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<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5015.Saturday?utm_medium=api&amp;utm_source=blog_review" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="Saturday" border="0" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/photo.goodreads.com/books/1165517344m/5015.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5015.Saturday?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review">Saturday</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2408.Ian_McEwan">Ian McEwan</a> 
 <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/12725234?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review"><h3>My review</h3></a>
 rating: 2 of 5 stars Many of my friends are unaware of my fondess of Rodeo Sports. (This is, I promise, a review of SATURDAY. Just go with me for a moment.) But it's true, perhaps it's my childhood in the American Southwest, or maybe some remnant love of the game seeping into my ancestral subconcious through my grandfather and namesake, the New Mexican sports announcer. Or maybe, I just like the look of those cowboys all squeezed into their denims and chaps.
 
 For whatever reason--and PETA be damned--I love me some rodeo. Living in Chicago, however, a good rodeo's hard to come by, and I find myself having to get by with captured pieces of filmed rodeos at local bars and Mexican dives. While the man v. nature thrill of the sport suffers when filtered through the decidedly inhuman and un-natural television screen, I'll take what I can get. Often, between gulps of tonic or overlagre bites of chimichanga, I'll catch an announcer go on and on about the ferocity of the bull about to be mounted and released from its holding pen. As the cowboy--all chapped, and hatted, and encased in a leatherized bullet vest--is strapped onto the back of this beast, I'll hear the color guards expound on the virtues of the monster about to be released into the ring:
 
 "Oh, Cougar is a true champion bull. Last week, this bull bucked three time Budweiser Champion winner, Elias Butler in less than three seconds, before stomping him repeatedly in the chest. That was--what was it?--four broken ribs for Butler?"
 
 "I think so, Cody. And our best wishes to Butler tonight in the county hospital. We know his family's watching from his hospital bed wishing his little brother, Zeke Butler, happy riding as tonight he attempts to take on the bull that sent his older brother to the ER."
 
 "That's right folks, now don't take your eye off of Cougar the bull. He was almost retired from the game for his umatched ferocity, but Zeke--I guess with something a grudge to settle--insisted he ride this monster. Let's watch. . . "
 
 Or something to that effect. I mean, the announcers will go on and on about the bull. And, usually, the gate lets fly, the bull springs out like a shot, and man and bull are at once a great tilta-whirl of 4H sportsmanship. 
 
 But, every once in a while, every once or twice in a true cowboy's life. . .nature surprises even the rodeo. Though no rider likes to talk about it, sometimes this bull, this monster, this beast with so much promise. .. does nothing. No one can say why this happens, why a Cougar with notches in his hide from multiple cowboy slaughters will for no apparent reason turn gentle-hearted Ferdinand on the field, sniffing flowers and warming nicely to the frustrated cowpoke sitting pretty on his back. Perhaps most bulls are only awaiting the perfect rider, one who fits nicely on their hump and, surprisingly, improves their back with their presence. Perhaps every once in a perverted Bucking Bull's life, despite the murderous backstory, enjoys the cowboy and takes comfort in letting him sit, conflict free, and motionless on its body, not weighing it down, not causing it trouble, just sitting there, both of them, while the clock runs, and fans stand up and hiss. 
 
 And once, while watching this happen on the televsion screen at my local carneceria, I actually witnessed with my very own eyes, a giant unbucking bull squat in the middle of the ring--shame-eyed cowboy on it's rump-- and drop a dump right there in the dirt. You guys, it pooped! 
 
 Ian McEwan's SATURDAY is that kind of rodeo: all promise, but ultimately nothing but bullshit.
 <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/266983?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_review">View all my reviews.</a>

Philip's review
rating:
recommended for: no one

Many of my friends are unaware of my fondess of Rodeo Sports. (This is, I promise, a review of SATURDAY. Just go with me for a moment.) But it's true, perhaps it's my childhood in the American Southwest, or maybe some remnant love of the game seeping into my ancestral subconcious through my grandfather and namesake, the New Mexican sports announcer. Or maybe, I just like the look of those cowboys all squeezed into their denims and chaps.

