Obligatory stickler point, as I feel superior for noticing it and I need affirmation from the warm grip of the Internet: in their first meeting, Joe dObligatory stickler point, as I feel superior for noticing it and I need affirmation from the warm grip of the Internet: in their first meeting, Joe describes Amy Adam as having eyes like 'chestnuts.' Now she has blue eyes. It's possible the chestnuts point could mean that her eyes are round and shiny rather than brown, I guess, although that feels a bit weird.
-- 2.5 stars
Actual review time:
I'll admit it, I wasn't crazy about this one. I feel very bad as I'm one of the first reviewers here, and a lot of my problems with it will take a LOT of detail to explain, so I'm going to be as vague as possible this far away from the publication date as I don't think it's fair.
First off, I LOVED You. It was my favourite read of 2014. Yes, I had some criticisms of it, but I reread it prior to starting Hidden Bodies and it's aged very, very well. I enjoyed it far more on reread, once I could kind of accept where it was going, and it was a high 3.5 the first time I read it. I couldn't believe my luck when I got it from Netgalley (me? Me? Half-assed Goodreads blogger me?) so my expectations were wicked high. I'm not shy about that and if you lower your expectations, you'll probably enjoy this one more. Please, fellow ARCers, I'd love to know your thoughts as I hate writing one of the first reviews - feels like shouting into the void - but I can't give 4 stars to a book just because I'm here.
I'll start with the positives, which bumped this up to 3 stars for me: it's incredibly addictive. Seriously, it's THE most crazily addictive novel I've read all year (bumping my 1,000-page fave Clarissa off top spot). I read this on my phone as my Kindle hated the Netgalley download. Have you ever actually tried to read a book on an iPhone e-reader? It's not a fun experience. The writing was absolutely squitchy, I couldn't make it bigger however hard I tried, and I'm pretty sure I strained my eyes. However, it didn't diminish my absolute desperate craving to know what happened next. I stayed up till 4am and the first thing I did when I woke up was to grapple for my phone so I could read the rest. I have no idea how she got me so hooked, but Caroline Kepnes is incredibly talented and can stretch the tension to the absolute max.
I'm telling you this because as a first reader, I think it would really help - this book is completely detached from reality. To enjoy this novel, I feel like you have to literally hang your disbelief in the clouds and be done with it. I criticised You for its plot holes (or, more accurately, staggering plot conveniences), but, reading them back to back, Hidden Bodies made You look like an airtight submarine. It got funny, and not in a good way, at the sheer number of times that Joe makes some shake at a rational universe, e.g. "I can never kill them! They're too rich/successful/famous/well-loved!" - and then went ahead and killed them anyway, with very, very nearly zero consequences. I mean, seriously. I'm no fan of the police, and I believe bumbling incompetence of them, but does DNA profiling not exist in this universe? Does none of these sickeningly rich and famous people have CCTV? For people who've actually read the novel, I actually cracked up when Joe mentioned 'circumstantial' evidence. The worst part was, all the evidence Kepnes mentioned was circumstantial, so I can't even say that Joe was being his usual unreliable self, but the body count was SO high and SO exaggerated that it just blew away any of my usual methods of comprehension. Circumstantial? Never in a thousand years.
You can tell me that it's because this book is a satire, but, as a sequel, after the first 80 pages, it moved entirely away from what I loved about You - the satirisation of the rom-com experience in the modern day, with a pretty heavy, and fun, hook about how well can we truly know somebody who we only really know through social media? Apart from the Facebook plot point, which I crazy-loved, this basically morphed into an entirely different (and, for me, much duller) satire about Hollywood. I know that Caroline Kepnes has worked as a TV writer before but this just felt so dry, boring, and predictable. Joe’s wit lost all of its dubious dark charm because, yes, Hollywood is a shallow nightmare, we get it. It just felt at once too well known and not developed enough.
It reminded me a lot of Scream’s rules for sequels: bigger and bloodier, basically. HB jumps around all over the place, from New York to Little Compton to Palm Springs to the Hollywood Hills to Little Compton to Brown University – back to someplace in California – God, my head is hurting. To not slow down the pace, Kepnes has almost no descriptive writing but that made this book really hard to read in places for me because I was just like, “Where are we?” for a lot of it. They just move around a lot but there’s no sense of place.
