Valerio Massimo Manfredi
The Son of the Dream (Il figlio del sogno)
    Pocketbooks, c1998, ISBN 0743434366 (paperback)
The Sands of Ammon (Le sabbie di amon)
    Pocketbooks, c1998, ISBN 0743434374 (paperback)
The Edge of the Word (Il confine del mondo)
    Pocketbooks, c1998, ISBN 0743434382 (paperback)

Review of The Aléxandros Trilogy by Ariela Rizzi

Valerio Massimo Manfredi is undoubtedly a capable historian of the ancient world: he has been teaching in several Italian and foreign universities, he led scientific expeditions, excavations and explorations in Italy as well as overseas, and he has been writing articles and essays for some of the most important Italian Magazines, such as Panorama and Il Messaggero.

Nevertheless, he's mostly known to a wider audience for his activity as a writer -- having published several historical novels, mainly set in the Greek-Roman antiquity, and the classical world.

Yet it is with the "Alèxandros" trilogy that he gained fame as a novelist; the three books of his saga about Alexander the Great: The Son of the Dream, The Sands of Ammon, and The Edge of the World shortly became world-wide bestsellers.

To express an opinion on this opera is not a simple task; it is too easy to be carried away by the wave of enthusiasm that followed the publication of these books, and even easier to dismiss them as cheap literature -- pulp fiction. The Manfredi's books -- which can be considered as a whole, since the same qualities and flaws apply to all -- are probably an hybrid union of both these factors.

It may be legitimate to think that Manfredi's work became bestsellers mainly because it meets the tastes of an audience who wants a nice story, fast-paced and easy to read -- but not much more than this.

The style flows -- but it flows far too much. This is maybe the main problem with these books: the search for an easy accessibility, which tends to flatten complex events, characters and -- even worse -- the whole narration. Every now and then one gets the impression that it is merely a summary of Alexander's comparative history, almost a compendium for the use and abuse of novice high school students. It seems to read as a sequence of anecdotes more or less linked together, but without a proper and well-built thematic background to justify them. Events keep following on one another, like an endless cinematographic sequence. (And is it a coincidence the books' rights have been optioned by Hollywood for a likely to come movie?) There is a general lack of that depth and historical-psychological introspection that can give a sense of what lies behind the apparent: the characters' reasons, the political situation of the time, the religious belief, the moral values of a time separated from us by centuries, and which cannot be understood except by deep historical and cultural excavation. In brief, the novels lack everything that "makes" history -- and makes it comprehensible beyond a mere sequence of events -- even if it may succeed as 'face-paced.'

The most serious matter with Manfredi's novels is that he doesn't do anything to help his audience understand the characters and their era. His protagonists are men and women of the Twentieth Century, dressed in a chiton and thrown back 2300 years; they think and act as modern people and thus appear drammatically out of context -- even "caricatures" at times.

An Alexander who addresses his father with "Daddy," and a Philip who writes to his son in Illyria: "If you dare to do it again, I'm going to rip your ears out and make you eat them (signed: "daddy") are just a few examples of modern colloquialisms that would better apply to a modern father and son, rather than to the king and prince of Late Classical Macedonia. Many English readers have ascribed this "stylistic poorness" to a bad translation, but the Italian opera has the same problems. It is not a translation problem, but to the stylistic choices of the author. Manfredi himself stated, during a conference, that style should "succumb" to narration, and remain as simple as possible, in order not to interfere and take the attention off the story being told. If Manfredi's aim was to simplify, he did so -- perhaps to a fault.

The matter of style affects the characterization of many of the protagonists too: as the story develops, one can't fail to notice the characters remain barely more than two-dimensional cardboard figures, with no depth of any sort -- impossible to understand them, and even more difficult to grow fond of them. Philipp comes through as a lout, not the refined stratigist and shrewd politician he was in reality. Of course the man had his "wild" side (to use an euphemism), but he was something more than a boor who stank of barbarism.

Worse yet, Olympias has shades of multiple personality disorder: one moment she's a submissive and loving wife, the next she's holding a knife, ready to kill her husband. This could be interesting if Manfredi gave reasons for her sudden switches of mood, but since this is never occurred, Olympias came through as hysterical, and ready for the next asylum at hand.

Alexander's companions are a sort of indistinct primordial chaos where it is impossible to find a single distinct characterization. They have to be taken as a whole - like "knights of the round table" ante litteram -- because individually, Ptolemy, Perdikkas, Craterus and Co. are not able to stand on their own. Of his capable generals, later called The Successors, we find no evidence.