For whatever reason--and PETA be damned--I love me some rodeo. Living in Chicago, however, a good rodeo's hard to come by, and I find myself having to get by with captured pieces of filmed rodeos at local bars and Mexican dives. While the man v. nature thrill of the sport suffers when filtered through the decidedly inhuman and un-natural television screen, I'll take what I can get. Often, between gulps of tonic or overlagre bites of chimichanga, I'll catch an announcer go on and on about the ferocity of the bull about to be mounted and releas...more Many of my friends are unaware of my fondess of Rodeo Sports. (This is, I promise, a review of SATURDAY. Just go with me for a moment.) But it's true, perhaps it's my childhood in the American Southwest, or maybe some remnant love of the game seeping into my ancestral subconcious through my grandfather and namesake, the New Mexican sports announcer. Or maybe, I just like the look of those cowboys all squeezed into their denims and chaps.

For whatever reason--and PETA be damned--I love me some rodeo. Living in Chicago, however, a good rodeo's hard to come by, and I find myself having to get by with captured pieces of filmed rodeos at local bars and Mexican dives. While the man v. nature thrill of the sport suffers when filtered through the decidedly inhuman and un-natural television screen, I'll take what I can get. Often, between gulps of tonic or overlagre bites of chimichanga, I'll catch an announcer go on and on about the ferocity of the bull about to be mounted and released from its holding pen. As the cowboy--all chapped, and hatted, and encased in a leatherized bullet vest--is strapped onto the back of this beast, I'll hear the color guards expound on the virtues of the monster about to be released into the ring:

"Oh, Cougar is a true champion bull. Last week, this bull bucked three time Budweiser Champion winner, Elias Butler in less than three seconds, before stomping him repeatedly in the chest. That was--what was it?--four broken ribs for Butler?"

"I think so, Cody. And our best wishes to Butler tonight in the county hospital. We know his family's watching from his hospital bed wishing his little brother, Zeke Butler, happy riding as tonight he attempts to take on the bull that sent his older brother to the ER."

"That's right folks, now don't take your eye off of Cougar the bull. He was almost retired from the game for his umatched ferocity, but Zeke--I guess with something a grudge to settle--insisted he ride this monster. Let's watch. . . "

Or something to that effect. I mean, the announcers will go on and on about the bull. And, usually, the gate lets fly, the bull springs out like a shot, and man and bull are at once a great tilta-whirl of 4H sportsmanship.

But, every once in a while, every once or twice in a true cowboy's life. . .nature surprises even the rodeo. Though no rider likes to talk about it, sometimes this bull, this monster, this beast with so much promise. .. does nothing. No one can say why this happens, why a Cougar with notches in his hide from multiple cowboy slaughters will for no apparent reason turn gentle-hearted Ferdinand on the field, sniffing flowers and warming nicely to the frustrated cowpoke sitting pretty on his back. Perhaps most bulls are only awaiting the perfect rider, one who fits nicely on their hump and, surprisingly, improves their back with their presence. Perhaps every once in a perverted Bucking Bull's life, despite the murderous backstory, enjoys the cowboy and takes comfort in letting him sit, conflict free, and motionless on its body, not weighing it down, not causing it trouble, just sitting there, both of them, while the clock runs, and fans stand up and hiss.

And once, while watching this happen on the televsion screen at my local carneceria, I actually witnessed with my very own eyes, a giant unbucking bull squat in the middle of the ring--shame-eyed cowboy on it's rump-- and drop a dump right there in the dirt. You guys, it pooped!

Ian McEwan's SATURDAY is that kind of rodeo: all promise, but ultimately nothing but bullshit....less

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message 1: by Kory

03/19/2008 01:01PM

PHILIP!!!! How could you not love this book. Yes I agree there is a lot of nothing going on, but its just written so beautifully! Thats all i got to say.

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message 2: by Philip

03/20/2008 10:08PM

It blew, Kory. Blew.
Nothing effing happened. I mean, I loved me some ATONEMENT and AMSTERDAM was whatever, but this was a hundred pages of the most caucasian noise I've ever heard. I just couldn't latch on to this whiney English doctor's problems. I mean, who cares? If I want beautifully written, I'll go to Garcia Marquez and be gauranteed good story and good writing.
Though if I also want good spelling, I'll need not to read my own reviews. Jeesh, who wrote that?
Have you read any other McEwan? Are they good?

Love you, love your show. Bye,
P.

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message 3: by Millie

06/11/2008 12:33AM

I agree completely! I was so happy when, 250 pages in, something happened. And then nothing happened. And then it ended.

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message 4: by Philip

06/11/2008 08:10AM

Yeah, it was like a big silent fart of a novel. Which is so upsetting, because I loved ATONEMENT, and I kinda didn't hate AMSTERDAM. So, I was expecting better. Wah Wah.
I just started reading Billy Bathgate by E.L. Doctrow. Can't tell if I like it yet or not.
P.

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