Onto the body count. It wouldn’t be a Joe Goldberg novel if people didn’t die. However, although I am a bit of a soft touch all round, this one fell down for me because, well, You’s deaths (with the exception of Beck – if anybody seriously thinks she deserved to die for cheating on narcissistic murderer Joe, please comment below) were all peppered with a touch of schadenfreude. It added to the atmosphere of the novel because a sick part of the reader is also sick of the spoiled, completely narcissistic, went-to-Yale-and-did-no-work love interest, and so we get a certain kick out of seeing Joe Goldberg turn the tables on them. The victims, in this one, felt strangely misjudged.
This may be my personal bias coming through but, in my mind, Joe is a loser. Not because he’s poor, or works in a bookstore, or lives in a hovel (I have 2/3 in common with him - I'm poor and I live in hovel), but because he would prefer to sniff and turn his nose up – ironically enough – at people who went to Brown or turn him down. The dude is a villain protagonist with zero self awareness. None of this is wrong – it was very well laid out – but here’s the problem: I felt that the victims, in HB, the first excepted were all losers. There was a certain unabashed, and more to the point, unpunished, cruelty in HB’s victims. The pleasure went out of watching Joe at work because he was picking on people who were the same as him, in my mind, the narcissistic little mean boy who would prefer to dispatch of his previous love than accept that she ran off to LA without him.
Reading this, you might think that this is deliberate. Kepnes is taking us down Joe’s decline. However, although this is the novel where things finally catch up with him, I still felt that he was being judged strangely. I wanted him to suffer, goddamn it, really suffer, and I didn’t get it. It was all very misfiring and plain strange for me.
Speaking of not developed enough, holy hell, Joe’s ‘love interests’ in this one were really pretty bad. Having just reread You, I remembered that Amy Adam is introduced to the reader as a crook with a stolen credit card. This thrilled me. Joe was meeting his (sort of) match! It’s right there in the blurb!
Except…not to spoil too much, Amy Adam is gone for most of the novel. Like, she just completely disappears, from Joe’s consciousness, from the importance in the novel. She is replaced by ANOTHER stinking rich character, Love. This was sad for me because I felt she was tied up too quickly, with little plot complexity afforded even Karen Minty, and the first 80 pages or so when they were together were my favourites.
I enjoyed Love for the most part, and she was what kept me reading – until we get to the certain decision she makes about three quarters of the way through. I need to talk about this with someone; I almost wish I hadn’t got an ARC because I didn’t get it. It felt like Love was behaving this way because an author wanted her to, but that was totally strange, contradictory, and incredibly unlikely. Joe’s feelings about her, as well, seemed to go all over the map. I didn’t believe it and I didn’t enjoy it, especially at the ending. There was also little insight into where their supposed happy relationship left Joe. Are we supposed to believe that he only fixates on women when one has left him? What about when he’s unhappy in a relationship? Is there no such thing? Why wasn’t this addressed?
It didn’t make sense, and worst of all, Kepnes didn’t seem to want to make it make sense. Even internal character logic went completely out of the window. Guinevere Beck was a real – if unpleasant – character. Love was supposed to be a pleasant character (I guess? I really don’t know), but instead, she became the most absurd, underdeveloped character who acted for no reason other than the plot’s gymnastics. Essentially none of the characters, except possibly Joe, acted in an even slightly believable way, whether it should be his neighbour’s complete inexplicable decision, the stupidest police officer in the world, or the irrational and flat girlfriend.
Two spectacularly irritating men also accompany Love: her twin brother, Forty, and her best friend, Milo. Forty is the only one who really gets any development, but he’s another spoiled drug addict with millions to burn, no talent, and – even more damagingly for the novel – a coke habit. I cannot describe to you how much this bored and irritated me. Here’s the really hilarious thing: Joe repeatedly makes statements about how completely boring and irritating coke addicts are. All the way through, when we got to these little sections, I would snort to myself and think that it was a damn shame Kepnes hadn’t taken her own protagonist’s advice. Coke addiction, in this novel, is utterly wearing, frustrating, static, and dull – and, even worse, it takes up what felt like about 250 long, boring pages. It goes on and on and on, and it’s so unbelievably monotonous and unexciting. Even if the protagonist acknowledges it, it doesn’t become fun to read.
