Zeitgeists
Super Castle Fun Park
by Daniel Zomparelli
Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 2026
$24.95 / 978183405026
Reviewed by Logan Macnair
*
Whether using the literal definition to refer to some pale apparition visiting from the afterlife, or as a more metaphorical way of depicting the lingering consequences of our choices and experiences from the past, the word ‘ghost’ can take on several different meanings.
In the context of Super Castle Fun Park, debut novelist Daniel Zomparelli offers readers a world where ghosts (be them literal or metaphorical) are omnipresent features in the lives of the novel’s ensemble cast.
That said, this is not a ‘ghost story’ in the traditional sense of evoking paranormal fear or dread (as most of the ghosts here would be placed closer to Casper than to Poltergeist on the good-evil ghost continuum), but rather a story of alienation and the need for genuine human connection in the digital age.
Told via the intersecting stories of several characters, Super Castle Fun Park offers perspectives on themes such as grief, personal growth, sexuality, and connection in ways that range from sardonic and humorous to more emotionally resonant, often shifting between the two in quick succession.
Foremost of the novel’s ensemble is Dario, a thirty-something who has temporarily relocated himself to the hotel of the titular amusement park—this being both the cheapest and nearest hotel to the hospital where his aunt (and closest immediate family member) is currently fighting a losing battle against a degenerative illness. Whether by those who know him or by complete strangers, Dario is constantly described by the people around him as quiet, sad, and cynical. “You have real Charlie Brown vibes to you,” he is told at one point.
Based on Dario’s actions and inner thoughts (barring one late exception, he is the only character whose chapters are told from a first-person perspective), Zomparelli’s protagonist is not doing much to beat these allegations. We meet him at a transient stage in his life. His brother and mother having both previously passed away, and largely estranged from his father, his closest family connection is to an aunt who is herself days away from transitioning to hospice care. He is flighty and seems largely unsure of his current romantic relationship. He is very possibly an alcoholic, and he spends most of his days moping around the amusement park, gaining a reputation among the staff as “that sad, lonely guy.”
What does provide Dario with brief moments of joy, or at the very least, a temporary escape from his real-world problems, is (what is stylized as) THE GAME. An online, team-based game that Dario—as with every other main character—plays on his phone, almost addictively, during any moment of idle time. In THE GAME, Dario is part of a larger team of regular players who organize and coordinate their in-game activities, while also bonding and forming a sort of technologically mediated approximation of a friendship with each other.
Throughout the novel, several chapters focus on the lives of the other players on Dario’s team. This includes his current boyfriend, Jeremy, a slightly neurotic and socially anxious man who just happens to see dead versions of himself in nearly every room he enters. In fact, there are several characters who have the ability to literally see and communicate with the dead. In the world of the novel this is not seen as particularly extraordinary; rather, it seems to be something that is relatively commonplace and normalized. Referred to as ‘the fog’ or ‘the storm’ (which some characters take medications or engage in therapy to manage), the ability to see and communicate with the ghosts and shadows of the dead appears to be an accepted part of the book’s human condition.
Speaking of the modern era, nearly every member of Dario’s virtual team (and certainly every character that has chapters devoted to them) can be accurately described as experiencing some form of social alienation or disconnection. Facing relationship anxiety, extramarital affairs, drug/alcohol abuse, abusive, dead, or absentee parents and family members, or a general sense of social malaise, every character must reconcile with ghosts in ways that are not always clear or obvious. Small wonder that so many of them find comfort in THE GAME, where at least there are definitive rules, parameters, structure, and a sense of linear progression that are not always found in the mess and chaos of the ‘real’ world.
And while alienation is certainly a fundamental theme here, the novel is interspersed with many small moments of genuine human connection. Dario comes across many people—amusement park staff, strangers at bars, or the server at the local Hooters—who show and offer him unconditional kindness, concern, and sympathy; and perhaps it is through these moments of micro-connection that the essential goodness, or least the empathetic capacity, of humans is revealed. Perhaps Zomparelli is suggesting that the ability to express and be receptive to these genuine human moments may act as a way of dispelling or otherwise insulating us from the gathering black clouds, from ‘the fog’ of the contemporary world.
The theme of human connection is readily seen when the complex web of interactions between the dozen or so major and minor characters is mapped out. Characters are introduced or alluded to, oftentimes without much context, only to have their relationships with other characters be revealed much later. There’s a sort of ‘degrees of separation’ arithmetic going in which Zomparelii (Jump Scare) links virtually every character in the novel to each other by the end—even the ones who seemingly have little to do at all with the central plot. It gives the sense that, whether the links are virtual or otherwise, the possibility for anyone to be connected to anyone else is very real, and that all of us occupy a node in a larger social network, even if it is ultimately up to us to acknowledge.
Almost too well hidden are some of these clues and connections. I’m reminded of one moment, fairly early on in the story, when Dario and Matthew (the amusement park’s husky security guard with whom Dario pursues a dalliance) are discussing past sexual encounters and another character is briefly alluded to, not even by name, planting the seeds for a payoff that comes over a hundred pages later, and only if you’ve been paying attention to minor details. This is not to suggest that readers need to keep notes of every single interaction in the web of characters to gain full enjoyment, but there is much here to reward the keen and attentive.
Also worth mentioning are the many short ‘chorus’ chapters that are interspersed between the main chapters. In them, it is the dead who occupy the role of the traditional Greek chorus, collectively commenting on the plot, but also revealing the subtext and inner thoughts of the characters—particularly the baser ones—as if speaking as a unified Id. There is a sort of omnipresent surveillance at play here, a suggestion that all human interactions, from the beautiful to the ribald to the mundane to the messy, are nothing more than staged entertainment for the collective audience of the afterlife. Perhaps this is Zomparelli’s metaphor for the digital panopticism of the modern age where so much of our lives are played out for and witnessed by the virtual masses.
Then again, maybe it’s just a simple reminder that while the ghosts of our pasts will always be with us in some way, it is the people around us—the ones that we can touch and smell and taste—that ought to be given more of our emotional attention and appreciation.
*
Logan Macnair is a novelist and college instructor based in Burnaby. His academic research is primarily focused on the online narrative, recruitment, and propaganda campaigns of various political extremist movements. His second novel Troll (Now Or Never Publishing, 2023) is a fictionalized account based on his many years of studying such groups. [Editor’s note: Jessica Poon reviewed Logan’s Troll in BRC. Logan has reviewed Edward Cepka, Ann Rosenberg, Matthieu Caron, Taryn Hubbard, Tamas Dobozy, Andrew Battershill, Kate Black, Kawika Guillermo, and James Hoggan with Grania Litwin for BCR.]
*
The British Columbia Review
Interim Editors: Trevor Marc Hughes (nonfiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie
Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.
“Only connect.” – E.M. Forster