There’s nothing I hate more than a book about writers (apart from a book about projectile vomiting), and this book seems to have writers and writing all over the place. Brooke, a publisher in Australia, is reading a new manuscript, telling the story of Eve (who wants her partner Liam to marry her) her sister Sam (a famous writer who loves someone she can’t have) and Anna (who is pretending she’s not pregnant). And it’s not only Brooke who has to read all about them: we have to as well. And you know how I feel about books within a book.
The book is actually mostly about Eve and Sam, with just a chapter about Brooke here and there. Nothing really happens to Brooke except her reading the book, talking about what a great style the writer has, and then giving her opinions of the characters. Not only is this rather boring, it sounds rather as though Melissa Hill is congratulating herself on her own writing skills, and telling us what we have to think of the characters. Hill probably didn’t mean to do this at all though – and in order for her highly original story to work, it would have been difficult to avoid these pitfalls.
But I found the book very annoying. I hardly ever agreed with Brooke about the characters. Maybe most people would agree with her, but I think there are always going to be people with different views of fictional characters, just as there are going to be different views of real people.
I didn’t agree that Anna was cold. I thought she was really lovely. Brooke and the other characters go on about how sweet Eve is, and how giving, and there is some truth in this, although I always found her a bit clingy and disturbing. But Anna is at least as giving as Eve is, and it’s clear to me throughout that, even when she’s making some crazy decisions, she is trying to do the right thing. Not all her actions make sense though. I wasn’t convinced by Anna’s decision to hide the pregnancy from her boyfriend Ronan. There wasn’t really a convincing reason for it – except as a really obvious way of making you start wondering whether the baby was Ronan’s – and once the pregnancy is out in the open, everything is more or less fine. Anna’s stupidity is part of the reason why she is such a likeable character (whatever Brooke says), but Hill really does stretch credibility too far at times.
The most successful character is probably Sam. She’s very kind and supportive, even though she’s not always having a great time herself. Her crush on Anna’s boyfriend Ronan is nearly as adorable as Ronan himself. Eve gets her knickers in a twist, worried that Sam is going to make a move on him, but if she knew her sister half as well as I did, she’d know this would never happen. And there’s nothing wrong with having a crush on someone. I’ve got a crush on all sorts of people, including some married ones, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make a move on any of them. I think Boris Johnson is really sexy, but even if he was single, I know we wouldn’t get on. I hate politics; I’m even less organised than he is, and I think our differing opinions on the proposed Docklands Light Railway extension to Dagenham Dock would get in the way of any romance.
The Last to Know has a lot of twists, and some of them are very clever. But Sam quite often saw them coming. I wouldn’t have minded but it felt as though I’d hardly had the chance to work anything out for myself. It’s no fun knowing what’s going to happen in advance. Not when I’m reading a book for the first time anyway. And there were plenty of stupid twists too. This is a shame, as the idea is very clever. Perhaps if Eve, Sam and Anna had been given a stronger story, and if Brooke had had a story too (and if she’d dropped all the ooh what great writing crap), it might have worked really well.
And a train from Liverpool Lime Street to London Victoria?????? I don’t think so. Oh, it’s possible. The lines are all joined up. You could get the train from Liverpool Lime Street and follow the usual route as far as Willesden Junction, then the tran could take the Kensington Olympia branch and turn off just before Clapham Junction, taking the line to Battersea Park and Victoria. But apart from the fact that trains on that route just don't exist, what’s the point in doing that? What’s wrong with the direct train to Euston?
Monday 29 December 2008
Saturday 27 December 2008
The Stepmother (Carrie Adams)**
So, which is the best Tube line for a marriage proposal? Tessa isn’t thrilled when James proposes on the Northern Line. Her colleague Matt thinks a nice line like the Central or the Piccadilly Line would have been okay, but not a depressing line like the Hammersmith & City. But the Northern Line is, apparently, the worst of all.
The Piccadilly Line is my favourite, but it would be the worst for a marriage proposal. It’s full of disused stations and branches. There’s no way I’d be listening to what anyone was saying to me. The Northern Line would actually be one of the best, as long as we’re on the Charing Cross branch. But ideally, I’d choose the Bakerloo Line. Anywhere between Regent’s Park and Lambeth North, proposals are welcome. If I want to marry you, that is.
The book is about Bea, who’s split up from her husband Jimmy who is now dating Tessa who calls him James. It starts off quite nicely, making you assume Jimmy is still married to Bea, and then it goes downhill from there.
The problem with the book is that it is either too long or too short. Too short because Adams is writing about a group of people with a whole multitude of problems, and she doesn’t really go into any of them very deeply. It’s too long because what is there just isn’t very interesting. The book has alcoholism, death, serious illness, adolescence, panic attacks, abortion, violence and sex (I’d recommend turning a few pages very rapidly when Tessa starts her striptease: you do not want to know). Any those ingredients can make an exciting book, but there are really too many of them for just one.
Fourteen year old Amber (she’s up herself, just like Amber in The Chocolate Run) is the most interesting character, but she seems more like ten than fourteen, which makes it all the more shocking when she starts snogging a seventeen year old called Caspar – although, to be honest, Caspar has a similar mental age to Amber, so in that respect they’re a good match. Jimmy is a bit useless and thick, which can be quite attractive, but not here. He’s quite kind when Bea has a panic attack in a clothes shop (perfectly natural: it’s happened to me, and I’m not even fat) but otherwise he’s a selfish twat. It’s amazing Bea and Tessa both want him. I don’t!
As for Bea and Tessa, Adams’ two first-person narrators… well, I didn’t like either of them really. Part of the problem with Bea is that Jimmy treated her really badly, and she still hasn’t recovered, but she’s just an object of sympathy, not actually a likeable person. You also miss a lot of her story because during the sections from Tessa’s point of view, you only know about what Bea’s up to from second-hand reports that actually end up telling you more about Tessa’s paranoia than they do about Bea.
Tessa is certainly well-meaning, but there’s something very hard about her. She has problems, and they do upset her, but she deals with them in her own way, and she doesn’t seem to need much help or sympathy, although considering I hated her from the start – the book starts from Bea’s point of view, and gives the impression Tessa will be a villain character - I suppose she did grow on me a bit. Tessa also starred in Adams’ novel The Godmother. Maybe if I’d read that first, I might have liked Tessa a bit more, but the book is a complete story, rather than an obvious continuation. That’s one thing in its favour.
There are some nice humorous touches, such as Amber’s ‘romp’ in the bushes, and the moment where Bea and Tessa see one another for the first time, which is shown from both their very different points of view. But mostly it didn’t quite work.
The Piccadilly Line is my favourite, but it would be the worst for a marriage proposal. It’s full of disused stations and branches. There’s no way I’d be listening to what anyone was saying to me. The Northern Line would actually be one of the best, as long as we’re on the Charing Cross branch. But ideally, I’d choose the Bakerloo Line. Anywhere between Regent’s Park and Lambeth North, proposals are welcome. If I want to marry you, that is.
The book is about Bea, who’s split up from her husband Jimmy who is now dating Tessa who calls him James. It starts off quite nicely, making you assume Jimmy is still married to Bea, and then it goes downhill from there.
The problem with the book is that it is either too long or too short. Too short because Adams is writing about a group of people with a whole multitude of problems, and she doesn’t really go into any of them very deeply. It’s too long because what is there just isn’t very interesting. The book has alcoholism, death, serious illness, adolescence, panic attacks, abortion, violence and sex (I’d recommend turning a few pages very rapidly when Tessa starts her striptease: you do not want to know). Any those ingredients can make an exciting book, but there are really too many of them for just one.
Fourteen year old Amber (she’s up herself, just like Amber in The Chocolate Run) is the most interesting character, but she seems more like ten than fourteen, which makes it all the more shocking when she starts snogging a seventeen year old called Caspar – although, to be honest, Caspar has a similar mental age to Amber, so in that respect they’re a good match. Jimmy is a bit useless and thick, which can be quite attractive, but not here. He’s quite kind when Bea has a panic attack in a clothes shop (perfectly natural: it’s happened to me, and I’m not even fat) but otherwise he’s a selfish twat. It’s amazing Bea and Tessa both want him. I don’t!
As for Bea and Tessa, Adams’ two first-person narrators… well, I didn’t like either of them really. Part of the problem with Bea is that Jimmy treated her really badly, and she still hasn’t recovered, but she’s just an object of sympathy, not actually a likeable person. You also miss a lot of her story because during the sections from Tessa’s point of view, you only know about what Bea’s up to from second-hand reports that actually end up telling you more about Tessa’s paranoia than they do about Bea.
Tessa is certainly well-meaning, but there’s something very hard about her. She has problems, and they do upset her, but she deals with them in her own way, and she doesn’t seem to need much help or sympathy, although considering I hated her from the start – the book starts from Bea’s point of view, and gives the impression Tessa will be a villain character - I suppose she did grow on me a bit. Tessa also starred in Adams’ novel The Godmother. Maybe if I’d read that first, I might have liked Tessa a bit more, but the book is a complete story, rather than an obvious continuation. That’s one thing in its favour.
There are some nice humorous touches, such as Amber’s ‘romp’ in the bushes, and the moment where Bea and Tessa see one another for the first time, which is shown from both their very different points of view. But mostly it didn’t quite work.
Thursday 25 December 2008
Thanks for the Memories (Cecelia Ahern)***
Joyce’s father, the wonderfully characterised Henry, is doing a quiz, which asks which opera the famous words “Too many notes, Mozart” were describing. “Emperor Joseph II!” Joyce says instantly, and then wonders how she could possibly have known such a thing. It was indeed Emperor Joseph II who said it, but neither Joyce nor Henry seem to notice that the question actually asking for an opera title. There is some dispute about whether the opera in question was The Abduction from the Seraglio or The Marriage of Figaro - Figaro has more notes, but Seraglio was composed first, so the comment could have been made before Figaro came into existence. I’ll go along with The New Penguin Opera Guide and say it was Seraglio. But the answer is definitely not Emperor Joseph II.
The main part of the book is about the sudden feeling of connection between Joyce, who has suffered a miscarriage, and university lecturer Justin. Justin gives blood that is received by Joyce in hospital – and somehow she has accessed his knowledge and memories, and has become an expert on opera, art and languages, among other things. After you get over the sheer unreality of it, it becomes very sweet. There almost-meetings are quite amusing, and there’s a strong feeling that Joyce and Justin would get on well, and be very good for each other.
But they don’t meet, and then it all goes wrong. Suddenly, their interest in each other becomes obsessive and creepy. At this point, the story stops being a sweet romance, and becomes something much more disturbing. Joyce insists she is not stalking Justin, but that’s how it looks. While Justin is more restrained, he certainly breaks the law in his attempts to find Joyce.
I’m sure it’s possible to write a great book about a couple of people who are stalking one another. It’s also possible to write a great book about two people who are magically drawn to one another. The problem is, it’s probably impossible to do both in the same book. From a romance with an element of mystery, magic and, crucially, comedy – common themes in Ahern’s books: see also PS I Love You, A Place Like Here and particularly If You Could See Me Now – it becomes a disturbing psychological drama. I started off wanting Joyce and Justin to meet and get together, but after a while I wanted them to stay well away from each other.
***For a more positive (and brilliantly written) review of this book, visit Amy's blog Fairy Kisses***
Joyce and Justin are good characters in both halves of the book. In the first half, Joyce is lovely and patient and kind. Justin is absolutely adorable: intelligent in a geeky sort of way, but completely hopeless socially. In the second half, they are not unlikeable. There’s no reason why insane people shouldn’t be nice. Actually, some of the nicest people I’ve met have been insane. But you can’t change genre halfway through. Not like this anyway.
The main part of the book is about the sudden feeling of connection between Joyce, who has suffered a miscarriage, and university lecturer Justin. Justin gives blood that is received by Joyce in hospital – and somehow she has accessed his knowledge and memories, and has become an expert on opera, art and languages, among other things. After you get over the sheer unreality of it, it becomes very sweet. There almost-meetings are quite amusing, and there’s a strong feeling that Joyce and Justin would get on well, and be very good for each other.
But they don’t meet, and then it all goes wrong. Suddenly, their interest in each other becomes obsessive and creepy. At this point, the story stops being a sweet romance, and becomes something much more disturbing. Joyce insists she is not stalking Justin, but that’s how it looks. While Justin is more restrained, he certainly breaks the law in his attempts to find Joyce.
I’m sure it’s possible to write a great book about a couple of people who are stalking one another. It’s also possible to write a great book about two people who are magically drawn to one another. The problem is, it’s probably impossible to do both in the same book. From a romance with an element of mystery, magic and, crucially, comedy – common themes in Ahern’s books: see also PS I Love You, A Place Like Here and particularly If You Could See Me Now – it becomes a disturbing psychological drama. I started off wanting Joyce and Justin to meet and get together, but after a while I wanted them to stay well away from each other.
***For a more positive (and brilliantly written) review of this book, visit Amy's blog Fairy Kisses***
Joyce and Justin are good characters in both halves of the book. In the first half, Joyce is lovely and patient and kind. Justin is absolutely adorable: intelligent in a geeky sort of way, but completely hopeless socially. In the second half, they are not unlikeable. There’s no reason why insane people shouldn’t be nice. Actually, some of the nicest people I’ve met have been insane. But you can’t change genre halfway through. Not like this anyway.
Sunday 21 December 2008
An Absolute Scandal (Penny Vincenzi)**
The only scandal is that this book was published in the first place. Oh, there were some bits I loved - Blue Horton is one of the most gorgeous heroes ever – but NO book needs to be this long. It might have worked as a trilogy – it was good enough for Tolkien, after all – but you don’t need this many storylines. I can usually remember who everyone is without referring to a Dramatis Personnae but I practically needed to write notes in order to keep track of who was doing what with whom.
The Blue/Lucinda/Nigel storyline was lovely – no complaints about that one except I wanted Blue for myself. Their story alone would probably have made a novel of reasonable length, and possibly one with five stars instead of two. Lucinda is an adorable, innocent Sloane Ranger who married Nigel because she couldn’t imagine anything could be nicer than marrying someone so kind, gentle, rich and upper class. Then she meets the sexy, working class (but rich) Blue who probably was just after a quick one to start with, but he falls in love with commendable speed and is absolutely lovely apart from being a little bit immature and not very good at controlling his emotions. Just my type.
Married couple Elizabeth and Simon are both very strong and interesting characters. In case you’re wondering, Elizabeth doesn’t have much of a social life - as she realises at the end of the book - but there is something very powerful and commanding about her. You feel that if she wanted a social life, she’d go out and get one right now. Simon has a sex problem. Everyone else goes on about how charming he is and I suppose they’ve got a point, but the thing that really caught my attention about Simon is what a pervert he is. In a likeable sort of way.
Flora Fielding is a matriarchal, magnificently terrifying grandmother, and I did like the way her less than posh daughter-in-law Debbie was allowed to be intelligent – not that she always makes this obvious. Debbie’s heart is in the right place, but she is the sort of person who becomes very irritating after a while, so perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to put her in an 800 page novel. But her husband Richard is such a bossy, toffy prat, I think I’d be a bit whiny as well if I was married to him. (Hang on, I’m a bit whiny already.)
But there must be a good fifteen ‘main’ characters, and I can’t help thinking it would have been a stronger book with a more manageable number of storylines. It's great the way Elizabeth and Simon’s posh daughter Annabel is expelled from school and then decides to be a hairdresser. Brilliant idea. But we didn’t need to hear all about her relationships too. There’s enough going on already, and her boyfriend Jamie is, frankly, boring – although his bonkers snobby mother Frances is so much like someone I know, she ended up being quite funny. Catherine Morgan is clearly a lovely person, and very useful as a plot device, but having her back story as well just made things even more complicated.
Novels with multiple points of view can be fascinating – just some examples from this blog are The Girls, Getting Rid of Matthew, A Hidden Life and The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet. But there are also several unsuccessful examples as well – like Chart Throb, The Nanny and Ten Days in the Hills. On the whole (although certainly not exclusively), the more ‘protagonists’ there are, the less I’ve enjoyed the book. (Yes, I know you can’t really have more than one protagonist, but ‘polyagonist’ sounds silly.) When the characters are quite similar, it’s hard to tell them apart. When they’re very different, it’s difficult not to have favourites, as well as characters you really don’t like – and it’s inevitable this will lead to the frustrations of having too much of those you dislike, and not enough of those you love.
The main plot is based around Lloyd’s of London. Not the bank, apparently: I never did work out quite who they were which apparently means I’m even less intelligent than Lucinda (which is good news in that I might have a chance with Blue). But I think they’re something to do with insurance, and they have ‘syndicates’ of very rich people who receive a share of the money when Lloyd’s is going well, but owe Lloyd’s money when things are going badly. The Names (the members of the syndicate, I think that means) are supposed to be really rich people who can afford to pay several thousand pounds a year if things go badly, but because of some dirty dealing, a lot of the people in the syndicates really can’t afford it – and indeed, even the rich people are struggling, having to sell at least one of their houses, and even being forced to send their children to state school, which is beyond terrible. The Names therefore band together and discuss what they can do about Lloyd’s – apparently, even if they resign from being a Name, they still have to pay the money for the rest of their lives.
It’s all very complicated and rather boring, but the main problem with this idea is that it never seems to be resolved. Most of the ‘polyagonists’ do have their situations resolved in one way or another, and not always in a good way, but it doesn’t solve the problem for everyone. As far as I can see, this means that the efforts to fight Lloyd’s as a group as failed, which is a shame when so much of the plot has been devoted to this. Perhaps this is the realistic ending, and perhaps one of Vincenzi’s points is that there are more important things in life than money, but it is a bit annoying that something so important, at least in the beginning, is never really brought to any sort of conclusion.