This is not a spoiler about ‘Love’ (please contact me if you think anything in this review is too revealing – I’m not used to reviewing ARCs), but it’s under a spoiler tag because it spoils by omission, in mentioning a large ending spoiler about You and wondering why it NEVER comes up in Hidden Bodies:
(view spoiler)[At the end of You, Joe frames Nicky Angevine, the psychiatrist with whom Beck has been sleeping, for her murder. In all fairness, he frames him pretty well, in burying Beck’s body by Nicky’s brother’s piazza and their second home. In HB, Nicky is still where he was at the end of You – in prison for Beck’s murder, vehemently protesting his innocence and supposedly assembling a crack team of helpers to support his case. So far, so predictable.
However, during HB, Nicky clearly does not know that Joe is Dan Fox, so we can safely assume that he’s never met Joe outside of his office, or else he’d know they were the same person. But why not? I mean, how incompetent are these people? ‘Beck’s’ final e-mail to Lynn and Chana said (actually, Joe wrote it, but that doesn’t make it above reproach):
‘Things got ugly with Nicky and I’m so afraid Joe is going to find out and I am sooooo behind on writing. I’m running away from it all for a few days. Love you girlies xo’
So, most evidently, this really obviously implicates Nicky. However, it also implicates Joe, even if only implicitly. We can safely assume that Nicky didn’t plead guilty, and everybody knows the conventional wisdom that, when a woman disappears, it’s always nearly the boyfriend or husband. This also implicates Nicky but, again, it also implicates Joe, as everybody knew he and Beck were back together at the time she was cheating on him with Nicky. I’m not saying that Joe would ever have been seriously a suspect, but, in consideration of the fact that there’s no way (right?) Nicky pled guilty, why wasn’t Joe ever called to testify? How did Joe, Beck’s boyfriend and so the other obvious suspect in the case, escape Nicky’s radar the whole time? Can anybody think of any believable reasons? (hide spoiler)]
Sorry if that seems like an incredibly nitpicking downer; there are, sadly, pretty bigger holes in the plot than this one, but it really stuck out at me and bugged me throughout. Yet, despite the questionable direction of the plot, the underdevelopment of the characters, and the plot holes – I still couldn’t stop reading, and I will definitely read Kepnes’s next book, Joe or no Joe. She’s incredibly talented; I just wish she didn’t make it so difficult for a stickler like me to love her books.["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
I really wanted to give this one 4 stars. It was probably closer to 4.5 for the first 30% or so - I loved it. I lov3.5 stars
Damn you, Caroline Kepnes.
I really wanted to give this one 4 stars. It was probably closer to 4.5 for the first 30% or so - I loved it. I loved what a twenty-first century take it was on stalking, I was horribly compelled by Joe's voice, and Kepnes's writing is just fantastic. I crashed through this when I was supposed to be doing my university work like an addict. I was amazed by her skill at pulling off an absolute boat load of pop culture references while seeming true to her character's voice and actually adding something to the book, rather than seeming dated and uncomfortable. The dialogue was dead on and I loved the whole satirical edge on "twenty-somethings today" without seeming obnoxious or patronising. My only complaint at this stage of the novel was that I was personally uncomfortable by some of the black humour. That doesn't mean it wasn't skilful - I just have quite low tolerance for mean spirited black humour.
Nevertheless, I found this incredibly promising and well-written -- until I realized that I wasn't actually all that keen on the way the plot developed, particularly from around 60% onwards.
Firstly, Joe's luck was staggering. There are six incidents (four of them major) that I can think of where he gets away with his actions not out of ingenuity but sheer blind luck. I really feel guilty for picking holes like this because it's so well-written, damn it, that when I was reading, I sort of went along with it for most of the novel until the final act pushed me over the brink. All writers need to do this to some extent, of course, but looking back on the novel, it seems like the entire plot was comprised of Joe getting into scrapes from following Beck around, and then just happening to wiggle out of them by random coincidence. I didn't mind the fact that he fooled the police in Rhode Island, or I would have minded a lot less, if it hadn't been preceded by Benji's convenient problems, (view spoiler)[ then being exonerated by the random and unlikely boat crash (even though he was suspected in the first place); Peach never once seeing Joe's face when he tried to kill her in Central Park; Beck not seeing Joe on the Charles Dickens ferry; the, again, very convenient way Joe dispatched of Peach despite not exactly planning to do it like that or knowing it would end up that way, and, the biggest one of all, the one that made me say, "Okay, Kepnes, time out": Beck's death. (hide spoiler)]
I could have forgiven all of this, though, because a similar accusation has been levelled at one of my favourite contemporary novels, Gone Girl. Gone Girl sailed by on its unlikelihood because the character work was so fantastic that I hardly noticed, and, though it did not always explain things in the most plausible way, there was a decided effort by Flynn at tying it together. (Although, on another note, this book is really nothing like Gone Girl and I wish everyone would stop comparing every goddamn psychological thriller since 2012 to Gone Girl.) It seemed like Kepnes had her events in place and her ending decided, but couldn't tie the two together, so sort of slopped them together a bit unconvincingly and crosed her fingers. Good (and frequently great) writing papers over the cracks but can't totally hide the implausibilities and holes.
