce Bechdel, a man who loves literature (in his early days he identified with F. Scott Fitzgerald; in his final days he reads Proust), an aesthete with a taste for the baroque detail of the Victorian era, and a creative and versatile designer of interior and exterior landscapes, is born and lives in rural central Pennsylvania, running the family funeral home and teaching at the local high school. He never quite fits in. Always sun-tanned and exquisitely dressed (no plaid hunter's shirts or chewing tobacco for him), persnickety and a bit prissy, but at the same time speaking with a back-country twang, Bruce seems uncannily out of place in Beech Creek.And he's a closeted gay man, who has occasional affairs on the side and otherwise sublimates his repressed sexuality by obsessively restoring the Victorian-era house in which Alison grew up. The tension of his closeted life makes him aloof, prone to violent temper tantrums, controlling, and sometimes cruel to both wife and children.Alison's Bechdel's memoir of him, and the way in which her own identity both became the inverse of his and yet in many respects parallels his, is a sophisticated narrative that underscores just how complex personal identity is. Alison is who she is, just as her father was who he was, because of the convergence of Beech Creek, sexuality, alienation, fun, repression, the need to be creative, the yearning for affection, the factuality of history and the re-creation of memory. There's no formulaic happy ending here, no artificial structuring to make more sense of the relationship between herself and her father than there really was. Instead, what the reader is offered is a profound, sensitive, bittersweet effort to explore memory in search of identity--an effort which throughout is punctuated by Bechdel's references to both Proust and James Joyce--and an appreciation for the ironies of fate which make us who we become.Other reviewers have mentioned that they read the memoir at one setting. I found it so intense that I could only take it in small portions, and even then I sometimes felt overwhelmed. For in sharing her own identity-forming memories with us, she invites us to plumb more deeply into our own. And both exercises, although potentially liberating, can also be harrowing.

A friend read this recently and I thought I'd give it a try. I enjoyed it quite a lot, from the many literary snippets, many of which I did not know, to the very real descriptions of a difficult family life. Even though this is a graphic novel, I had no illusions that this was a children's book, unlike many of the reviewers here who give this book one star. C'mon, folks. Really? As to the person who was offended that this was on Duke's reading list, another "c'mon", y'all. Duke is a big kids university. Not a playschool. I am a Duke grad myself, and was always encouraged to think for myself. So sad that parents these days expect a university to mold their 'child' like they would. Why let them get an education at all, then? Sheesh.

This is a graphic novel. I am not habituated to the format, and in a few I have read in the past have had difficulty balancing my attention between the words and pictures. Here, that was not the case. Bechdel balances serious and often detached out-of-panel sentences with engaging drawings and dialogue. The panels contribute a different element, not always illustrating what is written above or below them, creating a dynamic dual-tone. As I, with my limited exposure, understand, it is unusual to write deep reflective analysis to tell the story around the panels which show the story.The novel is a testament to her father, and she leaves no part of him, or her own emotions about each part of their relationship, unexplored. She presents him in his entirety: the good, the bad, the disturbing, the endearing. Through reading it I could feel her love of him, and because of this sympathy I found myself not wanting to remember his baser acts. One scene expresses her frustration at the dishonest portrayal of people at funerals, where people feel that only good can be spoken about the person. She would rather have a brutally honest representation to show all her father’s flaws and all the love he received anyway. This is what this book is.The characters are all very real. I was able to get a full idea of the father, and all the secondary characters acted believably. Of course, it is an autobiography. More than that, all of them are portrayed through compelling details, and every scene shown feels significant. The story is not told chronologically, rather it jumps between scenes relevant to each chapter’s theme. This allows every idea to be explored entirely when it is first introduced, rather than hoping it will stay in the mind of the reader until it is addressed again. Together, they paint a rich, full picture. As the story nears its end, many moments resurface, each for a single panel, drawing everything together. This pattern builds to a climax until the final scene, which is one continuous and simple moment. I had been expecting some grand finale, and the solitary scene was not quite enough. I did not feel the significance the author was trying to attribute to it. This stood out more because I had not felt that the rest of the book fell short, and the ending must, by placement, be particularly meaningful.The balance of text and image, good and bad, was masterfully executed. My only complaint is that the ending panels did not live up to the resonance of the rest of the book. I rate this book 8/10.