Then there’s all the vomiting. Maybe, as an emetophobe, I’m slightly biased against this, but it does seem to happen to almost everyone in the book far more often than is healthy. The morning sickness is, I suppose, acceptable; the stomach bugs are very useful for keeping wives away from their lovers (although I do wish I’d been spared the details), and the drunkenness is certainly amusing to some people, if not me. But the way everyone appears to do it when they get stressed is totally unacceptable. Not only is this extremely uncomfortable reading for emetophobes, it shows a distinct lack of imagination on the part of the author. There are many ways in which people might react to stress, and considering that all Vincenzi’s characters have such different personalities, they should also have different reactions. There was a bit of crying and shaking, which was nice, but a bit more fainting and tantrums and eating chocolate would have made a real difference.
Vincenzi’s lack of imagination also extended to the way the men looked at the women. All the men seemed to be leg men, which really isn’t that realistic. Just because Lucinda and Debbie and Felicity and God knows who else happen to have great legs, it doesn’t mean their legs have to be pretty much their only good feature. There are more leg men in this book than I’ve met in my whole life. I’ve had all kinds of blokey conversations with my guy mates, but I think the closest we’ve got to discussing which girls have the best legs is when we’ve wondered which girls are sufficiently flexible to perform the entire Kama Sutra (apparently, I am).
And then there’s the fact Simon likes ‘popular’ opera. Fair enough, but this seems to include Beethoven and not Mozart. I would expect operas like The Magic Flute, Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro to count as popular. And Beethoven only wrote one opera, Fidelio, which is hardly ‘easy listening’: it’s got a role for a Heldentenor. It’s not all that popular either.
Also I don’t think there is a McDonalds opposite High Street Kensington. The Tube station in question isn’t mentioned by name, but I’m pretty sure this is the only Tube station near Kensington Gardens which is one stop from the Central Line and ‘on the way to’ Piccadilly Circus – apart from Bayswater, but that’s only five minutes up the road from Queensway (which is on the Central Line, so you’d have to be really stupid to go to Bayswater in those circumstances). But perhaps there was a McDonalds opposite High Street Kensington in 1990.
There are definitely parts of An Absolute Scandal where you want to keep on reading because there are loads of interesting things going on, and you do want to know how things work out. But after a while, you stop getting that excited because the book is so anticlimactic. Vincenzi will often open a paragraph by saying something very dramatic, but after she’s told you that, there’s almost not much point in reading the rest of that section because you know what’s going to happen. Another annoying habit of hers is ending a chapter at a crucial point, but then not going back to those characters for days, even weeks later, when the crisis is long over.
But Blue is in it so I’ll forgive Vincenzi almost everything.
The Blue/Lucinda/Nigel storyline was lovely – no complaints about that one except I wanted Blue for myself. Their story alone would probably have made a novel of reasonable length, and possibly one with five stars instead of two. Lucinda is an adorable, innocent Sloane Ranger who married Nigel because she couldn’t imagine anything could be nicer than marrying someone so kind, gentle, rich and upper class. Then she meets the sexy, working class (but rich) Blue who probably was just after a quick one to start with, but he falls in love with commendable speed and is absolutely lovely apart from being a little bit immature and not very good at controlling his emotions. Just my type.
Married couple Elizabeth and Simon are both very strong and interesting characters. In case you’re wondering, Elizabeth doesn’t have much of a social life - as she realises at the end of the book - but there is something very powerful and commanding about her. You feel that if she wanted a social life, she’d go out and get one right now. Simon has a sex problem. Everyone else goes on about how charming he is and I suppose they’ve got a point, but the thing that really caught my attention about Simon is what a pervert he is. In a likeable sort of way.
Flora Fielding is a matriarchal, magnificently terrifying grandmother, and I did like the way her less than posh daughter-in-law Debbie was allowed to be intelligent – not that she always makes this obvious. Debbie’s heart is in the right place, but she is the sort of person who becomes very irritating after a while, so perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to put her in an 800 page novel. But her husband Richard is such a bossy, toffy prat, I think I’d be a bit whiny as well if I was married to him. (Hang on, I’m a bit whiny already.)
But there must be a good fifteen ‘main’ characters, and I can’t help thinking it would have been a stronger book with a more manageable number of storylines. It's great the way Elizabeth and Simon’s posh daughter Annabel is expelled from school and then decides to be a hairdresser. Brilliant idea. But we didn’t need to hear all about her relationships too. There’s enough going on already, and her boyfriend Jamie is, frankly, boring – although his bonkers snobby mother Frances is so much like someone I know, she ended up being quite funny. Catherine Morgan is clearly a lovely person, and very useful as a plot device, but having her back story as well just made things even more complicated.
Novels with multiple points of view can be fascinating – just some examples from this blog are The Girls, Getting Rid of Matthew, A Hidden Life and The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet. But there are also several unsuccessful examples as well – like Chart Throb, The Nanny and Ten Days in the Hills. On the whole (although certainly not exclusively), the more ‘protagonists’ there are, the less I’ve enjoyed the book. (Yes, I know you can’t really have more than one protagonist, but ‘polyagonist’ sounds silly.) When the characters are quite similar, it’s hard to tell them apart. When they’re very different, it’s difficult not to have favourites, as well as characters you really don’t like – and it’s inevitable this will lead to the frustrations of having too much of those you dislike, and not enough of those you love.
The main plot is based around Lloyd’s of London. Not the bank, apparently: I never did work out quite who they were which apparently means I’m even less intelligent than Lucinda (which is good news in that I might have a chance with Blue). But I think they’re something to do with insurance, and they have ‘syndicates’ of very rich people who receive a share of the money when Lloyd’s is going well, but owe Lloyd’s money when things are going badly. The Names (the members of the syndicate, I think that means) are supposed to be really rich people who can afford to pay several thousand pounds a year if things go badly, but because of some dirty dealing, a lot of the people in the syndicates really can’t afford it – and indeed, even the rich people are struggling, having to sell at least one of their houses, and even being forced to send their children to state school, which is beyond terrible. The Names therefore band together and discuss what they can do about Lloyd’s – apparently, even if they resign from being a Name, they still have to pay the money for the rest of their lives.
It’s all very complicated and rather boring, but the main problem with this idea is that it never seems to be resolved. Most of the ‘polyagonists’ do have their situations resolved in one way or another, and not always in a good way, but it doesn’t solve the problem for everyone. As far as I can see, this means that the efforts to fight Lloyd’s as a group as failed, which is a shame when so much of the plot has been devoted to this. Perhaps this is the realistic ending, and perhaps one of Vincenzi’s points is that there are more important things in life than money, but it is a bit annoying that something so important, at least in the beginning, is never really brought to any sort of conclusion.
Then there’s all the vomiting. Maybe, as an emetophobe, I’m slightly biased against this, but it does seem to happen to almost everyone in the book far more often than is healthy. The morning sickness is, I suppose, acceptable; the stomach bugs are very useful for keeping wives away from their lovers (although I do wish I’d been spared the details), and the drunkenness is certainly amusing to some people, if not me. But the way everyone appears to do it when they get stressed is totally unacceptable. Not only is this extremely uncomfortable reading for emetophobes, it shows a distinct lack of imagination on the part of the author. There are many ways in which people might react to stress, and considering that all Vincenzi’s characters have such different personalities, they should also have different reactions. There was a bit of crying and shaking, which was nice, but a bit more fainting and tantrums and eating chocolate would have made a real difference.
Vincenzi’s lack of imagination also extended to the way the men looked at the women. All the men seemed to be leg men, which really isn’t that realistic. Just because Lucinda and Debbie and Felicity and God knows who else happen to have great legs, it doesn’t mean their legs have to be pretty much their only good feature. There are more leg men in this book than I’ve met in my whole life. I’ve had all kinds of blokey conversations with my guy mates, but I think the closest we’ve got to discussing which girls have the best legs is when we’ve wondered which girls are sufficiently flexible to perform the entire Kama Sutra (apparently, I am).
And then there’s the fact Simon likes ‘popular’ opera. Fair enough, but this seems to include Beethoven and not Mozart. I would expect operas like The Magic Flute, Don Giovanni and The Marriage of Figaro to count as popular. And Beethoven only wrote one opera, Fidelio, which is hardly ‘easy listening’: it’s got a role for a Heldentenor. It’s not all that popular either.
Also I don’t think there is a McDonalds opposite High Street Kensington. The Tube station in question isn’t mentioned by name, but I’m pretty sure this is the only Tube station near Kensington Gardens which is one stop from the Central Line and ‘on the way to’ Piccadilly Circus – apart from Bayswater, but that’s only five minutes up the road from Queensway (which is on the Central Line, so you’d have to be really stupid to go to Bayswater in those circumstances). But perhaps there was a McDonalds opposite High Street Kensington in 1990.
There are definitely parts of An Absolute Scandal where you want to keep on reading because there are loads of interesting things going on, and you do want to know how things work out. But after a while, you stop getting that excited because the book is so anticlimactic. Vincenzi will often open a paragraph by saying something very dramatic, but after she’s told you that, there’s almost not much point in reading the rest of that section because you know what’s going to happen. Another annoying habit of hers is ending a chapter at a crucial point, but then not going back to those characters for days, even weeks later, when the crisis is long over.
But Blue is in it so I’ll forgive Vincenzi almost everything.
Thursday 18 December 2008
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)***
I love Sophie Kinsella and I love Becky Bloomwood. I love Luke Brandon too, and I want to take him home with me. Anyone who’s read my blog will know how much I love Kinsella and her characters, and anyone who hasn’t read it knows it now.
But, if I’d read the first book in the series first, I don’t know if I would have read the others.
In some ways, it’s exactly the same as the last Shopaholic book I’ve read, Shopaholic Abroad, which I think is the second in the series. Becky (or Rebecca as she’s mostly called in this book: I love the name Rebecca, but it doesn’t suit her) spends loads of money on clothes; gets into serious financial trouble; gets into huge arguments with Luke, then somehow manages to solve her own and Luke’s problems in the most dramatic possible way. Actually, apart from the ‘serious financial trouble’ part, it’s very similar to the other Shopaholic book I’ve read as well: Shopaholic & Baby.
I will read the other ones because I loved the first two I read. And I’m sure it won’t actually matter if all the other stories are very similar. Even now, I want to read more about Becky, and especially more about Luke, and I would actually be disappointed if Kinsella’s next book was called ‘Shopaholic Gets Divorced’ (which would be all about how Luke leaves Becky for a blogging bookaholic called Sophie… me-Sophie not Kinsella) because I really like the relationship between Becky and Luke. ‘Shopaholic Gets Divorced’ would probably end up a bit like Me and Mr Darcy so it’s really best if it stays in my head.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic was disappointing not because it was the same as all the others. It was disappointing because I was expecting a comedy and got a horror story. There are some amusing moments, but they're not nearly as funny as some of the scenes in Kinsella’s later books, and I never really felt that I was happy for Becky to get away completely with all her lies and financial problems. Also, disappointingly, Kinsella leaves out some of the scenes I was looking forward to reading. Like Becky’s first meeting with Luke. Kinsella shows little of the great rapport between the two characters in this book, usually so brilliantly written (but perhaps yet to be developed). They barely even seemed to like each other. So the ending didn’t seem right at all.
Luke is sweet and lovely, though, and even a little bit useless on at least one occasion. Becky’s friend Suze is great as well – it’s interesting to see how her story starts. In some ways, Suze is the most interesting character in Kinsella’s books because she has a story that develops a little bit more in each book, whereas Becky, in many ways, is always the same person with the same problems.
Some of the lies Becky tells are absolutely dreadful. She could have got Derek Smeath, her poor bank manager, into serious trouble. Either she’s a horrible person or she’s got a really serious psychological condition that needs treatment. The other books were comedy, but this one was actually unsettling to read at times.
But, if I’d read the first book in the series first, I don’t know if I would have read the others.
In some ways, it’s exactly the same as the last Shopaholic book I’ve read, Shopaholic Abroad, which I think is the second in the series. Becky (or Rebecca as she’s mostly called in this book: I love the name Rebecca, but it doesn’t suit her) spends loads of money on clothes; gets into serious financial trouble; gets into huge arguments with Luke, then somehow manages to solve her own and Luke’s problems in the most dramatic possible way. Actually, apart from the ‘serious financial trouble’ part, it’s very similar to the other Shopaholic book I’ve read as well: Shopaholic & Baby.
I will read the other ones because I loved the first two I read. And I’m sure it won’t actually matter if all the other stories are very similar. Even now, I want to read more about Becky, and especially more about Luke, and I would actually be disappointed if Kinsella’s next book was called ‘Shopaholic Gets Divorced’ (which would be all about how Luke leaves Becky for a blogging bookaholic called Sophie… me-Sophie not Kinsella) because I really like the relationship between Becky and Luke. ‘Shopaholic Gets Divorced’ would probably end up a bit like Me and Mr Darcy so it’s really best if it stays in my head.
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic was disappointing not because it was the same as all the others. It was disappointing because I was expecting a comedy and got a horror story. There are some amusing moments, but they're not nearly as funny as some of the scenes in Kinsella’s later books, and I never really felt that I was happy for Becky to get away completely with all her lies and financial problems. Also, disappointingly, Kinsella leaves out some of the scenes I was looking forward to reading. Like Becky’s first meeting with Luke. Kinsella shows little of the great rapport between the two characters in this book, usually so brilliantly written (but perhaps yet to be developed). They barely even seemed to like each other. So the ending didn’t seem right at all.
Luke is sweet and lovely, though, and even a little bit useless on at least one occasion. Becky’s friend Suze is great as well – it’s interesting to see how her story starts. In some ways, Suze is the most interesting character in Kinsella’s books because she has a story that develops a little bit more in each book, whereas Becky, in many ways, is always the same person with the same problems.
Some of the lies Becky tells are absolutely dreadful. She could have got Derek Smeath, her poor bank manager, into serious trouble. Either she’s a horrible person or she’s got a really serious psychological condition that needs treatment. The other books were comedy, but this one was actually unsettling to read at times.
Tuesday 16 December 2008
A Friend Like Henry (Nuala Gardner)****
Stories about autism can be really annoying. Not so much that people get it wrong – and Nuala Gardner doesn’t – but it’s just that books like these are often a neuro-typical (i.e. non-autistic person)’s only source of knowledge about autism. It really annoys me when people make assumptions about me based on a book about someone else. How would you feel if someone did it to you? This book may be helpful and inspiring; it’s undeniably informative; it probably will help a parent with an autistic child to know they’re not alone – and it’s a great read. But it only tells you about Nuala Gardner’s children, Dale and Amy. It doesn’t tell you anything about me, and not a great deal about autistics in general. This isn’t a criticism – I’m just saying no-one should read this book and expect to have the same experiences with any autistics they might meet. (I’ve met soooo many people who expect me to be a carbon copy of the boy in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.)
Gardner isn’t really setting out to educate us about the complete autistic spectrum. She acknowledges the spectrum, but she’s writing about her children. So she quite rightly tells us about their autism and how she experienced it. I think it’s important to realise that not every autistic person will achieve what Dale does, and also that not every parent will be as successful as Nuala. Everyone is different: autistic or not. Everyone’s lives are different. Nuala helped her children successfully partly because she’s a lovely, warm, and amazing person, but also because she happened to be the right person to help Dale and Amy, and because she happened to be in a position where she was able to give that help. Some parents might not be able to achieve what Nuala has, but it mostly won’t be because they’re bad people. It’s possible that some parents might unknowingly treat their children in a way that affects them negatively – but that’s not really treating them badly. Like Nuala and like all other parents, all they can do is their best according to their own knowledge about the world - as autistic people do every day.
This book does seem to support the view that being autistic is like living in a glass box and being unable to get out. As an autistic person myself, I can say it is not like that for me. I spend most of my life partly or fully in Sophieworld because I love it there, and if you’ve got yourself an imaginary friend or two, you’ll never be alone, and you’ll rarely be bored. I don’t think I really live in my Sophiebox. It’s more like I’ve got a little box full of imaginary friends and I can get them out and play with them anytime I want to. If someone upsets me, these friends can give me a hug straight away. They know what’s wrong because they were there the whole time. And they’re much easier to be around than most real people.
Autistics don’t have an imagination? Well, I’ve got one. (My psychology teacher said I don’t really have an imagination, I only think I do. But she also said my exam started at 2.30, and she was wrong about that. It was at 2.) Just because an autistic person doesn’t appear to be playing imaginatively, it doesn’t mean there isn’t a whole world in their head.
A Friend Like Henry might have annoyed me if it had been badly written – a lot of people are commissioned to write about their experiences simply because a publisher’s heard of them from somewhere, like maybe they’re famous for something else; maybe they’ve appeared on TV or been featured in a magazine or newspaper. When this happens, writing ability doesn’t seem to be much of a concern. But Gardner is a fantastic writer. I don’t know if she realised it at the time, but she wasn’t only letting people into Dale’s world. She was also, to some extent, letting me into the world of being a neuro-typical person. Gardner always makes her points clearly and well – which must be a huge help for Dale and Amy. Everything is described so vividly; so lovingly. Even though a lot of the things she said were negative, I could tell she loves her children.
The people she writes about are really well-described. The horrible people in the health department are probably not people I’ve met, as the book is set in Scotland, but I’ve met people like them. Dale and Amy seem like a really lovely children. I always love finding characters I identify with, and they were people I identified with strongly. He loves trains! She loves horses! It was fun reading the book and finding all these things I do or used to do, although Dale, Amy and I are very different in most respects.
