Dancing in the Dark is a mediocre book by a talented writer. It fails, ultimately, as a novel and as fictionalized biography, but it still manages to demonstrate some of Caryl Phillips's skill.

Dancing in the Dark is the story of Bert Williams, one of vaudeville's most successful performers. Along with his partner, George Walker, Bert Williams led a musical company that toured the United States and Britain at the turn of the last century. Williams himself was a respected singer, clown and . . . well, "coon." He was the first black comedian to put on blackface and assume the persona of the ignorant negro, a stereotype that was a deep part of the white American imagination.

There is real potential in this material. The early days of vaudeville are, in themselves, fascinating. Though novels rarely do the theatre justice, the lives of vaudevillians usually make for vivid reading. (W. C. Field's memoirs come to mind). And then, of course, the life and work of black vaudevillians is so seldom examined that one looks forward to almost anything about them.

Phillips is a fine dramatic writer. His radio plays are subtle and surprising and he successfully adapted V. S. Naipaul's The Mystic Masseur for the big screen. But here he shows little feel for theatrical lives, and little enthusiasm for vaudeville. Dancing in the Dark is undramatic in another way as well. The novel broken into a prologue, three "acts" and an epilogue, but there is little build-up of tension from section to section, and there's not much of an overarching narrative. Time passes, the characters grow older and then die.

In fact, characterization is one of the weakest aspects of the novel. Phillips's Williams is monochromatic, morose and inward from the beginning of the novel until the end. The novel's epigram is a quote from Williams: "Nobody in America knows my real name and, if I can prevent it, nobody ever will." And he is depicted as a man who has difficulty communicating much of anything.

Phillips's Bert Williams spends a good deal of his time in a bar called Metheney's, drinking and brooding. What does he brood about? Little in particular, but much in general: his act, his relationship to his partner, his feelings, such as they are, for the woman he has married, and his feelings for his father. What he might have been like on stage, his great talent as a performer, Phillips is unable to vividly communicate. He mentions that Williams is admired by his contemporaries, but gives us very little to go on.

The other characters suffer a similar tarnishing. George Walker is depicted as a man who wishes to elevate the race with his art, who wants to do more than play to the white audiences' prejudices. But his political thoughts (or such thoughts as Phillips gives him) are not sophisticated, striking or subtle, and his politics are overshadowed by his lust for women.

The women change more and in more interesting ways, but they're not given as much time and attention as the men. Williams's wife, Lottie, is a frustrated housewife who settles (or seems to settle) into the role of surrogate mother and friend of her man. She misses the sexual life she gives up in marrying Williams, a man who is not interested in sex, but she learns to bear her want.

George Walker's wife, Aida Overton Walker, was a strong woman, an influential choreographer, and she took her husband's place on stage when he was too ill to go on. But here she is cast in the role of tolerant wife, a woman who understands and forgives her husband's tomcatting. Her talents are alluded to but, again, not convincingly conveyed.

George Walker, though he routinely betrays his wife, though he has a wild and public affair with a redheaded white woman, is the one who is politically conscious, who wants to do something for his race.

The saddest thing about all this is, at the heart of this novel is a fascinating conundrum: What happens when one's talent is anti-social. To whom does the artist have responsibility? Part of Williams's art consists of making fun of black people, of abetting his (mostly) white audiences' bigotry.

The implicit question behind Dancing in the Dark is: At what cost does Bert Williams' success come? All very good, but in order for this to be fairly answered, the beauty of Williams's art, the liberation it offers, has to be conveyed. And to my mind, Phillips just isn't up to it. He is too obviously on the side of the artist's social responsibility.

Despite all that, Dancing in the Dark makes it clear Phillips is a talented writer. One could criticize his occasional use of cliché (lips "taste sweet as cherries" and skin is "jet black") and the odd awkwardness of diction (his American idiom -- he was born and raised in Britain though he is now a U.S. resident -- is not consistent or always credible). But throughout the novel, Phillips is a decent director. He moves from one perspective to another, from the past to the present, from sketches and routines to songs. He switches voices quickly and, for most of the novel, expertly, so that one rarely feels lost or bewildered. It's very like a vaudeville show and it's impressive.

Toward the end of the novel, he commits the sin of having one character (Aida Overton Walker) explain a scene that we've just read. That's awkward and unfortunate, but until then his skill in arranging the rhythm and pace of the narrative is admirable.

Dancing in the Dark has a great premise, an interesting cast of characters and, at its core, a fascinating dilemma. I wish Caryl Phillips had been up to them.

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