Onto the character work. Joe is an incredibly compelling villain protagonist. He really is monstrous, but Kepnes balances it perfectly; he's not too moustache-twirling but I never felt like she was buying into Joe's myths of himself. I was initially impressed with the characterisation of (Guinevere) Beck, Joe's paramour of the moment, an aspiring writer who is also a self-centred flake, likes to be worshipped and may or may not be a bit of a stalker herself. At first, Beck is a woman with the messy parts left in, the ugly parts, and I really respected Kepnes's characterisation of her (and it might sound pathetic, but an attractive woman who masturbates? An acknowledgement that that is actually an acceptable thing?)
But, as we started to get a better sense of Beck-the-person, not just Beck-the-Joe-construct, I began to feel wary. Beck, from her first appearance, is all about sex. She wears a jumper without a bra. She exposes her underwear. She flirts with everything, everyone, she goes on Craigslist for daddy-issue sex, even her best friend is a predatory lesbian who gets off to pictures of her. At first, I assumed that this was Joe's stalker-gaze, distorting Beck-the-person but, particularly in the last quarter, we learn some things about Beck that affirm this view of her. She writes sex-crazed stories and, in a final revelation, she is essentially exposed as a slut. I disapprove of that word. I would never use that word in normal conversation, I don't believe in that, but with the revelations that Beck has (view spoiler)[slept with her psychiatrist, seduced him after weeks of aggressively trying, got him to buy her a Macbook, then withdrawn her affections abruptly because he left his wife and it got too serious (hide spoiler)], it feels like that's the word Kepnes is trying to prompt, to put in my head. I know that Kepnes is a woman herself and I did really like her portrayals of Karen and Beck, and her portrayal of the believable friendship between Beck and her friends, and I at first admired her portrayal of a woman who is not the male fantasy of womanhood, but then, the more we saw of Beck, the more I became suspicious of the fact that she seems like another kind of female stereotype, not the manic pixie dream girl but the narcissistic, manipulative, cheating whore.
This, again, would've been fine if Beck had her own voice. When Joe read her psychiatrist's notes, I believed that we might be about to see a Gone Girlish (yes, that book again) twist on the horizon, where, suddenly, Beck gets her own voice and - surprise! - she's just as bad as Joe but not in the pathetic, crawly way that she is, wheedling and seducing and sweet-talking. Or maybe she isn't. Even if she hated Joe, or she really was a manipulative nymphomaniac, or she had to ultimately lose to him, I wanted to see her at least try and match him as his obsession got out of control. I wanted to see her try. I wanted Beck to affirm herself outside of the identity that Joe had made for her, her friends (and the odious Peach) had made for her, Benji had made for her, even her web presence had made for her. But it never came. I'm almost sure that, even though Joe's insidious voice will be stuck with me for a long time, I won't be able to remember very much about Guinevere Beck at all, except that Joe thought he loved her.
I also am slightly side-eyeing all you people who are like, "Kepnes made us root for Joe, showing us that it's not stalker=bad, stalked=good!" I mean, what? Yes, Joe is a fascinating character. He's great to read about. I admit that I hated Peach more, because who couldn't hate such a pretentious, arrogant, and controlling person? (And her name is Peach.) Beck might've been hugely flawed (I'll admit that I accidentally spoiled myself for the "revelation" regarding her family so I have a softer view of that than I might've had if I hadn't seen it coming) but Joe is a serial stalker and murderer. There is a line. This is the line. I feel uncomfortable about the readers who "rooted" for Joe because I'm concerned that somebody could buy into this, "I'm only harassing you because I love you and I want to protect you but I also want you to have sex with me as I wish and wear what I like and do what I want at all times, while I am reading your e-mails, hacking your texts and plotting to do away with those who 'mistreat' you (and get in the way of you doing what I want and living out my fantasy of us being together).