The ‘Henry’ in the title is a dog, named after Dale’s favourite train from Thomas the Tank Engine. He certainly is a wonderful dog, who has helped Dale and his whole family a great deal. Henry is great with autistic people, and also great with people who are generally scared of dogs. But a lot of the credit for Dale and Amy’s positive experiences should go to Nuala and her husband Jamie.
It did upset me when Nuala said ‘what did I do to deserve an autistic child’. It made me feel very guilty and a bit suicidal. But I’d like to look at it another way. Yes, autistic people are an awful lot of trouble (I can be a proper nightmare) but if autistic children have to be born into the world, is it better for them to go to someone as lovely and kind and sweet as Nuala (and my parents aren’t all that bad either) - or to someone who doesn’t understand at all?
This is a great book which I enjoyed very much, and it’s really good that people like Gardner are able to share their experiences, and provide help and encouragement to others.
Gardner isn’t really setting out to educate us about the complete autistic spectrum. She acknowledges the spectrum, but she’s writing about her children. So she quite rightly tells us about their autism and how she experienced it. I think it’s important to realise that not every autistic person will achieve what Dale does, and also that not every parent will be as successful as Nuala. Everyone is different: autistic or not. Everyone’s lives are different. Nuala helped her children successfully partly because she’s a lovely, warm, and amazing person, but also because she happened to be the right person to help Dale and Amy, and because she happened to be in a position where she was able to give that help. Some parents might not be able to achieve what Nuala has, but it mostly won’t be because they’re bad people. It’s possible that some parents might unknowingly treat their children in a way that affects them negatively – but that’s not really treating them badly. Like Nuala and like all other parents, all they can do is their best according to their own knowledge about the world - as autistic people do every day.
This book does seem to support the view that being autistic is like living in a glass box and being unable to get out. As an autistic person myself, I can say it is not like that for me. I spend most of my life partly or fully in Sophieworld because I love it there, and if you’ve got yourself an imaginary friend or two, you’ll never be alone, and you’ll rarely be bored. I don’t think I really live in my Sophiebox. It’s more like I’ve got a little box full of imaginary friends and I can get them out and play with them anytime I want to. If someone upsets me, these friends can give me a hug straight away. They know what’s wrong because they were there the whole time. And they’re much easier to be around than most real people.
Autistics don’t have an imagination? Well, I’ve got one. (My psychology teacher said I don’t really have an imagination, I only think I do. But she also said my exam started at 2.30, and she was wrong about that. It was at 2.) Just because an autistic person doesn’t appear to be playing imaginatively, it doesn’t mean there isn’t a whole world in their head.
A Friend Like Henry might have annoyed me if it had been badly written – a lot of people are commissioned to write about their experiences simply because a publisher’s heard of them from somewhere, like maybe they’re famous for something else; maybe they’ve appeared on TV or been featured in a magazine or newspaper. When this happens, writing ability doesn’t seem to be much of a concern. But Gardner is a fantastic writer. I don’t know if she realised it at the time, but she wasn’t only letting people into Dale’s world. She was also, to some extent, letting me into the world of being a neuro-typical person. Gardner always makes her points clearly and well – which must be a huge help for Dale and Amy. Everything is described so vividly; so lovingly. Even though a lot of the things she said were negative, I could tell she loves her children.
The people she writes about are really well-described. The horrible people in the health department are probably not people I’ve met, as the book is set in Scotland, but I’ve met people like them. Dale and Amy seem like a really lovely children. I always love finding characters I identify with, and they were people I identified with strongly. He loves trains! She loves horses! It was fun reading the book and finding all these things I do or used to do, although Dale, Amy and I are very different in most respects.
The ‘Henry’ in the title is a dog, named after Dale’s favourite train from Thomas the Tank Engine. He certainly is a wonderful dog, who has helped Dale and his whole family a great deal. Henry is great with autistic people, and also great with people who are generally scared of dogs. But a lot of the credit for Dale and Amy’s positive experiences should go to Nuala and her husband Jamie.
It did upset me when Nuala said ‘what did I do to deserve an autistic child’. It made me feel very guilty and a bit suicidal. But I’d like to look at it another way. Yes, autistic people are an awful lot of trouble (I can be a proper nightmare) but if autistic children have to be born into the world, is it better for them to go to someone as lovely and kind and sweet as Nuala (and my parents aren’t all that bad either) - or to someone who doesn’t understand at all?
This is a great book which I enjoyed very much, and it’s really good that people like Gardner are able to share their experiences, and provide help and encouragement to others.
Saturday 13 December 2008
The Chocolate Lovers' Diet (Carole Matthews)****
Carole Matthews opens The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet by saying I’m a bitch.
Bitches, apparently, are people who can’t eat whole Mars Bars, or more than one square of dark chocolate at a time. That’s definitely me. Half a Mars bar or one square of dark chocolate makes me feel sick. As I have emetophobia, it’s quite a big thing for me to be eating chocolate at all, but I still have about four squares of milk chocolate a day. So I can’t be all that bitchy. (It’s not for weight reasons after all. If I ate a whole bar of chocolate every day, I’d probably get thinner. And then I really would be a bitch.)
Yes, I know I was complaining when Dorothy Koomson’s The Chocolate Run was all about chocolate, but this is different. The way in which Lucy, Chantal, Autumn and Nadia go mad over chocolate seems quite reasonable to me, and the girls do have plenty of other outside interests. There isn’t a surplus of film-talk, and all sex scenes (except those involving Lucy’s parents) are done in the best possible taste.
And you can’t really blame these women for needing quite as much chocolate as they do. When you read it, you’ll see what I mean. Crises seem to follow them around. To work; to their parents’ houses; to their weddings. Some of these crises are hilarious: Matthews is a wonderful comic writer. But she doesn’t get much chance to show it because a lot of this book is quite sad. Just because the central characters are totally insane, particularly Lucy, it’s easy to get caught up into thinking this book is a comedy. And then something awful happens, just when you’re not expecting it, and then it all gets worse and worse.
If you’re looking for realism, this might not be the book for you - but, on the other hand, I usually look for realism, and I loved it. Most authors who try to pull anything even vaguely unrealistic hear all about it from me in this blog. But Matthews gets away with it. Her book is just too much fun (apart from the sad bits) for me to care that they should all have been arrested. Besides, they’ve been through so much, you feel it’s time they had a bit of crazy fun.
The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet has some great characters. It’s a bit hard to imagine how the girls became friends, as chocolate seems to be the only thing they have in common, but it’s very easy to believe they’re genuinely close. Lucy is no more intelligent than you’d expect from a fictional girl with that name, and her boyfriend Aiden shares with Aidan from Anybody Out There the bad habit of disappearing when his girlfriend needs him (although both have a very good reason). Chantal is a surprisingly respectable sex addict; Autumn an upper-class hippie, and Nadia a woman of amazing courage and kindness. But they do care about each other. Even chocolate comes a poor second.
There are sections told from the points of view from all four women, but, unusually, Lucy’s is told in the first person (and in the present tense and the others in the third person (past tense). This did mean I felt closer to Lucy than the other characters, but that wasn’t really a problem. If you met the Chocolate Lovers for real, Lucy is probably the one you’d get close to first. Lucy is the comedy character, providing relief when everyone else’s life is falling apart, and often just failing to notice that her own is doing the same. Without her, Nadia’s, Autumn’s and Chantal’s stories would have been so much darker, and, while it might have been a more powerful book, it wouldn’t have been half as fun. We know that chocolate can’t really cure all these problems, but it’s nice to pretend it does.
Maybe the book gets a bit slushy at the end, but that’s only to be expected when there’s a chocolate fountain spraying everywhere.
This is the second of two books, but I read this one first and it works very well as a stand-alone book.
Bitches, apparently, are people who can’t eat whole Mars Bars, or more than one square of dark chocolate at a time. That’s definitely me. Half a Mars bar or one square of dark chocolate makes me feel sick. As I have emetophobia, it’s quite a big thing for me to be eating chocolate at all, but I still have about four squares of milk chocolate a day. So I can’t be all that bitchy. (It’s not for weight reasons after all. If I ate a whole bar of chocolate every day, I’d probably get thinner. And then I really would be a bitch.)
Yes, I know I was complaining when Dorothy Koomson’s The Chocolate Run was all about chocolate, but this is different. The way in which Lucy, Chantal, Autumn and Nadia go mad over chocolate seems quite reasonable to me, and the girls do have plenty of other outside interests. There isn’t a surplus of film-talk, and all sex scenes (except those involving Lucy’s parents) are done in the best possible taste.
And you can’t really blame these women for needing quite as much chocolate as they do. When you read it, you’ll see what I mean. Crises seem to follow them around. To work; to their parents’ houses; to their weddings. Some of these crises are hilarious: Matthews is a wonderful comic writer. But she doesn’t get much chance to show it because a lot of this book is quite sad. Just because the central characters are totally insane, particularly Lucy, it’s easy to get caught up into thinking this book is a comedy. And then something awful happens, just when you’re not expecting it, and then it all gets worse and worse.
If you’re looking for realism, this might not be the book for you - but, on the other hand, I usually look for realism, and I loved it. Most authors who try to pull anything even vaguely unrealistic hear all about it from me in this blog. But Matthews gets away with it. Her book is just too much fun (apart from the sad bits) for me to care that they should all have been arrested. Besides, they’ve been through so much, you feel it’s time they had a bit of crazy fun.
The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet has some great characters. It’s a bit hard to imagine how the girls became friends, as chocolate seems to be the only thing they have in common, but it’s very easy to believe they’re genuinely close. Lucy is no more intelligent than you’d expect from a fictional girl with that name, and her boyfriend Aiden shares with Aidan from Anybody Out There the bad habit of disappearing when his girlfriend needs him (although both have a very good reason). Chantal is a surprisingly respectable sex addict; Autumn an upper-class hippie, and Nadia a woman of amazing courage and kindness. But they do care about each other. Even chocolate comes a poor second.
There are sections told from the points of view from all four women, but, unusually, Lucy’s is told in the first person (and in the present tense and the others in the third person (past tense). This did mean I felt closer to Lucy than the other characters, but that wasn’t really a problem. If you met the Chocolate Lovers for real, Lucy is probably the one you’d get close to first. Lucy is the comedy character, providing relief when everyone else’s life is falling apart, and often just failing to notice that her own is doing the same. Without her, Nadia’s, Autumn’s and Chantal’s stories would have been so much darker, and, while it might have been a more powerful book, it wouldn’t have been half as fun. We know that chocolate can’t really cure all these problems, but it’s nice to pretend it does.
Maybe the book gets a bit slushy at the end, but that’s only to be expected when there’s a chocolate fountain spraying everywhere.
This is the second of two books, but I read this one first and it works very well as a stand-alone book.
Thursday 11 December 2008
The Chocolate Run (Dorothy Koomson)**
Sex, chocolate and films. Some people would say these are the greatest things in the world, but they’re not enough to make a book. (But at least the presence of chocolate saves this book from being another Ten Days in the Hills.)
However it would be difficult to put anything else in the book when sex, chocolate and films are pretty much all Amber Salpone thinks about. And as for what Amber calls a ‘chocolate run’ (which incidentally is not included in the list of definitions of ‘chocolate run’ provided by Dorothy Koomson at the end of the book), well, it’s a little bit disturbing. I know I’m not in a position to condemn other people for having weird habits but seriously, I hope she washed her hands first.
There are things I like about Amber. I like the fact she doesn’t care if she’s a Size 14/16. I like her humour. It’s not always appropriate, but it’s usually funny. But the way she keeps saying that her friend/lover Greg is a bastard and a tart (can guys be tarts? I think gay men can but Amber’s in trouble if Greg is gay) and not a nice guy is really horrible. Especially since Greg is really incredibly lovely.
Another problem with Amber is that she gets away with things she shouldn’t. Like when she doesn’t do her ‘homework’ for her boss Renée because she was too busy having sex - Renée has a go at her. Perfectly natural, I’d say. Renée had to cancel a meeting because of Amber. But Amber then tells us Renée ‘did the decent thing’ – she cancelled the meeting and brought Amber some Maltesers to make up for snapping at her. It’s not good to shout at people but it’s worse not to do your job properly, and to cause inconvenience to others. It’s possible Renée knows about Amber’s domestic violence past – the past she never talks about – and feels guilty for showing even verbal aggression towards her, but Amber is being paid, and she needs to do her work.
Amber also goes on about how attractive she is. It makes a nice change from the women who go on about how unattractive they are but the more Amber talks about it, the more it seems like conceitedness rather than confidence. It doesn’t help the plot for Amber to say these things. And while we’re on the subject of the things Amber says, why does she say ‘gotten’? I can see how she has picked up ‘owt’ and ‘nowt’ from working in Leeds, but where does the American come from? I did check my A Level English Language books, but ‘gotten’ doesn’t seem to be part of Black English – and while Amber’s English is colloquial, she doesn’t really speak Black English anyway.
Amber is not unconvincing as a character – but she isn’t very likeable. Maybe it would have helped if Greg was a bit more of a bastard and a bit less of a sweet guy with no taste in women – at least Amber’s observations about him would have seemed a bit more reasonable. Amber’s best friend Jen was well-characterised (I couldn’t stand the little bitch), and Renée does seem convincingly French. But Koomson made a mistake when she called Jen’s boyfriend Matt. I was okay with it when he was called Matt, but Amber refers to him just once as ‘Matthew’, and that did it for me. We all know what fictional Matthews are like. ‘He’s got another woman on the go!’ was my immediate thought – and you’ll never guess what.
Although the book is mostly funny, there are also some serious elements. Amber’s fear of domestic violence was disturbing in all the right ways. Koomson writes these parts so powerfully, it doesn’t matter that I don’t much like Amber. No-one deserves that, and her resulting trust issues are more than likely part of the reason why Amber’s such a bitch. However, the domestic violence theme doesn’t seem completely necessary to the plot (although admittedly it is difficult to comment on the plot when I’m not totally sure if there is one). I feel really bad about saying this, but it seems rather as though the domestic violence was put in either for dramatic effect, or to drum up some much-needed sympathy for the protagonist.
But you have to applaud Koomson for giving her protagonist so many imperfections. A lot of people have a bitchy streak, after all. (You only have to read my reviews to find out whether I’ve got one.)
I’ll just add, the other Koomson book I’ve read, My Best Friend’s Girl (review to be posted later), was a lot more enjoyable. It has many of the same elements as The Chocolate Run – child abuse, a not terribly likeable protagonist, trust issues – but My Best Friend’s Girl worked. So read that one instead.
However it would be difficult to put anything else in the book when sex, chocolate and films are pretty much all Amber Salpone thinks about. And as for what Amber calls a ‘chocolate run’ (which incidentally is not included in the list of definitions of ‘chocolate run’ provided by Dorothy Koomson at the end of the book), well, it’s a little bit disturbing. I know I’m not in a position to condemn other people for having weird habits but seriously, I hope she washed her hands first.
There are things I like about Amber. I like the fact she doesn’t care if she’s a Size 14/16. I like her humour. It’s not always appropriate, but it’s usually funny. But the way she keeps saying that her friend/lover Greg is a bastard and a tart (can guys be tarts? I think gay men can but Amber’s in trouble if Greg is gay) and not a nice guy is really horrible. Especially since Greg is really incredibly lovely.
Another problem with Amber is that she gets away with things she shouldn’t. Like when she doesn’t do her ‘homework’ for her boss Renée because she was too busy having sex - Renée has a go at her. Perfectly natural, I’d say. Renée had to cancel a meeting because of Amber. But Amber then tells us Renée ‘did the decent thing’ – she cancelled the meeting and brought Amber some Maltesers to make up for snapping at her. It’s not good to shout at people but it’s worse not to do your job properly, and to cause inconvenience to others. It’s possible Renée knows about Amber’s domestic violence past – the past she never talks about – and feels guilty for showing even verbal aggression towards her, but Amber is being paid, and she needs to do her work.
Amber also goes on about how attractive she is. It makes a nice change from the women who go on about how unattractive they are but the more Amber talks about it, the more it seems like conceitedness rather than confidence. It doesn’t help the plot for Amber to say these things. And while we’re on the subject of the things Amber says, why does she say ‘gotten’? I can see how she has picked up ‘owt’ and ‘nowt’ from working in Leeds, but where does the American come from? I did check my A Level English Language books, but ‘gotten’ doesn’t seem to be part of Black English – and while Amber’s English is colloquial, she doesn’t really speak Black English anyway.
Amber is not unconvincing as a character – but she isn’t very likeable. Maybe it would have helped if Greg was a bit more of a bastard and a bit less of a sweet guy with no taste in women – at least Amber’s observations about him would have seemed a bit more reasonable. Amber’s best friend Jen was well-characterised (I couldn’t stand the little bitch), and Renée does seem convincingly French. But Koomson made a mistake when she called Jen’s boyfriend Matt. I was okay with it when he was called Matt, but Amber refers to him just once as ‘Matthew’, and that did it for me. We all know what fictional Matthews are like. ‘He’s got another woman on the go!’ was my immediate thought – and you’ll never guess what.
Although the book is mostly funny, there are also some serious elements. Amber’s fear of domestic violence was disturbing in all the right ways. Koomson writes these parts so powerfully, it doesn’t matter that I don’t much like Amber. No-one deserves that, and her resulting trust issues are more than likely part of the reason why Amber’s such a bitch. However, the domestic violence theme doesn’t seem completely necessary to the plot (although admittedly it is difficult to comment on the plot when I’m not totally sure if there is one). I feel really bad about saying this, but it seems rather as though the domestic violence was put in either for dramatic effect, or to drum up some much-needed sympathy for the protagonist.
