THEATRE OF FISH by John Gimlette

Reviewed by Ari Glogower

Newfoundland, again? Haven’t we heard enough about that God-forsaken rock? Hold that yawn because this isn’t your mother’s book about Newfoundland. John Gimlette’s new travelogue forgoes the pat National Geographic formulations of a rugged people wresting survival from a harsh landscape. Perhaps most startling, it’s not really about fish at all.

Gimlette’s Newfoundland is a stage, a backdrop for successive waves of humanity living out their comedies and tragedies amidst the rock and cod. His Newfoundlanders exude histrionics at every turn. On the boisterous streets of St. John’s, where “drama .. tumbled out of people” taxi drivers soliloquize and bank tellers spin tales of giant dogs and mountainous snowdrifts. In the remote northern outports a fallen opera star once applauded on Europe’s greatest stages makes her way along the harbor. Dressed to the nines in pearls and silk she rides into town on a sledge pulled by her only remaining fan, a pet goat.

But don’t expect a simple smattering of anecdotes. Gimlette folds his own encounters into a comprehensive account of the island’s geography and history. Traveling around the island’s perimeter – on this seaward province there’s nothing inland … nothing – and dutifully slogging up the Labrador Coast, Gimlette makes all the stops. Biting off a great deal and chewing it well, he weaves together a tale spanning centuries, from the earliest premodern settlers through every major European squabble since. Alongside the lesser known locals, a surprising cast of all stars make cameos on The Rock, most better known for their roles in more temperate zones. Amelia Earhart stops to refuel and Brigitte Bardot arrives in defense of baby seals. Lord Baltimore cuts his losses and heads south. On the eve of war, Churchill and FDR arrange a clandestine meeting in a foggy cove.

Not exactly a history lesson, Gimlette’s irreverent tone never slips into lecture mode. If he mentions George IV or Edward VII, it’s only to recount their escapades among the Newfoundland girlfolk. Likewise, few of his other historical figures emerge without charges of foolishness, delusions or depravity. Gimlette’s disrespect is double edged, and the author unabashedly recounts his own blunders sliding and sloshing across the island, dragging his heavy sack of self doubts and a preternatural fear of moose.

Theatre of Fish is a feast of piquancy and pathos. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and turn pages faster than you can fillet a codfish. You might just end up an expert on the island’s political history, geographic formations and cultural heritage. But don’t worry, you won’t even notice.