But, ultimately, and this is the unforgivable sin (I really am starting to sound a bit like Joe himself), it becomes a little stale, and, worst of all, predictable. Beck finds out and things unravel, more or less, how they might be expected to. I particularly hated the fact that her way of trying to get through to Joe is to seduce him again. Beck can be as bad and as ugly inside as Kepnes wanted - I'm not taking my issue with that - I'm taking my issue with the fact that, ultimately, she's boring and tropey by comparison. The opportunities to develop her aren't taken and, when in a crisis, she always does the most predictable and shallow thing. As such, she remains a weak sauce to Joe's main course, and I felt like this bought into some uncomfortable things about the portrayal of violence - physical or emotional - against women in fiction. Don't look at the woman. She's not important. She reacts how women do, she does the things women do, and, ultimately, she can't compete. Look at the man. Look at him.
I will, however, Caroline Kepnes, read whatever you write next, because that's how much I love your writing. Even though you sometimes let me down, you deserve me. I know this about you, and I'm only telling you this for your own good. You'll thank me eventually.["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
This is almost certainly a play you have to see onstage to appreciate properly. Sadly for me, I have neither the money nor the opportunities. Boo.
It'sThis is almost certainly a play you have to see onstage to appreciate properly. Sadly for me, I have neither the money nor the opportunities. Boo.
It's very much an actors' play. The first 40 pages were slow to say the least. I read them very quickly because O'Rowe is such a good writer - the dialogue just slips off the page - and he toys with expectations masterfully. The setting is a middle-class respectable home (aren't they always in drama) in Ireland. Adele is bringing her boyfriend, the slighter older Dennis, home to meet her parents, except that she keeps getting distracted by her needy best friend, Belinda, who's being messed around by her boyfriend, Gary. Dennis appears to know just a little too much about the family, who are still haunted by the loss of their young son Jonathan when Addie was nine, but things only really start getting weird when Dennis appears to know just a little too much about the family background.
It's mostly a mystery, which the other (official) reviews seem afraid to divulge. What happened to Jonathan all those years ago? Is it something to do with the fact that his and Addie's mother, Margaret, only sleeps on the couch? What about their father and his fits of rage? What about what Addie overheard the night he disappeared and never came back? Characterisation and development are kind of sacrificed for mystery and atmosphere in this one, but it was still an eerie, fascinating, and compelling read.
I always guess. I can't stop myself. Was it the father's violence? Was it the mother's? Was it really just a confused mistake on the daughter's part? Are they just lying to her? Well, this play was great for that - always giving one impression, and then organically sliding away from it to another, hinting at a picture of a very disturbed family. I read this all in one sitting, totally addicted and desperate to know what happened. O'Rowe got me, too - I didn't guess (despite the use of a rather cringe-inducing common trope).
Then - the revelation came. A lot of the reviews have talked about the thematic concerns of the play - about he limits of devotion, parenting, family tragedy and guilt. Well...I didn't really get any of that.The problem is, with this material in such obviously assured hands (this is my first O'Rowe play, but the professionalism and the intrigue was truly something), it's hard not to want -- more.