But you have to applaud Koomson for giving her protagonist so many imperfections. A lot of people have a bitchy streak, after all. (You only have to read my reviews to find out whether I’ve got one.)
I’ll just add, the other Koomson book I’ve read, My Best Friend’s Girl (review to be posted later), was a lot more enjoyable. It has many of the same elements as The Chocolate Run – child abuse, a not terribly likeable protagonist, trust issues – but My Best Friend’s Girl worked. So read that one instead.
Friday 5 December 2008
Seeing Me Naked (Liza Palmer)***
Before you get excited, Elisabeth Page has no problems with being literally naked. Almost the first thing she does it to wander into her boyfriend’s kitchen without any clothes on and give the cleaning lady a fright. The book is more about learning to be emotionally naked. Well, it’s supposed to be, but it actually seems to be more about Elisabeth’s attempts not to be a superior bitch.
As you’ve probably guessed, Elisabeth is not the most sympathetic of characters. Like Elizabeth in If You Could See Me Now, she has no social life, Elisabeth/Elizabeth apparently being the standard name for women who don’t have any friends. This characteristic in itself isn’t unappealing. We’ve probably all felt lonely at least once in our lives.
But the reason Elisabeth doesn’t have any friends is probably because she’s a snobby bitch who sneers at everyone she meets. I have no idea why she has such a problem with lovely Margot, who is always so kind to her. And so what if Margot’s friend doesn’t pluck her eyebrows and shaves her legs? Maybe she just has better things to do, like looking after her new baby and being nice to people. When Elisabeth starts talking about what a bitch her workmate Julie is, I did actually end up agreeing with her, but by this time I was rather disinclined to rely on her bitchy judgement.
Elisabeth isn’t the worst person in the book. Her father, Ben, is absolutely dreadful, looking down on Elisabeth because she’s ‘only’ a pastry chef in a top restaurant rather than an award-winning writer like him and her brother. I was interested enough to hope this got resolved in the end, which it did, but I wish it hadn’t happened in the slushiest and most tear-sodden way possible. Maybe the Page family should forget writing and baking, and start solving water shortage problems. I almost began to understand why people use that phrase, usually so inexplicable to an emetophobe, ‘I want to vomit’.
Elisabeth seems to think her life isn’t great, and it certainly isn’t perfect. And, to some extent, it doesn’t matter how good her life seems: if she’s not happy, it’s not the right life for her, and maybe she needs to consider a change. But, having decided she needs a change, great opportunities suddenly start to fall into her lap. She doesn’t have to do anything: they just appear. Maybe I’m just as much of a bitch as she is, but I prefer to see my heroines suffering a bit more, and working a bit harder to make things happen.
Elisabeth meets a guy called Daniel and decides to start an affair with him – even though she has a boyfriend. Yes, her relationship with her boyfriend Will is far from ideal, but it still would have been nice to let Will know she was interested in seeing other people before dragging Daniel into bed.
It would also have been easier to identify with Elisabeth if her relationship with Daniel wasn’t instantly perfect. They have a few problems later on, yes, but it’s a bit surprising Daniel goes along so trustingly with her attempts to seduce him. But Daniels, (see also PS I Love You) are drippy types who fall in love at the drop of a hat and like nothing more than being bossed around. The book says it’s Daniel who helps her to be emotionally naked but Elisabeth seems very much the dominant one.
Then Elisabeth is offered the chance of an alternative job – her own TV cooking show. Of course, her father doesn’t think this is good enough either. But apart from that, it all goes brilliantly. The TV people think she’s adorable. She is a ‘natural’ at speaking to the camera. The book is supposed to be about Elisabeth overcoming her insecurities, but we don’t see many signs of them, and when she does overcome something, she doesn’t really let us in on the process of overcoming it.
But I’m giving this book three stars because Liza Palmer is very funny. You don’t need to like Elisabeth to see the humour in the book. Even though nothing much happens in the first half, there are lots of funny moments, some of which might make you cringe, but in a Shopaholic way, not a Me and Mr Darcy way. Seeing Me Naked is occasionally slow, but not boring, and I did want to know what happened to the characters. There are some great characters you do like and care about – Elisabeth’s brother Rascal (brilliant name, although he’s so sappy, it hardly suits him); her fellow chef Samuel, and, of course, his endlessly kind and friendly wife Margot.
Palmer also deserves credit for not making too much of the fact that both Rascal and Ben are novelists, although Ben’s view that novel-writing is the most superior career of all is something I hope Palmer doesn’t believe herself.
Another strength of this book is that Palmer manages to make cooking seem interesting and creative. Now I don’t dislike cooking, I’m just a bit slow at it and I’m a bit scared I might poison myself because I keep getting confused between the cooking oil and the washing up liquid. However, this didn’t stop me from wondering vaguely if I’d enjoy pastry-making. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t, and I know I’d be terrible at it, but it seemed quite interesting when I was reading the book.
As you’ve probably guessed, Elisabeth is not the most sympathetic of characters. Like Elizabeth in If You Could See Me Now, she has no social life, Elisabeth/Elizabeth apparently being the standard name for women who don’t have any friends. This characteristic in itself isn’t unappealing. We’ve probably all felt lonely at least once in our lives.
But the reason Elisabeth doesn’t have any friends is probably because she’s a snobby bitch who sneers at everyone she meets. I have no idea why she has such a problem with lovely Margot, who is always so kind to her. And so what if Margot’s friend doesn’t pluck her eyebrows and shaves her legs? Maybe she just has better things to do, like looking after her new baby and being nice to people. When Elisabeth starts talking about what a bitch her workmate Julie is, I did actually end up agreeing with her, but by this time I was rather disinclined to rely on her bitchy judgement.
Elisabeth isn’t the worst person in the book. Her father, Ben, is absolutely dreadful, looking down on Elisabeth because she’s ‘only’ a pastry chef in a top restaurant rather than an award-winning writer like him and her brother. I was interested enough to hope this got resolved in the end, which it did, but I wish it hadn’t happened in the slushiest and most tear-sodden way possible. Maybe the Page family should forget writing and baking, and start solving water shortage problems. I almost began to understand why people use that phrase, usually so inexplicable to an emetophobe, ‘I want to vomit’.
Elisabeth seems to think her life isn’t great, and it certainly isn’t perfect. And, to some extent, it doesn’t matter how good her life seems: if she’s not happy, it’s not the right life for her, and maybe she needs to consider a change. But, having decided she needs a change, great opportunities suddenly start to fall into her lap. She doesn’t have to do anything: they just appear. Maybe I’m just as much of a bitch as she is, but I prefer to see my heroines suffering a bit more, and working a bit harder to make things happen.
Elisabeth meets a guy called Daniel and decides to start an affair with him – even though she has a boyfriend. Yes, her relationship with her boyfriend Will is far from ideal, but it still would have been nice to let Will know she was interested in seeing other people before dragging Daniel into bed.
It would also have been easier to identify with Elisabeth if her relationship with Daniel wasn’t instantly perfect. They have a few problems later on, yes, but it’s a bit surprising Daniel goes along so trustingly with her attempts to seduce him. But Daniels, (see also PS I Love You) are drippy types who fall in love at the drop of a hat and like nothing more than being bossed around. The book says it’s Daniel who helps her to be emotionally naked but Elisabeth seems very much the dominant one.
Then Elisabeth is offered the chance of an alternative job – her own TV cooking show. Of course, her father doesn’t think this is good enough either. But apart from that, it all goes brilliantly. The TV people think she’s adorable. She is a ‘natural’ at speaking to the camera. The book is supposed to be about Elisabeth overcoming her insecurities, but we don’t see many signs of them, and when she does overcome something, she doesn’t really let us in on the process of overcoming it.
But I’m giving this book three stars because Liza Palmer is very funny. You don’t need to like Elisabeth to see the humour in the book. Even though nothing much happens in the first half, there are lots of funny moments, some of which might make you cringe, but in a Shopaholic way, not a Me and Mr Darcy way. Seeing Me Naked is occasionally slow, but not boring, and I did want to know what happened to the characters. There are some great characters you do like and care about – Elisabeth’s brother Rascal (brilliant name, although he’s so sappy, it hardly suits him); her fellow chef Samuel, and, of course, his endlessly kind and friendly wife Margot.
Palmer also deserves credit for not making too much of the fact that both Rascal and Ben are novelists, although Ben’s view that novel-writing is the most superior career of all is something I hope Palmer doesn’t believe herself.
Another strength of this book is that Palmer manages to make cooking seem interesting and creative. Now I don’t dislike cooking, I’m just a bit slow at it and I’m a bit scared I might poison myself because I keep getting confused between the cooking oil and the washing up liquid. However, this didn’t stop me from wondering vaguely if I’d enjoy pastry-making. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t, and I know I’d be terrible at it, but it seemed quite interesting when I was reading the book.
Sunday 30 November 2008
The Birds and the Bees (Milly Johnson)***
Parents are so annoying sometimes. I’m not talking about the parents in this book, although I’m sure they’d annoy me too if I happened to live with them. But my parents loved this book and now I feel like I ought to have loved it too. And I suppose I did in a way. I stayed up all night to finish it, and I was satisfied when the book turned out exactly how I wanted it to turn out. But how can my dad tell me this is the best book I’ve read recently? Why do parents always know better than me? I’m the one who was offered a place to study English at UCL. (I turned it down, but that’s hardly the point.) So I should know a little bit about reading. But that’s the thing about parents. They always know best.
The parents in this book also know best. Catherine, the best friend of the heroine, Stevie, is clearly some kind of Superwoman who juggles what seems like a huge number of children, not to mention Stevie’s son Danny and Stevie herself. Only Catherine’s considerable warmth and generosity save her from being annoyingly perfect. I love Catherine. I just wish she wouldn’t go on about how sweet Stevie is all the time. There are many adjectives that spring to mind when I think of Stevie, but ‘sweet’ is not one of them.
Oh, I quite like Stevie now, but it was an uphill struggle to begin with. Any author who keeps going on about how nice her main character is - and also makes the other characters point it out at every opportunity - really gets on my nerves. I’m not interested in what Milly Johnson thinks of Stevie. It’s up to me to decide what she’s like. When I finally did start to like her, about halfway through the book (the point when the story really got going), I still didn’t think she was sweet. She’s far too tough and feisty with too much of a no-nonsense approach to be described as sweet. Yes, she is very generous, and she certainly seems altruistic. But she’s too strong and redoubtable to be my idea of sweet. (But, to be honest, if Johnson had described about her in ways that I agreed with, that would probably have annoyed me too. Just get on with telling the story, woman!)
And Stevie’s name! Apparently she’s named after some female poet I’ve never heard of, which is fine in theory, but it was just a bit distracting. I didn’t mind that the other girl was called Jo: that’s an established and common female name. But giving your heroine an unusual female name for no particular reason is just annoying.
If there had been just one joke about Stevie’s name, like if Adam had insisted on calling her Stephanie - which would have really annoyed her, as well as fitting in with the idea of Adam’s stubborn nature - there would have been a point to it. Or if she’d signed up to join Adam’s gym online, it might have been quite funny if he came to meet the new male member of the gym and instead found the fiancée of the man who ran off with his wife. Or if Stevie’s parents (who make the briefest appearances) were very obviously the type to bestow an unusual name upon their daughter - instead of seeming more the type not to bother naming her at all - I’d have understood.
Once the story does start, Johnson’s writing becomes fast-paced and witty, but her characters still have sufficient depth (well, apart from shallow bitch Jo) to make you interested in what happens. Even the smallest characters seem very real. Like Stevie’s nice but excruciating friend Pam – probably everyone in the world either knows someone like Pam or has heard of someone like her.
The story was a bit slow to start off with. The early chapters mostly show Stevie having her hair done, refusing to talk to Adam, and thinking about how miserable she is. I got a bit bored with that part. It would have been much more interesting if Adam had told Stevie his plan for both of them to win their partners back near the beginning; Stevie could then have dismissed it, before gradually coming around to it. At least then you’d feel the characters were progressing in some way.
Adam the Scotsman makes a rather bad first impression too, but that works well. He is actually really lovely in a big, loud sort of way. Johnson’s transcription of his sexy Scottish accent sounds very authentic, even if his generosity doesn’t.
Matthew, Stevie’s ex, is a totally useless prat who has his brain between his legs. Nevertheless, he, if anyone, is the ‘sweet’ one – incredibly stupid, but well-meaning when he remembers other people have feelings too. He’s not unlike Matthew in Getting Rid of Matthew. I must write a book one day about useless Lucy; Isobel, who seems to have the perfect life but is actually pretty fucked up; James the wanker, and Matthew the immature prat.
And, yes, Stevie is a writer, but I’ll forgive Johnson for writing about a writer. It does give the plot a very interesting twist. And, yes, Stevie is intelligent enough to be literate. Easily. Forget the basic psychology Adam keeps going on about. Stevie knows way more about people than that annoying psychologist in The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy. So I quite liked her in the end.
The parents in this book also know best. Catherine, the best friend of the heroine, Stevie, is clearly some kind of Superwoman who juggles what seems like a huge number of children, not to mention Stevie’s son Danny and Stevie herself. Only Catherine’s considerable warmth and generosity save her from being annoyingly perfect. I love Catherine. I just wish she wouldn’t go on about how sweet Stevie is all the time. There are many adjectives that spring to mind when I think of Stevie, but ‘sweet’ is not one of them.
Oh, I quite like Stevie now, but it was an uphill struggle to begin with. Any author who keeps going on about how nice her main character is - and also makes the other characters point it out at every opportunity - really gets on my nerves. I’m not interested in what Milly Johnson thinks of Stevie. It’s up to me to decide what she’s like. When I finally did start to like her, about halfway through the book (the point when the story really got going), I still didn’t think she was sweet. She’s far too tough and feisty with too much of a no-nonsense approach to be described as sweet. Yes, she is very generous, and she certainly seems altruistic. But she’s too strong and redoubtable to be my idea of sweet. (But, to be honest, if Johnson had described about her in ways that I agreed with, that would probably have annoyed me too. Just get on with telling the story, woman!)
And Stevie’s name! Apparently she’s named after some female poet I’ve never heard of, which is fine in theory, but it was just a bit distracting. I didn’t mind that the other girl was called Jo: that’s an established and common female name. But giving your heroine an unusual female name for no particular reason is just annoying.
If there had been just one joke about Stevie’s name, like if Adam had insisted on calling her Stephanie - which would have really annoyed her, as well as fitting in with the idea of Adam’s stubborn nature - there would have been a point to it. Or if she’d signed up to join Adam’s gym online, it might have been quite funny if he came to meet the new male member of the gym and instead found the fiancée of the man who ran off with his wife. Or if Stevie’s parents (who make the briefest appearances) were very obviously the type to bestow an unusual name upon their daughter - instead of seeming more the type not to bother naming her at all - I’d have understood.
Once the story does start, Johnson’s writing becomes fast-paced and witty, but her characters still have sufficient depth (well, apart from shallow bitch Jo) to make you interested in what happens. Even the smallest characters seem very real. Like Stevie’s nice but excruciating friend Pam – probably everyone in the world either knows someone like Pam or has heard of someone like her.
The story was a bit slow to start off with. The early chapters mostly show Stevie having her hair done, refusing to talk to Adam, and thinking about how miserable she is. I got a bit bored with that part. It would have been much more interesting if Adam had told Stevie his plan for both of them to win their partners back near the beginning; Stevie could then have dismissed it, before gradually coming around to it. At least then you’d feel the characters were progressing in some way.
Adam the Scotsman makes a rather bad first impression too, but that works well. He is actually really lovely in a big, loud sort of way. Johnson’s transcription of his sexy Scottish accent sounds very authentic, even if his generosity doesn’t.
Matthew, Stevie’s ex, is a totally useless prat who has his brain between his legs. Nevertheless, he, if anyone, is the ‘sweet’ one – incredibly stupid, but well-meaning when he remembers other people have feelings too. He’s not unlike Matthew in Getting Rid of Matthew. I must write a book one day about useless Lucy; Isobel, who seems to have the perfect life but is actually pretty fucked up; James the wanker, and Matthew the immature prat.
And, yes, Stevie is a writer, but I’ll forgive Johnson for writing about a writer. It does give the plot a very interesting twist. And, yes, Stevie is intelligent enough to be literate. Easily. Forget the basic psychology Adam keeps going on about. Stevie knows way more about people than that annoying psychologist in The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy. So I quite liked her in the end.
Friday 28 November 2008
Ten Days in the Hills (Jane Smiley)**
Ten Days in the Hills could have been great, but there just wasn’t enough to keep me interested. It starts very promisingly with Elena and Max’s discovery that, instead of spending the next few days in bed, possibly making a porno (one good thing about the book is that this never happens), they must entertain the large number of guests (including Max’s ex-wife) that have simultaneously turned up on their doorstep, having all decided to interpret an invitation to ‘come and stay sometime’ as ‘come and stay right now’.
Rather than telling at least some of them to piss off like any sensible person would, Max and Elena decide to let them all stay, even though some of them hate each other. It sounded promising, as I thought they’d spend the whole time at each other’s throats, but, as Max’s house is so huge, they mostly manage to ignore the people they hate.
There are a few token moments of snappiness, but nothing to get too excited about. Most of the book is taken up with the characters, in various combinations, talking about films and having sex. And I don’t know about you, but I find that really, really boring. I can certainly imagine living for ten days or even ten weeks without even thinking about either activity. (Well.. films anyway.)
