Probably Wells’ third most well-known novel, after War of the Worlds and The Time Machine, The Invisible Man is famous more for its protagonist that its story – the bandage-clad figure of Griffin, complete with trench coat, hat and sunglasses, has stuck far better in the public consciousness (perhaps thanks largely to film interpretations and works like Alan Moore’s The League of Extraordinary Gentleman) than Wells’ actual story has.

The most likely explanation is that The Invisible Man simply isn’t as good as Wells’ more famous books.  It’s a work of two halves, and the first isn’t particularly great.  It follows the arrival of a mysterious stranger in the small English village of Iping, the reaction of growing suspicion towards him, and finally his unveiling as – you guessed it – an invisible man.  Wells writes best in first person rather than the rambling reportage style employed here, and his attempts at comedy, mainly involving silly provincial accents, falls badly flat to a modern ear.  In fact, to a non-British reader, remarks like “You got a rum un up home!” will probably be plain incomprehensible.  Finally, the attempt to build up suspense towards a revelation given away in the title doesn’t stand much chance of being successful. 

But things do improve – slowly at first, with a fun and bizarre sequence of the invisible man running amok, but then the action moves away from Iping and its tedious inhabitants entirely and – without giving too much away – we get to hear an explanation of Griffin’s plight from the man himself.  There follows an excellent few chapters, which form a sort of novella in themselves.  Griffin is a brilliant character, mainly because he’s such an irredeemable bastard, a vindictive narcissist who has little time for the rest of humanity even before he separates himself from them forever via his scientific tomfoolery.  Wells comes into his own here, brilliantly letting Griffin damn himself through his own words but also keeping him just sympathetic enough for his plight to stay interesting.  It turns out that being invisible isn’t half as much fun as it sounds, but the whys and wherefores of that revelation are superbly revealed, and Griffin’s condition achieves a degree of tragedy even though it’s entirely deserved. 

Part of the appeal is Wells is that he’s of his time, a fact that film adaptations like Spielberg’s take on War of the Worlds invariably seem to miss.  But at his best, he also managed to see beyond and through his own culture, which arguably is why we’re still reading his scientific romances today.  On this level, The Invisible Man holds up badly, feeling very much tied to its era, particularly with its often painful portraits of rustic middle-Englanders.  On the other hand, and less obviously, there’s a real darkness and cynicism to Wells’ work which has lost none of its impact.  If he isn’t at his peak here, it’s still well worth skimming through the slow beginning and the dated comedy for the much better second act, and the first-hand story of one of science-fiction’s more brilliantly warped protagonists.