The main revelation comes in its penultimate scene (or one of them - it's all set in one location and there are a combination of very long and not so long scenes, and there's not much of a sense of the passage of time except the gap between Act 1+2 so I'm not absolutely sure how they divide up). The questions that this incredibly dark and probing twist throws up are huge and complex and important, and had me absolutely gasping for breath, as well as (an incredibly rare one for jaded old me, so prone to roll my eyes and say, c'mon, it's not that bad," or, "that's what I waited all this time for?" Instead, this one had me saying, "wow, this is too dark for me, this is really testing my limits..." which was a new, strange thing, but at the same time, it was completely well-earned and interesting. (view spoiler)[Was Jonathan just a bad kid, or a deeply flawed one who felt that his parents didn't love him? Did his rape of Margaret stem from a desire to be loved, to punish her for not loving him, or pure sadism and hatred? Had Michael always had the violent hatred of Jonathan building up, or was it only an impulsive reaction to his horrendous crime against Margaret? To what extent do the characters feel responsible, or wish to distance themselves from responsibility? What will it change between Margaret and Addie, and Michael and Addie? (hide spoiler)]
As you can see from the spoiler tag: a ton of questions, all of them incredibly provocative and harrowing to even consider. My underlying and fundamental problem with the play is that what comes before is nowhere near as complex or really as interesting. I understand the stylistic choice to keep Belinda and Gary offstage until Act 2, but that made it hard for me to care when it all went down. Dennis was basically just a loop into the story, to tease the characters' back stories, but there was nothing all that meaty about the play until The Revelation (at the 80% mark - which meant that we'd spent something like an hour minimum of being teased, misdirected and being given ~thematic parallels that don't really mean much in the grand scheme of the story when you're mostly just reading to find out a solution). When the solution comes and you suddenly want more from the characters, you want to know how they're going to relate to each other and how they ever did in the first place, and then it just ends. This play is like a really interesting phone conversation when the other person tells you something you're dying to discuss and then they have to go but, instead of saying goodbye, they just hang up. Worth your time? Probably -- the very last moment will stick with me for a long, long time. ["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
3 stars? 2.5? 3.5? 4? 2? It's up to you. I am at a loss.
After roughly five months, I've finally finished Room. And, well, this review is going to be a3 stars? 2.5? 3.5? 4? 2? It's up to you. I am at a loss.
After roughly five months, I've finally finished Room. And, well, this review is going to be a mess, because I have literally never had so many mixed feelings about a novel in all my reading life. Some people call this brilliant, an incredibly moving portrayal of survival, adaptation and the mother-child bond. Others call this a saccharine, exploitative, manipulative little journey, all horrible things packaged up for the Oprah's book club audience (no offence, Oprah viewers). And I...am exactly in the middle.
I loved Ma. I love a good mother, I must admit, I'm a total sucker. Good mothers are rare to find in literature - for obvious reasons, writers prefer their mothers emotionally distant if not downright abusive, fraught with terrible back stories, cruel to their offspring, deluded and undermining. I thought Donoghue handled Ma perfectly: she'd been through absolute hell, and she really was doing her best all the way through. Ma is an intensely sympathetic character, and, thankfully, not just because of the horrors she's been through. She adores Jack (when she says to one character, "he is the world to me", you know she absolutely means it, and Donoghue totally earned the intense love that there is between Jack and Ma) and it made me almost tear up a couple of times. Theirs was a really deep relationship from her side, a great centerpiece for the novel, as Ma understandably struggles with being Jack's mother and being her own person.
I thought that Donoghue handled the first half, where Jack and Ma are trapped in Room, really, really well. I loved Ma too much to watch her be raped and beaten but, when my Goodreads friends had mentioned the obliqueness with which Donoghue handles the subject, I feared that it would be all very British, where the horrors are shuffled off-screen to allow us to continue with our cosy lives. Thankfully, it wasn't. Donoghue actually does the thing that many people who talk about writing on such icky subjects as rape/murder/abduction claim to do, which is to focus on the emotional aftermath as a substitute for the nasty details. I was also fascinated by the original and surprising way that Donoghue depicts their life in Room, where Jack thinks that nothing is real except what's in Room, they do Physical Education with their very limited furniture, and read The Runaway Bunny over and over.
Then...Jack. Okay, warning: here be a minor spoiler that is revealed at exactly 50% of the way on my Kindle. It's (view spoiler)[Jack and his mother's escape from Room (hide spoiler)]. That's where the novel kind of falters for me, even though it couldn't have either concluded in Room or with their (view spoiler)[escape (hide spoiler)]. It needed this section but I found it easily the most unconvincing, with a lot of loose ends. For example, Ma's relationship with her own father just sort of tailed off - for a writer that had put so much thought into showing Ma's thought processes and feelings even when Jack himself (who narrates) wasn't aware of them. It seemed weird that Donoghue would forget about, for instance, Ma's father, or never really explore what drove her to do what she did at the 3/4 mark ((view spoiler)[her suicide attempt, of course (hide spoiler)]), which sounds stupid, because the poor woman had been through so much, damn it, but I wanted more coherence and specificity about it. As it was, it felt more of a contrivance (!) to separate Jack and his ma.