Maybe if I’d actually seen a few more of the films mentioned, those scenes might have been more interesting, but if I felt the urge to read some literary criticism of films, I’d go and find myself a non-fiction book. As for sex, EWWWWW. I don’t mind a few details that I can giggle over - I love the bit where Simon tells everyone he’d shaved his whole body in order to play a giant penis in a film, and the Russian girls’ tit-sucking isn’t completely uninteresting either from a bi-sexual point of view. But I don’t really want to know details about the state of a fifty-eight year old man’s cock. Or any man’s cock. As my grandma used to say, there’s nothing beautiful in that sight.
What I usually do in this situation is skip the cock and move onto the interesting bits, which is the characters interacting with one another. But if you skip the cock, you’re stuck with the films. I can stand a little bit of film talk, but it was like they were at it all day (and then they were at it in the figurative sense all night). For a long time, the little I knew about the characters came from what Jane Smiley and her characters told us. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to see it for myself.
I can pretty much list all the conversations that weren’t about about films or sex – but these usually weren’t so much conversations as monologues. Elena is the one who talks about the war; Isabel is the one who talks about anthropology; Paul is the one who talks about psychological healing; Elena, Isabel, Paul and everyone else are the ones who talked about films and sex. Charlie is the one no-one likes, but even for him there was relatively little conflict. I didn’t even realise no-one liked Charlie until he suddenly shouted out that he didn’t feel welcome. The truth is, there were so many people in the house, I’d forgotten he was there.
The problem with the first half was that the situation promised tension, but it didn’t deliver. The characters weren’t trapped in the house together. There is no snowdrift; they aren’t housemates in Big Brother. They can - and do - leave the house in order to do other things and get away from each other. Isabel and Charlie - and possibly others - live so close, they can go home any time they want to. There was no real sense that the characters were crowding each other. There was no sense that the characters were treading carefully, or that an argument could happen at any moment. When the arguments did happen, they were either so quickly resolved, I never really had time to get interested in them, or they consisted of such ridiculously long speeches, I forgot what the argument was about in the first place.
Most of the ‘ten days in the hills’ take place in Max and Elena’s house, but the last few days are spent in a different large house while agent Stoney tries to persuade Max to make a film of Taras Bulba, which sounds exactly like the sort of film I wouldn’t want to see. This section was more enjoyable because at least then there was a sense of moving forward. The fact that all of Max and Elena’s guests decided to decamp together to the house of one of Stoney’s clients is a further sign that they are really all very comfortable with one another, despite the violent hatred Smiley writes about - but there is finally a sense of progress, and personalities slowly start to come more to the fore.
There are even moments of comedy, such as when Isabel casually announces that she and Stoney will share a room - apparently the others were too busy shagging each other to notice Isabel and Stoney were at it too. And it’s quite funny when Charlie suddenly finds himself being seduced by a young and beautiful girl. And there’s even one pretty good argument between Isabel and her mother, Zoe. Finally, there are bits of tension here and there.
For the first time, you really feel there’s a real plot rather than a series of scenes. Yes, there is still way too much film-talk and sex, but I felt that if the book had started here – and this section alone was almost long enough to be a book already - with a few more conversations on other subjects here and there, and a few more of those promised arguments, I think I’d have really enjoyed it.
But by then, it was really too late.
Rather than telling at least some of them to piss off like any sensible person would, Max and Elena decide to let them all stay, even though some of them hate each other. It sounded promising, as I thought they’d spend the whole time at each other’s throats, but, as Max’s house is so huge, they mostly manage to ignore the people they hate.
There are a few token moments of snappiness, but nothing to get too excited about. Most of the book is taken up with the characters, in various combinations, talking about films and having sex. And I don’t know about you, but I find that really, really boring. I can certainly imagine living for ten days or even ten weeks without even thinking about either activity. (Well.. films anyway.)
Maybe if I’d actually seen a few more of the films mentioned, those scenes might have been more interesting, but if I felt the urge to read some literary criticism of films, I’d go and find myself a non-fiction book. As for sex, EWWWWW. I don’t mind a few details that I can giggle over - I love the bit where Simon tells everyone he’d shaved his whole body in order to play a giant penis in a film, and the Russian girls’ tit-sucking isn’t completely uninteresting either from a bi-sexual point of view. But I don’t really want to know details about the state of a fifty-eight year old man’s cock. Or any man’s cock. As my grandma used to say, there’s nothing beautiful in that sight.
What I usually do in this situation is skip the cock and move onto the interesting bits, which is the characters interacting with one another. But if you skip the cock, you’re stuck with the films. I can stand a little bit of film talk, but it was like they were at it all day (and then they were at it in the figurative sense all night). For a long time, the little I knew about the characters came from what Jane Smiley and her characters told us. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to see it for myself.
I can pretty much list all the conversations that weren’t about about films or sex – but these usually weren’t so much conversations as monologues. Elena is the one who talks about the war; Isabel is the one who talks about anthropology; Paul is the one who talks about psychological healing; Elena, Isabel, Paul and everyone else are the ones who talked about films and sex. Charlie is the one no-one likes, but even for him there was relatively little conflict. I didn’t even realise no-one liked Charlie until he suddenly shouted out that he didn’t feel welcome. The truth is, there were so many people in the house, I’d forgotten he was there.
The problem with the first half was that the situation promised tension, but it didn’t deliver. The characters weren’t trapped in the house together. There is no snowdrift; they aren’t housemates in Big Brother. They can - and do - leave the house in order to do other things and get away from each other. Isabel and Charlie - and possibly others - live so close, they can go home any time they want to. There was no real sense that the characters were crowding each other. There was no sense that the characters were treading carefully, or that an argument could happen at any moment. When the arguments did happen, they were either so quickly resolved, I never really had time to get interested in them, or they consisted of such ridiculously long speeches, I forgot what the argument was about in the first place.
Most of the ‘ten days in the hills’ take place in Max and Elena’s house, but the last few days are spent in a different large house while agent Stoney tries to persuade Max to make a film of Taras Bulba, which sounds exactly like the sort of film I wouldn’t want to see. This section was more enjoyable because at least then there was a sense of moving forward. The fact that all of Max and Elena’s guests decided to decamp together to the house of one of Stoney’s clients is a further sign that they are really all very comfortable with one another, despite the violent hatred Smiley writes about - but there is finally a sense of progress, and personalities slowly start to come more to the fore.
There are even moments of comedy, such as when Isabel casually announces that she and Stoney will share a room - apparently the others were too busy shagging each other to notice Isabel and Stoney were at it too. And it’s quite funny when Charlie suddenly finds himself being seduced by a young and beautiful girl. And there’s even one pretty good argument between Isabel and her mother, Zoe. Finally, there are bits of tension here and there.
For the first time, you really feel there’s a real plot rather than a series of scenes. Yes, there is still way too much film-talk and sex, but I felt that if the book had started here – and this section alone was almost long enough to be a book already - with a few more conversations on other subjects here and there, and a few more of those promised arguments, I think I’d have really enjoyed it.
But by then, it was really too late.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Shopaholic Abroad (Sophie Kinsella)****
I don’t know how Becky gets away with it, I really don’t. She’s a financial advisor with her own slot on a TV show, and she has less idea of money management than a goldfish. No, it’s worse than that. She has less idea of money management than me. Becky as a financial advisor is the equivalent of me getting a job with Trinny and Susannah.
But Sophie Kinsella can make anything work. She’s such a wonderful writer. She has created some great characters in the Shopaholic books, which looks like a series that could go on for years. She’s also great at character. Becky is the most adorable person in the world, and it’s probably very difficult not to love her – whether you’re a book lover, or Becky’s bank manager.
Becky’s delightful originality of mind can lead to the most horrific of situations – and Kinsella never fails to make them seem completely natural. I have been told I’m more than a little bit odd, but you wouldn’t catch me going to a convent in nothing but a T-shirt and a hairband. Becky could easily make you want to cringe for her, but she doesn’t. She makes you want to adopt her.
However, underneath Sophie Kinsella’s wonderful humour, Becky does have a problem or two. Compulsive shopper; compulsive liar. And Becky’s problems land not only her but also her gorgeous boyfriend Luke (I want him) into serious difficulties. Kinsella can turn a situation from comic to tragic in an instant – very much as it can happen in real life.
Kinsella isn’t saying it’s okay to spend too much money and then lie about it. But she is saying that it doesn’t make you a totally despicable person who should be reviled for all eternity. She’s saying that even nice, funny, endearing people can get into terrible situations. She’s also saying it’s possible to get out of them.
Shopaholic Abroad isn’t the kind of book that goes around winning awards. If Kinsella had wanted to win awards, she’d probably have thrown Becky out on the streets and made her into a prostitute. And she’d probably have to lose the wonderful humour too. That’s the sort of thing judges seem to like nowadays: a bit of ‘realism’.
But Shopaholic Abroad is deceptively clever – and quite possibly a lot more so than all those award-winners. Underneath Kinsella’s brilliant comedy is the feeling that, if it happened to Becky, it really could happen to everyone. Becky is luckier than most: she has support from all over the place, and she didn’t fall far enough to hit any kind of clichéd rock bottom. But, with a character as easy to identify with as Becky, that just means it’s harder to say ‘that would never happen to me.’ Because it could.
But Sophie Kinsella can make anything work. She’s such a wonderful writer. She has created some great characters in the Shopaholic books, which looks like a series that could go on for years. She’s also great at character. Becky is the most adorable person in the world, and it’s probably very difficult not to love her – whether you’re a book lover, or Becky’s bank manager.
Becky’s delightful originality of mind can lead to the most horrific of situations – and Kinsella never fails to make them seem completely natural. I have been told I’m more than a little bit odd, but you wouldn’t catch me going to a convent in nothing but a T-shirt and a hairband. Becky could easily make you want to cringe for her, but she doesn’t. She makes you want to adopt her.
However, underneath Sophie Kinsella’s wonderful humour, Becky does have a problem or two. Compulsive shopper; compulsive liar. And Becky’s problems land not only her but also her gorgeous boyfriend Luke (I want him) into serious difficulties. Kinsella can turn a situation from comic to tragic in an instant – very much as it can happen in real life.
Kinsella isn’t saying it’s okay to spend too much money and then lie about it. But she is saying that it doesn’t make you a totally despicable person who should be reviled for all eternity. She’s saying that even nice, funny, endearing people can get into terrible situations. She’s also saying it’s possible to get out of them.
Shopaholic Abroad isn’t the kind of book that goes around winning awards. If Kinsella had wanted to win awards, she’d probably have thrown Becky out on the streets and made her into a prostitute. And she’d probably have to lose the wonderful humour too. That’s the sort of thing judges seem to like nowadays: a bit of ‘realism’.
But Shopaholic Abroad is deceptively clever – and quite possibly a lot more so than all those award-winners. Underneath Kinsella’s brilliant comedy is the feeling that, if it happened to Becky, it really could happen to everyone. Becky is luckier than most: she has support from all over the place, and she didn’t fall far enough to hit any kind of clichéd rock bottom. But, with a character as easy to identify with as Becky, that just means it’s harder to say ‘that would never happen to me.’ Because it could.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Secrets and Shadows (Mary Nickson)****
Why do characters who are writers make such unappealing protagonists? You’d think I’d love them. Apart from the fact that it’s writers that produce all those books I like to read, I like writing myself, so you’d think I’d find it easy to identify with writer characters.
Usually, it doesn’t work that way. There’s something about books within a book that I struggle with. In a way, it’s a compliment to the writer of the real book. If I’m enjoying their story, I want to keep on reading it. The last thing I want to do is sit down with someone else’s book. An exception would be something like Adele Geras’ A Hidden Life, where the featured book tells you the story of a dead major character. In a way, this is not so much extracts from a book as a flashback.
So you’d think I’d hate Secrets and Shadows. It’s all about a group of people who meet on a creative writing course. At the first session, examples of work are read out, (which I suppose is one way of getting to know such very different people’s inner thoughts and experiences). After that, the writing isn’t really important. It was just a means of getting the relevant characters together.
But I will have a couple of moans while I’m here. Why did everyone have to make it so obvious that they think Louisa (although, to be fair, she does have too many talents already) isn’t a good writer? Admiration of particular writing styles is such a personal thing. I actually found Louisa’s writing much more more readable than that of Marnie, for example, who is generally seen to be good.
Also, why is there such a strong feeling that only a few of the creative writers ought to carry on writing after they leave the course? Okay, not many of them have a chance of getting published. But what does that matter?
In the first place, there are lots of bad writers who get published – being talented won’t always give you an advantage. And secondly, and most importantly, writing is first and foremost an activity to be enjoyed. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jane Austen or… well, someone who had better remain nameless because I don’t want all their fans jumping all over me, but, just to clarify, I don’t mean Mary Nickson. If you enjoy writing stories, they are worth writing. It doesn’t matter if no-one ever reads the stories. If you enjoy writing, you should write.
While I’m on the subject of writing styles, I’ll say I do like Mary Nickson’s. Her style is quite poetic, with many clauses, but is relatively easy to read. I have read some books like that where I’ve had to read sentences three times before they begin to make sense. Secrets and Shadows is not an amusing book, but it’s thrilling and exciting, and some of the relationships between the characters are wonderfully done – you can tell a lot about them from very little conversation.
Nickson is also great at characters – I love the accidentally-abrasive Marnie; Christopher with his dark secret, (which is really sympathetically presented); married couple Isobel and Giles, whose relationship is based on a genuine friendship, as well as sexual attraction. (Nickson also writes the sex bits really well: usually I either get the giggles, or feel so embarrassed I skip these bits, but Nickson’s really sensitive about it, only using it to make a point and never going into unnecessary detail.) All the characters are wonderfully distinct. It’s a shame they all dislike Stanley so much, though – I’m sure part of the reason he’s so horrible is because he’s really insecure.
Louisa seems to be, in many ways, the heroine of the book, but I couldn’t help wondering whether the book would be better without her. Her instinctive ability to socialise with anyone is definitely not something everyone can identify with, and her jealousy of some of the other characters is not presented in a particularly attractive way. Louisa has had a horribly difficult life, but that alone isn’t enough to make me like her as a character. And then, in the end, it’s difficult to know what to think. I’m not at all sure whether I believe her.
I also have problems with the presentation of Isobel’s autistic son Edward. The autism itself is beautifully done – I guessed he was autistic as soon as he was mentioned, although the term wasn’t used until some time later. It was really heartening to read that he is happy (none of that glass box crap) and that he has an imagination – a lot of people think autistics don’t have an imagination, but I can assure you we do.
However, the way Isobel kept talking sadly about Edward and how he ‘might have been’ is really quite offensive. I love Isobel, but seriously babe, forget what he might have been. Look at what he is. He is a lovely boy; very loving towards his family; very gentle with his six year old cousin; astonishingly well-adjusted. He comes home from school to find the house full of strangers, and doesn’t seem in the least worried by it. You should be proud of him.
I certainly prefer him to musical genius twin sister Amy, who seems more than a little bit conceited. But Amy is treated in a similar way: Isobel spends the whole time talking about what she ‘will be’. So what will it be like for the poor girl if she fails to make a career as a successful musician? The chances are, she won’t. There are more gifted young people in the world than there are career opportunities, especially considering Amy is a violinist. Forget what Edward might have been; forget what Amy might be going to be. It’s who they are that matters. (And Amy’s up herself, so do something about it.)
But the problems weren’t bothering me throughout the book. Edward is barely in it; even Louisa’s importance diminishes as the book continues. There is so much else to enjoy, I mostly forgot what I didn’t like, and just got on with the story.
Usually, it doesn’t work that way. There’s something about books within a book that I struggle with. In a way, it’s a compliment to the writer of the real book. If I’m enjoying their story, I want to keep on reading it. The last thing I want to do is sit down with someone else’s book. An exception would be something like Adele Geras’ A Hidden Life, where the featured book tells you the story of a dead major character. In a way, this is not so much extracts from a book as a flashback.
So you’d think I’d hate Secrets and Shadows. It’s all about a group of people who meet on a creative writing course. At the first session, examples of work are read out, (which I suppose is one way of getting to know such very different people’s inner thoughts and experiences). After that, the writing isn’t really important. It was just a means of getting the relevant characters together.
But I will have a couple of moans while I’m here. Why did everyone have to make it so obvious that they think Louisa (although, to be fair, she does have too many talents already) isn’t a good writer? Admiration of particular writing styles is such a personal thing. I actually found Louisa’s writing much more more readable than that of Marnie, for example, who is generally seen to be good.
Also, why is there such a strong feeling that only a few of the creative writers ought to carry on writing after they leave the course? Okay, not many of them have a chance of getting published. But what does that matter?
In the first place, there are lots of bad writers who get published – being talented won’t always give you an advantage. And secondly, and most importantly, writing is first and foremost an activity to be enjoyed. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jane Austen or… well, someone who had better remain nameless because I don’t want all their fans jumping all over me, but, just to clarify, I don’t mean Mary Nickson. If you enjoy writing stories, they are worth writing. It doesn’t matter if no-one ever reads the stories. If you enjoy writing, you should write.
While I’m on the subject of writing styles, I’ll say I do like Mary Nickson’s. Her style is quite poetic, with many clauses, but is relatively easy to read. I have read some books like that where I’ve had to read sentences three times before they begin to make sense. Secrets and Shadows is not an amusing book, but it’s thrilling and exciting, and some of the relationships between the characters are wonderfully done – you can tell a lot about them from very little conversation.