The worst fate is reserved to poor Hephaistion, son of Amyntor. If in Renault's books -- despite the different caliber -- he could already be perceived as a sort of appendix to Alexander, here, he's simply invisible. Hephaistion as a unique individual has no personality, existing only to make Alexander shine. His dialogues with Alexander are of such superficiality it dumbfounds the reader. Perhaps someone should remind Mr. Manfredi that Hephaistion corrisponded with two philosophers, not to mention gaining the higest civil charge of the empire; it is likely he had more interesting subjects to discuss than the ones Manfredi ascribed to him (being women, wine, and other pleasantries of the same sort).

When Hephaistion dies at the end fo book three, one couldn't care less, and Alexander's grief appears, this way, drammatically unjustified. Hephaistion's relationship with the king is "reduced" to a friendship that, as strong as it could be, is still seen through a modern view; during the exile to Illyria there is a vague hint of "something more" that Alexander and Hephaistion "forced" themselves to by reason of necessity -- and which they will regret later (carefully avoiding to remember anything about that). In the end, reading between the lines, according to Manfredi, this is no more than a parethesis opened and closed in a melancholic and too cold night.

And Alexander is not Alexander. Someone could argue that every writer has the right to portray Alexander in the way that he/she wishes, but that is exactly the point: Manfredi's Alexander couldn't be anyone. He is too much a stereotype to be a real person -- the incarnation of the ideal hero, almost naive in his simplicity, a hero who moves at the centre of his sworn circle of knight-friends (who answer his orders with that annoying "Command me, my king!" which smells of the Arthurian cycle or the Musketeers). Is it a coincidence Manfredi wrote a book about Arthur that sounded much the same?

A hero so pompously two-dimensional leaves the reader indifferent, if not vaguely annoyed. Throughout the whole trilogy, one can't help but find amusing the other characters who sing his shameless praises, or the woman who wish nothing else but to fall at his feet (and spread their thighs for him) -- surely the most tombeur des femmes Alexander ever found in popular literature. Of his famous "sexual restraint" nothing is left, and the female characters (Barsine, Roxane) become even more flimsy because they are thrown in mainly to highlight Alexander's viril sex drive. The only exception to this may be Leptine, the girl Alexander saves from the hell of Mount Pangaion, surely one of the best outlined characters of the trilogy -- in her undying and silent loyalty to her king -- even if she too suffers from "I-can't-resist-Alexander-he's-too-handsome-robust-brave-and-male" syndrome.

It can't be denied the books present many nice images, and Manfredi often displays good, even poetical, language when he builds the interactions among the characters. But too often they are developed manneristically, or incompletely, or are forgotten later. For instance, Alexander and Philip's relationship has an edge of almost disarming tenderness, and Olympias' love for her son is tangible. Alexander's reaction to Parmenion's death is moving, and so is the deep bond of passion and loyalty between Barsine and Memnon of Rhodes. The ideas are there -- some very good ideas -- but it all comes through as "told," not shown, resulting in a tangle of threads that is difficult to unravel and follow a clear plot. One gets the impression of a continuous draft waiting to be brought to a conclusion, but which finds itself convinced of its own nimbleness instead.

On the matter of historical accuracy: Manfredi knows his subject, and this is absolutely clear, if not the most remarkable side of the whole trilogy. Many are the references to contemporary literary texts shows that Manfredi has surely read and re-read them during his career as teacher and historian. Likewise, he knows the events and chronology of Alexander' life as well as that of his contemporaries. But even in this, Manfredi doesn't hesitate to "edit" and "twist" history to support his need for over-dramatization, or to justify certain choices or actions by his characters. If this can be a winning card in terms of narrative fluency -- and surely very effective -- it leaves a lot to be desired in the field of historical honesty. Manfredy' story is not Alexander's. Not because he didn't know it well, but from the beginning, it is clear that Manfredi doesn't want to write about Alexander's life, but to create a Life of Alexander of his own. For instance, Barsine -- while still pregnant of Herakles -- is killed in Alexander's tent during the battle of Gaugamela. While this works dramatically, it is completely outside of the historical reality that had Barsine survive Alexander and the eleven-year-old Herakles put forward by Nearcus as a candidate for the Macedonian throne after Alexander's death.

In conclusion, the books of the trilogy could be a pleasant -- very pleasant -- distraction on a beach or under the blankets on a cold winter night; they could also be an introduction to Alexander for junior high or high school students too lazy to face a serious biography. But if one is looking for an historical novel of a certain caliber, better choices exist.

(Note from the webmistress: I don't plan to do a review of the books myself as, first, it seems more fitting for the review to come from someone who can read them in the original language in which they were written.  Second, I tend to agree with what Ariela said and see no need to reinvent the wheel.  Covers at right are for the British, not US, versions.)