Jack's voice also got pretty irritating in part two. I agree with some reviewers that it might've been more convincing for Jack to be 8-10 rather than five. It's a difficult balancing act and, unlike the wonderful development of Ma through Jack's eyes, Donoghue doesn't quite pull it off. The little guy confuses brought/brung continuously, among other things, and can't understand the most basic idioms (some of which I'm surprised wouldn't come up in the conversations between Jack and Ma in Room), yet comes out with poetic noble-idiot (forgive the phrase) observations on real life, such as:
I guess the time gets spread very thin like butter all over the world, the roads and houses and playgrounds and stores, so there's only a little smear of time on each place, then everyone has to hurry on to the next bit, or:
In Room we knowed what everything was called but in the world there's so much, persons don't even know the names.
It felt a lot like the Oscar-baity jokes about the noble character who is also challenged, stunted, deprived or childlike in some way but teaches the shallow and materialistic people around them the true meaning of life. Donoghue satirised the way that the media coverage called Jack an angel or a saint, but I thought she really fell into this gross and annoying archetype later in the novel. Also, people have been complimenting Donoghue on her originality and, yes, the first section especially was very, very unique (it's literally just Ma and Jack in a tiny room, and they build an entire world within it, in a way that is interesting, surprising and hopeful), but this gradually slipped away in the second part, which became much more about an unusual child adjusting to a world which seems alien to them, a far duller and less imaginative endeavour.
With that said, it comes to a pretty emotional end. My overall impression was of a book that's not perfect, with both extreme highs and eye-rolling lows. Room is an experiment, not one that always works - neither an unqualified success nor failure. I'll say this, though: I wanted Jack and his ma to be happy. I'd like a sequel where they did nothing but go to the beach, eat chocolate and live happily ever after. ["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more
'You're the meanest of all! You're the one who drugged me!'
I almost wish I didn't "have" to write this review, because, though this is a flawed book,'You're the meanest of all! You're the one who drugged me!'
I almost wish I didn't "have" to write this review, because, though this is a flawed book, it's a book that gave me one of the best reading experiences I've had: a thrilling, searing and disturbing little novel that totally hooked me.
Okay, so I admit, I came to this novel slightly prejudiced. I have grown to absolutely hate the narrative choice of constructing the entire plot around one secret that the protagonist refuses to divulge. Charm & Strange is an incredibly well-written variant on this plot, but it couldn't quite make me overcome my hatred of this deliberately elliptical way of pretending at discussing an issue without discussing it. However, due to Kuehn's incredibly readable "psychological study" of her main characters, this cosiness was, thankfully, almost entirely removed.
Still, I wish that Win's big secret had come out a little sooner, because I wanted more. I wanted more of Win's realisations, Win's family - especially his older brother, Keith, who was probably my favourite character in the novel, and his and Drew's dynamic was the undoubted highlight - and the impact of what had actually happened, rather than Kuehn's intriguing and well written but ultimately frustrating writing around these subjects. I enjoyed her crafty and incredibly disciplined tactic of peeling away layers of Win's psyche, but there was a point when it just wasn't enough for me and I wanted more clarity.
As a result, I just COULDN'T get hooked to the present ("matter") sections. I found that I was skimming them without intending to, in an attempt to get back to Win's claustrophobic childhood summer at a house in New Hampshire with his large and eerie family. None of the present characters had the emotional pull for me that young Drew (Win's past alter ego) or Keith, Drew's tragic elder brother (who I loved so much that I actually feel like crying when I think a bit about what a book from his perspective would have looked like, I mean, god damn). Because of the tragedy of the "antimatter" sections, the "matter" sections felt like a nowhere near as interesting counterpoint to me.
Yet, reading Charm & Strange was a little like having a hole burned in my heart. I wanted to save Drew, and Keith, and Win (Win and Drew are different people - kind of) and I just felt so sad for everybody. The sense of sadness, guilt and intensity that Kuehn projects throughout the novel is unforgettable and incredibly painful. No, it's not without its flaws (to me), but there's no denying that this one promising debut....more
A great story, but I'll never recommend it to anyone.
This is an incredibly effective piece of psychological horror, with a deceptively simple premiseA great story, but I'll never recommend it to anyone.