Nickson is also great at characters – I love the accidentally-abrasive Marnie; Christopher with his dark secret, (which is really sympathetically presented); married couple Isobel and Giles, whose relationship is based on a genuine friendship, as well as sexual attraction. (Nickson also writes the sex bits really well: usually I either get the giggles, or feel so embarrassed I skip these bits, but Nickson’s really sensitive about it, only using it to make a point and never going into unnecessary detail.) All the characters are wonderfully distinct. It’s a shame they all dislike Stanley so much, though – I’m sure part of the reason he’s so horrible is because he’s really insecure.
Louisa seems to be, in many ways, the heroine of the book, but I couldn’t help wondering whether the book would be better without her. Her instinctive ability to socialise with anyone is definitely not something everyone can identify with, and her jealousy of some of the other characters is not presented in a particularly attractive way. Louisa has had a horribly difficult life, but that alone isn’t enough to make me like her as a character. And then, in the end, it’s difficult to know what to think. I’m not at all sure whether I believe her.
I also have problems with the presentation of Isobel’s autistic son Edward. The autism itself is beautifully done – I guessed he was autistic as soon as he was mentioned, although the term wasn’t used until some time later. It was really heartening to read that he is happy (none of that glass box crap) and that he has an imagination – a lot of people think autistics don’t have an imagination, but I can assure you we do.
However, the way Isobel kept talking sadly about Edward and how he ‘might have been’ is really quite offensive. I love Isobel, but seriously babe, forget what he might have been. Look at what he is. He is a lovely boy; very loving towards his family; very gentle with his six year old cousin; astonishingly well-adjusted. He comes home from school to find the house full of strangers, and doesn’t seem in the least worried by it. You should be proud of him.
I certainly prefer him to musical genius twin sister Amy, who seems more than a little bit conceited. But Amy is treated in a similar way: Isobel spends the whole time talking about what she ‘will be’. So what will it be like for the poor girl if she fails to make a career as a successful musician? The chances are, she won’t. There are more gifted young people in the world than there are career opportunities, especially considering Amy is a violinist. Forget what Edward might have been; forget what Amy might be going to be. It’s who they are that matters. (And Amy’s up herself, so do something about it.)
But the problems weren’t bothering me throughout the book. Edward is barely in it; even Louisa’s importance diminishes as the book continues. There is so much else to enjoy, I mostly forgot what I didn’t like, and just got on with the story.
Monday 24 November 2008
The Infidelity Chain (Tess Stimson)****
I enjoyed this book a lot, but, if I were Tess Stimson’s spouse, I would be very very worried. Not only is this book all about infidelity, her last book was called The Adultery Club. Maybe she’s just a little bit obsessed?
The book is not totally pro-infidelity, but it is far from being against it. Not that I’m in a position to object to anyone else’s infidelity, and it could be argued that if a relationship has gone so far wrong that one or both of those involved has found themselves an outside interest, it’s probably too late as far as the marriage is concerned so they might as well get on with being happy. But, at the same time, the book does seem to be saying that infidelity is worth it if it’s in the name of true love, and I’m not really sure that’s true.
But, leaving all those issues aside, it’s a great book. It’s not exactly a comedy, but Stimson can be very witty when she wants to be, and has a wonderful way of leading into tragedy or horror with a light-hearted scene that catches me out every time.
The structure of the book is unusual. Four of the six members of the ‘Infidelity Chain’ take it in turns to ‘write’ a chapter from their point of view. Not so unusual, but each round of chapters usually (although, confusingly, not always) takes place at more or less the same time, so a number of the conversations come two or more times, as we see the scene from the point of view of every protagonist who is present.
It’s a great idea, but I read quite quickly, and I tend to remember people’s conversations while I’m reading the book (if only my memory was as good in the rest of my life). So it did seem very repetitive, and not always illuminating. There were occasions where something that seemed offhand or hurtful suddenly seemed completely understandable once the story was re-told from a different point of view, but mostly I could see the conversation from everyone’s point of view the first time, so reading it all again didn’t really add anything. But it works really well a lot of the time, especially when Stimson hasn’t written out all the same conversations word for word.
The characters are great. Ella is probably the one you’d call the main character. Ella is a doctor, and she’s actually intelligent. She really is. Okay, so cheating on her husband probably isn’t her best demonstration of it, but you can tell she’s good at her job. Even when Ella starts to doubt her abilities and becomes a much more vulnerable character, I can still believe she’s been to and passed medical school.
But more than that, Ella is a married woman with an adorable husband called Jackson and is sleeping with a married man called William – and I like her. I like her a lot. I know there are plenty of lovely homewreckers in real life, but it’s more difficult to separate the crime from the person in fiction because you can’t stand in a room with the character and get to know them in your own way.
I really like the other characters too. Beth (William’s wife) is a very convincing depressive. The multiple-viewpoint style is most successful with Beth because life does look totally different when you’re depressed, so she always has something new to bring to the story.
At the same time, you do have some sympathy with William (if you can forget about the infidelity issue for the minute) as he’s a really lovely man, and even though it’s definitely possible to enjoy the company of a depressive, you can tell it does take a great deal of energy, and sometimes you feel so helpless, and in need of some time away from them. William’s daughter Cate is amazingly nice for an adolescent – I even got used to the bizarre spelling of her name once I realised it was short for Caitlin rather than an emulation of Cate Blanchett. (I always want to call her Sate Blanchett. Has anyone else done that?)
Not that I’m saying you should go out and try it, but infidelity has never been so romantic.
The book is not totally pro-infidelity, but it is far from being against it. Not that I’m in a position to object to anyone else’s infidelity, and it could be argued that if a relationship has gone so far wrong that one or both of those involved has found themselves an outside interest, it’s probably too late as far as the marriage is concerned so they might as well get on with being happy. But, at the same time, the book does seem to be saying that infidelity is worth it if it’s in the name of true love, and I’m not really sure that’s true.
But, leaving all those issues aside, it’s a great book. It’s not exactly a comedy, but Stimson can be very witty when she wants to be, and has a wonderful way of leading into tragedy or horror with a light-hearted scene that catches me out every time.
The structure of the book is unusual. Four of the six members of the ‘Infidelity Chain’ take it in turns to ‘write’ a chapter from their point of view. Not so unusual, but each round of chapters usually (although, confusingly, not always) takes place at more or less the same time, so a number of the conversations come two or more times, as we see the scene from the point of view of every protagonist who is present.
It’s a great idea, but I read quite quickly, and I tend to remember people’s conversations while I’m reading the book (if only my memory was as good in the rest of my life). So it did seem very repetitive, and not always illuminating. There were occasions where something that seemed offhand or hurtful suddenly seemed completely understandable once the story was re-told from a different point of view, but mostly I could see the conversation from everyone’s point of view the first time, so reading it all again didn’t really add anything. But it works really well a lot of the time, especially when Stimson hasn’t written out all the same conversations word for word.
The characters are great. Ella is probably the one you’d call the main character. Ella is a doctor, and she’s actually intelligent. She really is. Okay, so cheating on her husband probably isn’t her best demonstration of it, but you can tell she’s good at her job. Even when Ella starts to doubt her abilities and becomes a much more vulnerable character, I can still believe she’s been to and passed medical school.
But more than that, Ella is a married woman with an adorable husband called Jackson and is sleeping with a married man called William – and I like her. I like her a lot. I know there are plenty of lovely homewreckers in real life, but it’s more difficult to separate the crime from the person in fiction because you can’t stand in a room with the character and get to know them in your own way.
I really like the other characters too. Beth (William’s wife) is a very convincing depressive. The multiple-viewpoint style is most successful with Beth because life does look totally different when you’re depressed, so she always has something new to bring to the story.
At the same time, you do have some sympathy with William (if you can forget about the infidelity issue for the minute) as he’s a really lovely man, and even though it’s definitely possible to enjoy the company of a depressive, you can tell it does take a great deal of energy, and sometimes you feel so helpless, and in need of some time away from them. William’s daughter Cate is amazingly nice for an adolescent – I even got used to the bizarre spelling of her name once I realised it was short for Caitlin rather than an emulation of Cate Blanchett. (I always want to call her Sate Blanchett. Has anyone else done that?)
Not that I’m saying you should go out and try it, but infidelity has never been so romantic.
Saturday 22 November 2008
Visit this blog: Fairy Kisses
Read this blog by the very talented Amy. Fairy Kisses is a beautifully-written blog which includes personal updates, articles on a number of subjects, and some great book reviews.
Amy's recent reviews include the 1006 film of Jane Eyre, Lucy Dawson's His Other Lover (which I'm hoping someone will buy me for Christmas) and Katie Price/Jordan's Crystal (Amy's review of this book is much more polite than mine!).
Amy's recent reviews include the 1006 film of Jane Eyre, Lucy Dawson's His Other Lover (which I'm hoping someone will buy me for Christmas) and Katie Price/Jordan's Crystal (Amy's review of this book is much more polite than mine!).
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (Fiona Neill)***
Lucy is the world’s most useless mother. She has rotten apples all over her car (ewwwww I’m not getting in there!) and she gives the guy she fancies (not the guy she’s married to) a drink of wee. She also has a habit of thinking of people by nicknames, which include Yummy Mummy No. 1 and Sexy Domesticated Dad, which does get quite annoying, although it’s probably true that Lucy isn’t really seeing them as individuals.
Interestingly (and annoyingly) the characters with labels come over much more strongly than some of the characters with names. Her friends, Emma and Cathy have very little character other than an overwhelming desire for illicit sex. On the positive side, this makes Lucy’s extra-marital dalliances seem a bit more forgiveable – after all, everyone’s doing it! But it is rather disappointing as some of Fiona Neill’s other characters are brilliant.
Lucy is absolutely terrifyingly incompetent, but her talents for getting out of messes almost equal her talents for getting into them, and she’s absolutely lovely. Even her attempts to have an affair have a kind of innocence about them. I don’t quite believe that she has a history degree – maybe if it was something more creative like Art, I’d believe it – but a history degree somehow doesn’t quite fit with the character, even as an amusing contrast between Lucy Then and Lucy Now.
Becky in Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series is totally dippy, but (not that I know her actual qualifications), I can believe she probably has A Levels, if not a degree – although probably not an academic one. I’m sure there are loads of people with history degrees who are incompetent, but it’s a surprising combination, and even in a comedy it’s not always effective to bring in too many surprising combinations, especially one that is really only a small part of the book and doesn’t really advance the plot.
Robert (Sexy Domesticated Dad) is incredibly sexy, which makes Lucy’s behaviour even more reasonable, and Isobel (Yummy Mummy No. 1) manages to seem really really nice, even though the book is told from the point of view of Lucy, who finds her apparent perfection threatening.
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy is really funny, and the jokes keep going all the way through the book. You can see the twists coming a mile off, and some of the incidents in the book just wouldn't happen. But the twists actually worked well, and some of the unrealistic bits were so funny, I didn't much care how silly they were. In lots of ways, the book is more a series of episodes than a story, but that’s okay. Some of Lucy’s mistakes are too embarrassing to be funny – you do cringe for her quite a lot - but most of them are great. Is there are phrase in the English language more horrific than Yesterday’s Knickers? I don’t think there is.
Interestingly (and annoyingly) the characters with labels come over much more strongly than some of the characters with names. Her friends, Emma and Cathy have very little character other than an overwhelming desire for illicit sex. On the positive side, this makes Lucy’s extra-marital dalliances seem a bit more forgiveable – after all, everyone’s doing it! But it is rather disappointing as some of Fiona Neill’s other characters are brilliant.
Lucy is absolutely terrifyingly incompetent, but her talents for getting out of messes almost equal her talents for getting into them, and she’s absolutely lovely. Even her attempts to have an affair have a kind of innocence about them. I don’t quite believe that she has a history degree – maybe if it was something more creative like Art, I’d believe it – but a history degree somehow doesn’t quite fit with the character, even as an amusing contrast between Lucy Then and Lucy Now.
Becky in Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series is totally dippy, but (not that I know her actual qualifications), I can believe she probably has A Levels, if not a degree – although probably not an academic one. I’m sure there are loads of people with history degrees who are incompetent, but it’s a surprising combination, and even in a comedy it’s not always effective to bring in too many surprising combinations, especially one that is really only a small part of the book and doesn’t really advance the plot.
Robert (Sexy Domesticated Dad) is incredibly sexy, which makes Lucy’s behaviour even more reasonable, and Isobel (Yummy Mummy No. 1) manages to seem really really nice, even though the book is told from the point of view of Lucy, who finds her apparent perfection threatening.
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy is really funny, and the jokes keep going all the way through the book. You can see the twists coming a mile off, and some of the incidents in the book just wouldn't happen. But the twists actually worked well, and some of the unrealistic bits were so funny, I didn't much care how silly they were. In lots of ways, the book is more a series of episodes than a story, but that’s okay. Some of Lucy’s mistakes are too embarrassing to be funny – you do cringe for her quite a lot - but most of them are great. Is there are phrase in the English language more horrific than Yesterday’s Knickers? I don’t think there is.
Thursday 20 November 2008
Atonement (Ian McEwan)**
I feel really bad about writing this because I’ve just met a really nice girl online and she loves Atonement. But I just can’t think of anything nice to say about it.
But I’ll try. Ian McEwan’s writing is very flowery, almost poetic, and he handles some challenging subjects. The middle section, about Robbie’s life as a soldier, is very interesting and shocking. His characters are all real individuals and I’ve never read another book like it.
But I hate this book. I really do. McEwan almost seems to be sneering at his characters from a distance. I can’t blame him for that, as I got quite sneery about them too, but there’s not much point in writing about characters if you don’t have the slightest bit of affection for them. It’s probably worse than writers that insist on telling you their characters are wonderful. I suppose it is possible to write about villains you dislike, but the best books are those where you even like the villains in a way. Hating a character isn’t that much fun really, but loving to hate a character is great. I don’t love to hate the characters in Atonement. I’d rather not think about them at all.
Some of the incidents in the book just didn’t ring true. Like there’s a bit where Robbie writes a horny letter to weird Cecelia, then writes a more decent one. He asks freaky Briony to deliver the letter, even though he’s going to see Cecelia himself, but mixes the letters up. I have read a different story with an incident like this, and it worked brilliantly, but that story had a strong element of comedy, and I really wanted the two characters to get it together. Atonement seems deathly serious, and I couldn’t stand Robbie or Cecelia. Robbie’s okay, I suppose, but Cecelia’s scary.
As for that stripping off by the fountain incident – as if! I accept that Cecelia doesn’t want to bother the kitchen staff by using the kitchen taps, but are there really no other taps in the house? I’m sure the house has bathrooms. Even if they don’t have running water, is there no garden tap Cecelia could use? And even if the fountain really is the only source of water, you don’t take all your clothes off and jump in. You’d have to be seriously deranged to do that. Any normal person would just lean over the fountain and hold the vase she wants to fill underneath the water. Actually, forget normal people, even I wouldn’t throw myself in. Not even if I wanted to impress some guy. If I want to impress someone, I don’t usually try to pretend to be even madder than I am. Even if I was in the mood for doing something silly, I’d go in with my clothes on. Much more fun that way.
Briony is the little bitch who causes all the trouble, and one positive thing I can say is that McEwan almost manages to make her crime reasonable. It’s still incredibly stupid, but the little brat obviously suffers from severe immaturity, and anyone a bit stupid with a mental age of 5 might make the mistake she did. She’s actually 13, so she really should have known not to be so evil. Or maybe the character could have been written in a more sympathetic manner. Briony is supposed to be very upset and hurt when she commits her crime, and a lot of readers will have been in a similar position, so it should be possible to understand her feelings. But she’s such a horrible little brat, and McEwan’s habit of distancing himself from his characters doesn’t help.
It’s not all Briony’s fault though. Anyone with parents like Leon and Emily probably didn’t have much chance of becoming reasonable human beings. Neither of them is very sane or very likeable. Some of the characters who feature in the Robbie section are interesting, but they’re hardly in it really,
Another really annoying thing about this book (which is apparently also true of at least one of his others) is that the story isn’t original. He stole it from an autobiography from the time where the book is set (he has denied this, but it looks a bit suspicious to me). Moral issues aside, I just find this a bit of a cheat. It’s okay to find outside inspiration. All writers do it. But you need to bring something to the book to make it your own, and writing a bizarre story that is half-copied, half-nonsensical, isn’t really enough for me.
But Atonement does seem to have made a lot of people really happy. And that is good.
But I’ll try. Ian McEwan’s writing is very flowery, almost poetic, and he handles some challenging subjects. The middle section, about Robbie’s life as a soldier, is very interesting and shocking. His characters are all real individuals and I’ve never read another book like it.
But I hate this book. I really do. McEwan almost seems to be sneering at his characters from a distance. I can’t blame him for that, as I got quite sneery about them too, but there’s not much point in writing about characters if you don’t have the slightest bit of affection for them. It’s probably worse than writers that insist on telling you their characters are wonderful. I suppose it is possible to write about villains you dislike, but the best books are those where you even like the villains in a way. Hating a character isn’t that much fun really, but loving to hate a character is great. I don’t love to hate the characters in Atonement. I’d rather not think about them at all.
Some of the incidents in the book just didn’t ring true. Like there’s a bit where Robbie writes a horny letter to weird Cecelia, then writes a more decent one. He asks freaky Briony to deliver the letter, even though he’s going to see Cecelia himself, but mixes the letters up. I have read a different story with an incident like this, and it worked brilliantly, but that story had a strong element of comedy, and I really wanted the two characters to get it together. Atonement seems deathly serious, and I couldn’t stand Robbie or Cecelia. Robbie’s okay, I suppose, but Cecelia’s scary.
As for that stripping off by the fountain incident – as if! I accept that Cecelia doesn’t want to bother the kitchen staff by using the kitchen taps, but are there really no other taps in the house? I’m sure the house has bathrooms. Even if they don’t have running water, is there no garden tap Cecelia could use? And even if the fountain really is the only source of water, you don’t take all your clothes off and jump in. You’d have to be seriously deranged to do that. Any normal person would just lean over the fountain and hold the vase she wants to fill underneath the water. Actually, forget normal people, even I wouldn’t throw myself in. Not even if I wanted to impress some guy. If I want to impress someone, I don’t usually try to pretend to be even madder than I am. Even if I was in the mood for doing something silly, I’d go in with my clothes on. Much more fun that way.
Briony is the little bitch who causes all the trouble, and one positive thing I can say is that McEwan almost manages to make her crime reasonable. It’s still incredibly stupid, but the little brat obviously suffers from severe immaturity, and anyone a bit stupid with a mental age of 5 might make the mistake she did. She’s actually 13, so she really should have known not to be so evil. Or maybe the character could have been written in a more sympathetic manner. Briony is supposed to be very upset and hurt when she commits her crime, and a lot of readers will have been in a similar position, so it should be possible to understand her feelings. But she’s such a horrible little brat, and McEwan’s habit of distancing himself from his characters doesn’t help.
It’s not all Briony’s fault though. Anyone with parents like Leon and Emily probably didn’t have much chance of becoming reasonable human beings. Neither of them is very sane or very likeable. Some of the characters who feature in the Robbie section are interesting, but they’re hardly in it really,
Another really annoying thing about this book (which is apparently also true of at least one of his others) is that the story isn’t original. He stole it from an autobiography from the time where the book is set (he has denied this, but it looks a bit suspicious to me). Moral issues aside, I just find this a bit of a cheat. It’s okay to find outside inspiration. All writers do it. But you need to bring something to the book to make it your own, and writing a bizarre story that is half-copied, half-nonsensical, isn’t really enough for me.
But Atonement does seem to have made a lot of people really happy. And that is good.
Friday 19 September 2008
The Hitman (Ricky Hatton)****
Some autobiographies are great to read whether you’re interested in the subject or not. My whole family loved Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch, even though only two of us are interested in football. The Hitman unfortunately might not be so universally appealing – although boxing fans will surely enjoy it. Even those that aren’t particular fans of Ricky should enjoy the boxing descriptions and the humour.
Ricky Hatton – or, more accurately, his ghost writer, Niall Hickman (although he has captured Ricky’s ‘voice’ really well) tells some great stories, from Ricky’s life in and out of the ring. Describing what happens in a boxing match isn’t easy, but Hatton/Hickman brings every fight to life. He also treats his opponents with extraordinary respect, whatever the result. So many celebrities see a biography as an opportunity to bad mouth pretty much anyone they can. Hatton is nice about everyone. Even when he doesn’t get on with someone, he is as tactful as he can be, and never ignores their positive points. It’s very refreshing.
Ricky also has a great sense of humour. Some of his stories are hilarious, all of them extremely well told. It’s easy to imagine this is exactly how Ricky would describe it, word for word. The style is chatty but readable. He’s very honest, and, although confident in his abilities, he’s surprisingly modest. He seems like a really lovely man who really appreciates his fans, enjoying their company at least as much as their support.
The chapters in the book are called ‘Rounds’, which is appropriate in theory, but the thing about rounds is that they imply chronological order. Although Hatton clearly does have chronology in mind, he has a remarkable tendency to get sidetracked. He’ll start talking about a fight he’s preparing for, but then he’ll start talking about something that happened to him when he was a child that starts off being relevant, but then you get further and further from the subject in hand. Then he might go on to talk about his life as an amateur boxer… it’s all very interesting, but it’s sometimes frustrating when you’re looking forward to hearing about a fight, and Hatton will give you one really tantalising detail – and then you have to wait for ages to find out the rest.
Hatton does tend to assume that the people reading his book will know what’s going to happen before they read the book. It was probably reasonable for him to make the assumption that his book is not that likely to be read by people who don’t know who he is. His fight history includes just one defeat, and I should think all his fans will remember who beat Ricky, and when.
But I read the same books over and over again, and even though I know exactly what’s going to happen, I still get really excited and worried about what might happen. I get all caught up in the moment, and start hoping and dreading that something will/won’t happen. It’s the same with Ricky’s boxing matches. Each one is so thrillingly described – but, every so often, he will remind you (although not in a conceited way) of the fact he won it, and that brings the excitement levels down.
But in the end, Hatton seems to worked this out: the latest update, which includes Hatton’s fight against Floyd Merryweather in December last year, is wonderfully-written. I knew the result very well: I’d seen the reports, and would have watched the match if I’d had Setanta Sports. But it’s so vividly written, I kind of forgot all that and just got caught up in what Hatton was describing. It’s a shame Hatton didn’t write the whole of the book like this. But that doesn’t stop The Hitman from being a very good book.
Ricky Hatton – or, more accurately, his ghost writer, Niall Hickman (although he has captured Ricky’s ‘voice’ really well) tells some great stories, from Ricky’s life in and out of the ring. Describing what happens in a boxing match isn’t easy, but Hatton/Hickman brings every fight to life. He also treats his opponents with extraordinary respect, whatever the result. So many celebrities see a biography as an opportunity to bad mouth pretty much anyone they can. Hatton is nice about everyone. Even when he doesn’t get on with someone, he is as tactful as he can be, and never ignores their positive points. It’s very refreshing.
Ricky also has a great sense of humour. Some of his stories are hilarious, all of them extremely well told. It’s easy to imagine this is exactly how Ricky would describe it, word for word. The style is chatty but readable. He’s very honest, and, although confident in his abilities, he’s surprisingly modest. He seems like a really lovely man who really appreciates his fans, enjoying their company at least as much as their support.
The chapters in the book are called ‘Rounds’, which is appropriate in theory, but the thing about rounds is that they imply chronological order. Although Hatton clearly does have chronology in mind, he has a remarkable tendency to get sidetracked. He’ll start talking about a fight he’s preparing for, but then he’ll start talking about something that happened to him when he was a child that starts off being relevant, but then you get further and further from the subject in hand. Then he might go on to talk about his life as an amateur boxer… it’s all very interesting, but it’s sometimes frustrating when you’re looking forward to hearing about a fight, and Hatton will give you one really tantalising detail – and then you have to wait for ages to find out the rest.
Hatton does tend to assume that the people reading his book will know what’s going to happen before they read the book. It was probably reasonable for him to make the assumption that his book is not that likely to be read by people who don’t know who he is. His fight history includes just one defeat, and I should think all his fans will remember who beat Ricky, and when.
But I read the same books over and over again, and even though I know exactly what’s going to happen, I still get really excited and worried about what might happen. I get all caught up in the moment, and start hoping and dreading that something will/won’t happen. It’s the same with Ricky’s boxing matches. Each one is so thrillingly described – but, every so often, he will remind you (although not in a conceited way) of the fact he won it, and that brings the excitement levels down.
But in the end, Hatton seems to worked this out: the latest update, which includes Hatton’s fight against Floyd Merryweather in December last year, is wonderfully-written. I knew the result very well: I’d seen the reports, and would have watched the match if I’d had Setanta Sports. But it’s so vividly written, I kind of forgot all that and just got caught up in what Hatton was describing. It’s a shame Hatton didn’t write the whole of the book like this. But that doesn’t stop The Hitman from being a very good book.
Sunday 14 September 2008
Angels (Marian Keyes)***
After reading Marian Keyes’ wonderful Anybody Out There, I was really excited to find out there were other books about Anna’s sisters. There are actually four in all, and reviews for Watermelon and Rachel’s Holiday will be posted when I get round to writing them. Angels tells the story of Maggie, the second of the five sisters. Maggie has grown up being the good girl, but she suddenly starts questioning whether this is something she really wants. So she leaves her husband Garv, and heads off to Los Angeles where her best friend Emily is trying to be a Hollywood scriptwriter.
It’s not a bad book at all, but a disappointment in comparison with the others. Maggie is, at least for me, by far the least likeable and the least amusing of the sisters. While it does sometimes take a while to learn to like Keyes’ characters, Maggie is someone I never really liked.
She’s just not a very nice person. She spends most of her time in Los Angeles getting drunk and sleeping with various people, and it never seems anything other than desperate and embarrassing. She’s self-obsessed, thoughtless, and a total slut. Or that’s the way it seems. Okay, yes, she thinks her husband’s having an affair, and she has just lost her job, and that’s enough to make anyone go a bit mad, but Maggie seems so neurotic and selfish all the way through the book, it’s much too easy to believe the affair is in her imagination and the sacking was deserved.
It has to be said, she gets into the bad girl lifestyle with no trouble at all, and maybe she seems happier and more alive when she’s being bad, but not really in an attractive way. And you just think: great, she’s found her true calling. She’s happier now. Let’s just leave her there and read another book.
Once we start getting flashbacks to Maggie’s life before she left Garv, her behaviour starts to make a bit more sense, and I wasn’t totally unsympathetic to her after that. But instead of her history seeming like a reason for her to go to Los Angeles, it seemed more like a reason for her to go home. As soon as possible. Ideally before she does something else stupid. She’s not going to solve the problem by sleeping around. She really isn’t.
Keyes is usually magnificent at characterisation, and her books are usually full of wonderful people, but there aren’t really any here. Maggie’s friend Emily is amazingly saintly, considering the crap she puts up with from Maggie – surely the last thing she wanted was Maggie moving into her flat and making demands on her time when she has a script to write. Maggie somehow gets involved in all aspects of Emily’s life, muscling in on her work and her social life, and ends up monopolising them completely. The friendship between Maggie and Emily never quite rings true for me. They don’t really have much of a rapport, and they barely seem to share any common interests besides getting drunk. Emily is a workaholic and Maggie is a sexaholic, and it’s difficult to see why they’re friends.
The flashbacks provide a bit of plot, but the main story seems more like a series of adventures. All Keyes’ books are full of adventures, but there’s usually a sense of heading towards something. But not here. The best parts are when Maggie’s bonkers family gets in touch.
But the rest of the series really is great.
It’s not a bad book at all, but a disappointment in comparison with the others. Maggie is, at least for me, by far the least likeable and the least amusing of the sisters. While it does sometimes take a while to learn to like Keyes’ characters, Maggie is someone I never really liked.
She’s just not a very nice person. She spends most of her time in Los Angeles getting drunk and sleeping with various people, and it never seems anything other than desperate and embarrassing. She’s self-obsessed, thoughtless, and a total slut. Or that’s the way it seems. Okay, yes, she thinks her husband’s having an affair, and she has just lost her job, and that’s enough to make anyone go a bit mad, but Maggie seems so neurotic and selfish all the way through the book, it’s much too easy to believe the affair is in her imagination and the sacking was deserved.
It has to be said, she gets into the bad girl lifestyle with no trouble at all, and maybe she seems happier and more alive when she’s being bad, but not really in an attractive way. And you just think: great, she’s found her true calling. She’s happier now. Let’s just leave her there and read another book.
Once we start getting flashbacks to Maggie’s life before she left Garv, her behaviour starts to make a bit more sense, and I wasn’t totally unsympathetic to her after that. But instead of her history seeming like a reason for her to go to Los Angeles, it seemed more like a reason for her to go home. As soon as possible. Ideally before she does something else stupid. She’s not going to solve the problem by sleeping around. She really isn’t.
Keyes is usually magnificent at characterisation, and her books are usually full of wonderful people, but there aren’t really any here. Maggie’s friend Emily is amazingly saintly, considering the crap she puts up with from Maggie – surely the last thing she wanted was Maggie moving into her flat and making demands on her time when she has a script to write. Maggie somehow gets involved in all aspects of Emily’s life, muscling in on her work and her social life, and ends up monopolising them completely. The friendship between Maggie and Emily never quite rings true for me. They don’t really have much of a rapport, and they barely seem to share any common interests besides getting drunk. Emily is a workaholic and Maggie is a sexaholic, and it’s difficult to see why they’re friends.
The flashbacks provide a bit of plot, but the main story seems more like a series of adventures. All Keyes’ books are full of adventures, but there’s usually a sense of heading towards something. But not here. The best parts are when Maggie’s bonkers family gets in touch.
But the rest of the series really is great.
Monday 8 September 2008
A Hidden Life (Adele Geras)****
Adele Geras is a brilliant writer. Her style is both poetic and very gripping; she can be very funny, and A Hidden Life, like a lot of her stories, has some really great twists: the type that could fall flat but never do. Her characters are really lovely, and even some of the dodgy ones are quite appealing.
A Hidden Life also manages to get away with something I usually really don’t like writers to do. One of the characters is a writer, and A Hidden Life includes a number of excerpts from the character’s book. I usually don’t like this because my brain would rather not be keeping an eye on two such completely different storylines at the same time, and the fact that the second storyline is in a book immediately makes it seem unreal. And, as it is unreal, I’d usually prefer not to waste my time with it.
But Geras has a reason for doing this, and it’s a reason that works because she does manage to make it real. The book sections tell you something important about the character who wrote them, and they therefore become an important part of the book. Still, I don’t think it’s something authors should try too often.
All the main characters seemed a lot older than me, including the one who was supposed to be about my age. There’s nothing wrong with that, and I am quite immature anyway, so most characters would seem older than me, but I didn’t identify with the characters as much as I usually like to. The person my age, Lou, is a very nice girl, and her story is very interesting, but even though we have quite a lot in common, I don’t really identify with her. I love her name, though.
My favourite character is Vanessa – she seems fun, and I really like the way her relationship with Mickey (a girl) is described very simply without any fuss. Kissing girls is really no different from kissing boys except girls are better kissers, so there’s no need to make a big drama about it. Coming-out books are fine, and they probably are important and encouraging for people who are thinking of coming out themselves, but you can often learn more about same-sex relationships when they’re not part of the main story - because, most of the time, the fact you’re gay isn’t the most important factor in your life. Life is about how you relate to each other and to outside events, and A Hidden Life is mostly about outside events. While Vanessa is concerned about coming out to her family, her relationship is something for her to enjoy, and to derive comfort from – but not something for her to worry about especially. The main theme of any book is what the characters are most worried about.
It was disappointing in a way that Vanessa’s girlfriend had a male name because it does tend to make the girl-on-girl thing less obvious (NOT that I was getting turned on by it), but maybe it helps readers who might feel uncomfortable reading about lesbians if they can half-pretend she’s a man. They really did have a lovely relationship.
The men were a bit annoying, though. There was only about one man in the whole book who wasn’t unfaithful, and he never really got the chance to be because he only showed up about halfway through, and only got into a relationship later on. Still, in a way it kinds of makes you feel, no wonder Vanessa became a lesbian if that’s what all the men she knows are like. And I’d really prefer to think she is with her girlfriend because she really likes her rather than because there aren’t any decent men around.
But, as usual, Geras has created lots of really good characters, and it’s very easy to remember who’s who. I think I liked just about every character by the end. Phyl can be annoyingly pathetic, but I couldn’t help admiring her for not being even worse. Harry is absolutely adorable, a proper romantic-novel hero, and the fact he does have his imperfections makes him a lot more human than most romantic heroes. Even the people who aren’t actually alive when the book takes place are very powerful characters. A Hidden Life really is an intelligent and intriguing novel.
A Hidden Life also manages to get away with something I usually really don’t like writers to do. One of the characters is a writer, and A Hidden Life includes a number of excerpts from the character’s book. I usually don’t like this because my brain would rather not be keeping an eye on two such completely different storylines at the same time, and the fact that the second storyline is in a book immediately makes it seem unreal. And, as it is unreal, I’d usually prefer not to waste my time with it.
But Geras has a reason for doing this, and it’s a reason that works because she does manage to make it real. The book sections tell you something important about the character who wrote them, and they therefore become an important part of the book. Still, I don’t think it’s something authors should try too often.
All the main characters seemed a lot older than me, including the one who was supposed to be about my age. There’s nothing wrong with that, and I am quite immature anyway, so most characters would seem older than me, but I didn’t identify with the characters as much as I usually like to. The person my age, Lou, is a very nice girl, and her story is very interesting, but even though we have quite a lot in common, I don’t really identify with her. I love her name, though.
My favourite character is Vanessa – she seems fun, and I really like the way her relationship with Mickey (a girl) is described very simply without any fuss. Kissing girls is really no different from kissing boys except girls are better kissers, so there’s no need to make a big drama about it. Coming-out books are fine, and they probably are important and encouraging for people who are thinking of coming out themselves, but you can often learn more about same-sex relationships when they’re not part of the main story - because, most of the time, the fact you’re gay isn’t the most important factor in your life. Life is about how you relate to each other and to outside events, and A Hidden Life is mostly about outside events. While Vanessa is concerned about coming out to her family, her relationship is something for her to enjoy, and to derive comfort from – but not something for her to worry about especially. The main theme of any book is what the characters are most worried about.
It was disappointing in a way that Vanessa’s girlfriend had a male name because it does tend to make the girl-on-girl thing less obvious (NOT that I was getting turned on by it), but maybe it helps readers who might feel uncomfortable reading about lesbians if they can half-pretend she’s a man. They really did have a lovely relationship.