This is an incredibly effective piece of psychological horror, with a deceptively simple premise that Hill and King exploit to the max. It's also so grotesque that I shudder just thinking about it, and it's essentially a hopeless story about two very likeable characters trapped in a hell they cannot escape. I felt gross and a little different after I read it - it's a very bleak and nasty story. Yes, it's horror, but it really is nearly unpalatable. I'll explain exactly how in the spoiler section at the bottom because I'm not sure I'd want anybody to inflict this on themselves.
It's very well-written, though, hence the 4 stars -- I haven't really taken off any stars for the gross factor although I think something more understated might've ultimately been more lastingly frightening. As it was, Tall Grass scared me when I was reading it, and grossed me out so much that I couldn't eat properly for a good few days (and I was on vacation! thanks, guys), but didn't give me nightmares or even a few edgy nights. I will, however, never step into tall grass ever again. Ever again. I am never doing a maze, or going that far out into the country. I'm sticking to the road. Thank God England's countryside is relatively flat and low. So it both did and didn't pack the punch I wanted.
I also wanted more, and I can never figure out if that's good or bad from a short story. I loved all the creepy little hints of the church in the tall grass, with its beautiful steeple, and the cars abandoned in the car park, and whatever it was that Cal saw in the car, how that worked, why exactly the tall grass worked the way it did, why it called the people it did, whether it sent you mad or...whatever had happened to Cal and Tobin at the end (was Ross always kind of psychotic, was it the rock that made him that way, or the grass?) how the people on the other side of the road felt about it all - but we got nothing. I understand that most horror works best off the fear of the unknown, but I think just a little bit more development of these points could have left more lingering creepiness.
As it stands, it's kind of a story of two halves - an incredibly creepy and atmospheric opening sequence, where Cal and Becky, brother and sister driving through Kansas due to Becky's pregnancy, hear somebody shouting from the tall grass and go in to look. They become thirstier and more disorientated and unnerved, then there's somebody else in there - the family who got trapped before them. It then devolves into all kinds of nastiness, including a physical confrontation, murder and a rape threat (and they really spoil my enjoyment of horror). The second half is kind of scary in a blunt-force trauma kind of way, but it loses a lot of atmosphere and tension. I know Hill and King admitted operating on a "gross is good!" attitude - and, yeah, some gross is good, but this was just too over the top and nasty for my tastes. Not in the sense that I was offended or disgusted (well, I was a little disgusted) - it actually didn't surprise me that much, and felt like the least subtle and interesting way out of this particular plot corner.
I also thought the limerick thing was just silly.
Spoiler area. I'm going to go through exactly what happens, because I understand with all this talk, the compulsion to KNOW is pretty damn strong. So: (view spoiler)[Becky is six months pregnant. She and Irish twin brother, Cal, are driving through Kansas en route to their aunt and uncle's in San Diego to figure out what Becky wants to do about the pregnancy. They're driving past a church when they hear a boy yelling for help from the tall grass. They get out to help, hesitating because the boy's mother is worried that 'somebody' will hear them and yells at them to go back to the road. They don't listen and step into the tall grass, where they promptly lose mobile phone signal and each other. (hide spoiler)]
Moving into the non-blurb spoilers: (view spoiler)[In a long section, Cal and Becky slowly figure out that they're trapped and the tall grass is moving them around so they can't reach each other. They become more and more panicked, and then Becky runs into a man, who is obviously crazed and has just brutally killed (and apparently tried to eat) his wife. He threatens to rape Becky and brutally attacks her, kicking her repeatedly in the stomach. Presumably through some magical device she can't really fight back, but she's holding a pair of scissors and manages to jam them into him and kill him. Meanwhile, Cal runs into the man's son, Tobin, who's eating crows because of his own hunger. He explains to Cal that he knows everything because the tall grass does, and Becky is miscarrying, maybe dying. Cal reluctantly goes to the rock and touches it because it has its own magnetic force...or something. We switch back to Becky, who is miscarrying, and holds her dead baby when Cal and Tobin come through the grass looking for her. They 'save' her and then the story becomes very disjointed, but Cal feeds Becky something which tastes "like sardines" but is, in fact (you guessed it), Becky's dead baby. She wakes up and freaks out that she cannibalised her own child, but Cal and Tobin persuade her to touch the rock and she does. A new group of hippies turn up in the car park, hear yelling and walk into the tall grass. FINIS. (hide spoiler)]
Read at your own risk.["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>...more