The men were a bit annoying, though. There was only about one man in the whole book who wasn’t unfaithful, and he never really got the chance to be because he only showed up about halfway through, and only got into a relationship later on. Still, in a way it kinds of makes you feel, no wonder Vanessa became a lesbian if that’s what all the men she knows are like. And I’d really prefer to think she is with her girlfriend because she really likes her rather than because there aren’t any decent men around.
But, as usual, Geras has created lots of really good characters, and it’s very easy to remember who’s who. I think I liked just about every character by the end. Phyl can be annoyingly pathetic, but I couldn’t help admiring her for not being even worse. Harry is absolutely adorable, a proper romantic-novel hero, and the fact he does have his imperfections makes him a lot more human than most romantic heroes. Even the people who aren’t actually alive when the book takes place are very powerful characters. A Hidden Life really is an intelligent and intriguing novel.
Saturday 23 August 2008
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox (Maggie O'Farrell)***
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is a fascinating book. It’s beautifully and rather poetically written, which seems to be quite unusual for books written in the present tense. These tend to be witty and snappy rather than poetic – although there are exceptions, such as Sophie Hannah’s Hurting Distance.
I wouldn’t call The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox chick lit. It’s probably aimed at an older audience, and there isn’t a lot of romance or humour in it. It’s not an easy book to classify. Perhaps it could be called a mystery story, but it’s certainly not a detective story. It’s frightening and horrific in places, but it probably doesn’t count as horror. There are some sad bits, but you guess quite early on that there is, at the very least, potential for a happy ending. In many ways, The Vanishing Act of Esmé Lennox is a historical novel, but I’ve always found that genre a bit too all-encompassing. Just about any story set in the past counts as historical, whether it is set fifty or fifty thousand years ago; whether it is a happy story or a sad one.
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is strange, but compelling. True, parts of the book are quite boring, mostly the parts of the story about Esme’s great-niece Iris, but most of it was intriguing, and I wanted to know what had happened in the past, and how things were going to work out in the future.
But the book doesn’t quite seem finished. A lot of books stop at a really interesting point, leaving you wondering what’s going to happen next, and wishing it wasn’t the end, but so much of the story in this book seems to be missing. It’s quite frustrating to get to the end of the book with so many questions unanswered.
And it’s not just that the book ends prematurely – a lot of the middle of the story seems to be missing too. Although the book spans many years – we see Esme both as a child and as a very old lady – very little of the story is actually told directly. A lot of the time, Iris is listening to Esme telling her story. It’s all very interesting, but it might have been even more gripping if Maggie O’Farrell had shown more from Esme’s point of view and gone into more detail about what happened. There is so much she just touches on that I’d have liked to hear a lot more about. It’s not as though it would make the book too long: it’s actually rather short. There are only 244 pages, and not many words on a page.
Another thing that might have helped would be if Iris had had more of a story. I know the book only covers a very small part of her life, but it would have been good to get to know her as well as we know Esme. There is lots of room in the book for another storyline. All we really get to know about Iris is that she’s dating married Luke, and she once slept with her stepbrother Alex. It’s all very controversial stuff, but it actually makes a bit of an odd contrast with Esme’s story, and there’s no real feeling that the stories are intertwined. There’s no sense that the Esme problem and the boyfriend problem are in any way connected, or that one helps Iris to deal with the other.
But there is a lot I like about this book, and one of them is that, even though there are horrible things happening all over the place. O’Farrell has still created some very lovely characters. Esme, in particular, is very sweet, and her naughtiness is very easy to identify with. Iris is also lovely. Even some of the characters who cause horrible things to happen aren’t so much villains as badly mistaken, and the people who genuinely are nasty still seem like real people, rather than being exaggeratedly villains.
I wouldn’t call The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox chick lit. It’s probably aimed at an older audience, and there isn’t a lot of romance or humour in it. It’s not an easy book to classify. Perhaps it could be called a mystery story, but it’s certainly not a detective story. It’s frightening and horrific in places, but it probably doesn’t count as horror. There are some sad bits, but you guess quite early on that there is, at the very least, potential for a happy ending. In many ways, The Vanishing Act of Esmé Lennox is a historical novel, but I’ve always found that genre a bit too all-encompassing. Just about any story set in the past counts as historical, whether it is set fifty or fifty thousand years ago; whether it is a happy story or a sad one.
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is strange, but compelling. True, parts of the book are quite boring, mostly the parts of the story about Esme’s great-niece Iris, but most of it was intriguing, and I wanted to know what had happened in the past, and how things were going to work out in the future.
But the book doesn’t quite seem finished. A lot of books stop at a really interesting point, leaving you wondering what’s going to happen next, and wishing it wasn’t the end, but so much of the story in this book seems to be missing. It’s quite frustrating to get to the end of the book with so many questions unanswered.
And it’s not just that the book ends prematurely – a lot of the middle of the story seems to be missing too. Although the book spans many years – we see Esme both as a child and as a very old lady – very little of the story is actually told directly. A lot of the time, Iris is listening to Esme telling her story. It’s all very interesting, but it might have been even more gripping if Maggie O’Farrell had shown more from Esme’s point of view and gone into more detail about what happened. There is so much she just touches on that I’d have liked to hear a lot more about. It’s not as though it would make the book too long: it’s actually rather short. There are only 244 pages, and not many words on a page.
Another thing that might have helped would be if Iris had had more of a story. I know the book only covers a very small part of her life, but it would have been good to get to know her as well as we know Esme. There is lots of room in the book for another storyline. All we really get to know about Iris is that she’s dating married Luke, and she once slept with her stepbrother Alex. It’s all very controversial stuff, but it actually makes a bit of an odd contrast with Esme’s story, and there’s no real feeling that the stories are intertwined. There’s no sense that the Esme problem and the boyfriend problem are in any way connected, or that one helps Iris to deal with the other.
But there is a lot I like about this book, and one of them is that, even though there are horrible things happening all over the place. O’Farrell has still created some very lovely characters. Esme, in particular, is very sweet, and her naughtiness is very easy to identify with. Iris is also lovely. Even some of the characters who cause horrible things to happen aren’t so much villains as badly mistaken, and the people who genuinely are nasty still seem like real people, rather than being exaggeratedly villains.
Sunday 13 July 2008
The Nanny**
Jo is depressed and wants a new life. Vanessa and Dick need a nanny for their children. The rest of the book is mostly about how wonderful Jo is, but I don’t actually like her very much.
Jo is supposed to be a very kind person, yet she spends a lot of time looking down on Vanessa and Dick and pitying them for having such a bad relationship. I actually think Vanessa and Dick are a wonderful couple who have a great relationship. It’s true that their relationship isn’t all that strong when Jo comes into their lives, but their scenes together still have a lot of warmth and humour, and I felt from the start that they would work out their problems with or without Jo’s help.
Jo is whiny and miserable, and a total hypocrite. Melissa Nathan clearly believes she’s a lovely girl who’s had a terrible life and deserves a bit of love and sympathy. And she probably does, but it’s very difficult to like a character when the author is trying to ram it down your throat how wonderful and special she is and how much everybody loves her. I kind of feel like I don’t want to waste my sympathy on her. She gets plenty from everyone else, and I was far more worried about Vanessa and Dick, who are having a much more difficult time than Jo, and their insecure but very intelligent daughter Cassandra, who is being bullied at school.
Jo isn’t even particularly good at her job. Okay, she is very depressed, which would account for some of it, but I still think she was very lucky not to get sacked. If Vanessa and Dick hadn’t had so much trouble finding a nanny; if every man Jo laid eyes on didn’t have a habit of falling in love with her on the spot (why?), she could have got herself into serious trouble. The main reason she doesn’t is because policemen Gerry and Nick are even worse at their job than she is at hers.
Jo does have a horrible shock towards the end, and you do feel for her – but there’s just one problem. Jo’s own behaviour is very similar to the behaviour of the person who hurt her. Maybe she hasn’t been behaving that way for as long, or in so serious a manner, but she is far from an innocent victim. The only other characters I don’t like are Josh, Dick’s son and one of Jo’s love interests, and her best friend Sheila. I can’t stand Jo, but the way Josh treats her at first is still really awful. The only time his treatment of Jo seemed reasonable was when he mentioned hearing her having sex with her boyfriend Shaun. Josh didn’t put it in the most tactful way, but I couldn’t get over the fact she’d do it in her employer’s house. And I don’t even remember her asking if he could stay the night. I think that’s really disrespectful.
The Nanny does have some great moments. Nathan has created some wonderful characters, and many of her scenes are original and funny. Without Jo, I’m sure I’d have loved the book. There is quite enough going on for Vanessa, Dick and their children without some snobby, incompetent Mary Poppins wannabe showing up. There are a lot of fart and poo jokes, which I really enjoyed (although I don’t know what real grown-ups would think), and all the characters except one (I think you know which one) are interesting and believable. I really enjoyed the all the subplots, particularly Cassandra’s and Vanessa‘s/Dick’s, and the way they all fitted together. It was good to read a book that focused on the whole family, not just the adults, and Nathan gave the children humour and intelligence, and made sure they weren’t nauseatingly cute.
Jo is supposed to be a very kind person, yet she spends a lot of time looking down on Vanessa and Dick and pitying them for having such a bad relationship. I actually think Vanessa and Dick are a wonderful couple who have a great relationship. It’s true that their relationship isn’t all that strong when Jo comes into their lives, but their scenes together still have a lot of warmth and humour, and I felt from the start that they would work out their problems with or without Jo’s help.
Jo is whiny and miserable, and a total hypocrite. Melissa Nathan clearly believes she’s a lovely girl who’s had a terrible life and deserves a bit of love and sympathy. And she probably does, but it’s very difficult to like a character when the author is trying to ram it down your throat how wonderful and special she is and how much everybody loves her. I kind of feel like I don’t want to waste my sympathy on her. She gets plenty from everyone else, and I was far more worried about Vanessa and Dick, who are having a much more difficult time than Jo, and their insecure but very intelligent daughter Cassandra, who is being bullied at school.
Jo isn’t even particularly good at her job. Okay, she is very depressed, which would account for some of it, but I still think she was very lucky not to get sacked. If Vanessa and Dick hadn’t had so much trouble finding a nanny; if every man Jo laid eyes on didn’t have a habit of falling in love with her on the spot (why?), she could have got herself into serious trouble. The main reason she doesn’t is because policemen Gerry and Nick are even worse at their job than she is at hers.
Jo does have a horrible shock towards the end, and you do feel for her – but there’s just one problem. Jo’s own behaviour is very similar to the behaviour of the person who hurt her. Maybe she hasn’t been behaving that way for as long, or in so serious a manner, but she is far from an innocent victim. The only other characters I don’t like are Josh, Dick’s son and one of Jo’s love interests, and her best friend Sheila. I can’t stand Jo, but the way Josh treats her at first is still really awful. The only time his treatment of Jo seemed reasonable was when he mentioned hearing her having sex with her boyfriend Shaun. Josh didn’t put it in the most tactful way, but I couldn’t get over the fact she’d do it in her employer’s house. And I don’t even remember her asking if he could stay the night. I think that’s really disrespectful.
The Nanny does have some great moments. Nathan has created some wonderful characters, and many of her scenes are original and funny. Without Jo, I’m sure I’d have loved the book. There is quite enough going on for Vanessa, Dick and their children without some snobby, incompetent Mary Poppins wannabe showing up. There are a lot of fart and poo jokes, which I really enjoyed (although I don’t know what real grown-ups would think), and all the characters except one (I think you know which one) are interesting and believable. I really enjoyed the all the subplots, particularly Cassandra’s and Vanessa‘s/Dick’s, and the way they all fitted together. It was good to read a book that focused on the whole family, not just the adults, and Nathan gave the children humour and intelligence, and made sure they weren’t nauseatingly cute.
Saturday 5 July 2008
Dead Famous (Ben Elton)*****
It was bound to happen sooner or later. Fourteen people enter a house so small that a family of four would probably be crowded. They are stirred up to the point where they have trouble controlling themselves, yet still they try to control those around them. Sooner or later, someone was going to get murdered.
Dead Famous opens with a detective at work, trawling through the hundreds of hours of footage of Peeping Tom, a fictional Big Brother. He watches the housemates and despises the housemates, and tries to work out who is the murderer.
As for the readers, we’re probably more concerned about who is the victim. You’re going to be a very long way into the book before you find out!
But this book isn’t slow. There’s so much going on, the murder can wait. Ben Elton has created a group of characters who could easily be interesting members of a real Big Brother household. It doesn’t have the a-laugh-a-paragraph quality of Elton’s X Factor satire, Chart Throb, but the much smaller cast of characters does allow Elton to go into a bit more depth with their personalities. The Big Brother phenomenon was fairly new when the book was published, but Elton has an instinctive understanding of what sort of people might be put into the house.
Dead Famous is a comedy, and a very good one, but the scenes with the detective are much more serious, and not unlike a detective in a more typical crime novel. As I love the comedy genre but am less keen on serious crime fiction, I was more interested in the Big Brother side than in the detective side, and that could be a problem for a lot of readers who are interested in the comedy side. And, while it is certainly an ingenious idea for a murder mystery, there is probably too much Big Brother-style inanity going on to keep a typical crime fan interested. But Elton nevertheless does an excellent job of merging the two genres – it would be difficult to imagine how it could be done better.
Although the earlier series of Big Brother did not have a particular predilection for unusual names and nicknames (well, apart from Bubble), Elton has provided us with plenty – Woggle, Dervla, Moon and Hamish are among the inmates I think the only names that have also been used by a real-life Big Brother housemate are David, who made a very brief appearance during Big Brother 8, and Jason from Big Brother 5, although is the fictional Jason is known as Jazz. (He’s nothing like Jazz in How to Kill Your Husband. He is a much nicer person, although I suppose that’s not much of a compliment.) Then we have Gazzer the Geezer – could he be the inspiration for the real-life Sezer the Geezer? They both say some adorably stupid things, although in Gazzer’s case this is because he actually is stupid - Sezer’s got a faulty connection between his brain and his mouth, but his brain is in there somewhere.
One thing that really bothered me was the way the housemates are viewed by the public. Elton only acknowledges the housemates in the first two series of Big Brother, and series 1 and 2 were quite different from the more recent shows. So Elton can’t really be blamed for not knowing the current trends But, in order for the book to work, you do have to accept that it is possible for thick, tarty Kelly to be not the subject of ‘get her out’ chants but the second favourite to win. You have to believe that isolated older gay female Sally could escape nomination for several weeks in a house where everyone gets on well for the most part. Even if friendly Layla’s controlling streak was recognised as early as Week One (I thought she was lovely), you’d be more likely to go for the older and quieter people. Peeping Tom is technically not Big Brother, so there’s no reason why things shouldn’t be a little bit different, and the producers can probably turn the housemates into anything they want to with a bit of ingenuity in the editing. But it wasn’t always easy to put aside my expectations.
Dead Famous opens with a detective at work, trawling through the hundreds of hours of footage of Peeping Tom, a fictional Big Brother. He watches the housemates and despises the housemates, and tries to work out who is the murderer.
As for the readers, we’re probably more concerned about who is the victim. You’re going to be a very long way into the book before you find out!
But this book isn’t slow. There’s so much going on, the murder can wait. Ben Elton has created a group of characters who could easily be interesting members of a real Big Brother household. It doesn’t have the a-laugh-a-paragraph quality of Elton’s X Factor satire, Chart Throb, but the much smaller cast of characters does allow Elton to go into a bit more depth with their personalities. The Big Brother phenomenon was fairly new when the book was published, but Elton has an instinctive understanding of what sort of people might be put into the house.
Dead Famous is a comedy, and a very good one, but the scenes with the detective are much more serious, and not unlike a detective in a more typical crime novel. As I love the comedy genre but am less keen on serious crime fiction, I was more interested in the Big Brother side than in the detective side, and that could be a problem for a lot of readers who are interested in the comedy side. And, while it is certainly an ingenious idea for a murder mystery, there is probably too much Big Brother-style inanity going on to keep a typical crime fan interested. But Elton nevertheless does an excellent job of merging the two genres – it would be difficult to imagine how it could be done better.
Although the earlier series of Big Brother did not have a particular predilection for unusual names and nicknames (well, apart from Bubble), Elton has provided us with plenty – Woggle, Dervla, Moon and Hamish are among the inmates I think the only names that have also been used by a real-life Big Brother housemate are David, who made a very brief appearance during Big Brother 8, and Jason from Big Brother 5, although is the fictional Jason is known as Jazz. (He’s nothing like Jazz in How to Kill Your Husband. He is a much nicer person, although I suppose that’s not much of a compliment.) Then we have Gazzer the Geezer – could he be the inspiration for the real-life Sezer the Geezer? They both say some adorably stupid things, although in Gazzer’s case this is because he actually is stupid - Sezer’s got a faulty connection between his brain and his mouth, but his brain is in there somewhere.
One thing that really bothered me was the way the housemates are viewed by the public. Elton only acknowledges the housemates in the first two series of Big Brother, and series 1 and 2 were quite different from the more recent shows. So Elton can’t really be blamed for not knowing the current trends But, in order for the book to work, you do have to accept that it is possible for thick, tarty Kelly to be not the subject of ‘get her out’ chants but the second favourite to win. You have to believe that isolated older gay female Sally could escape nomination for several weeks in a house where everyone gets on well for the most part. Even if friendly Layla’s controlling streak was recognised as early as Week One (I thought she was lovely), you’d be more likely to go for the older and quieter people. Peeping Tom is technically not Big Brother, so there’s no reason why things shouldn’t be a little bit different, and the producers can probably turn the housemates into anything they want to with a bit of ingenuity in the editing. But it wasn’t always easy to put aside my expectations.
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