I was really up for some good, trashy, bonkbuster fun - but this was just crap. There were occasional glimpses of actual humour (the dull army General known as 'General Anaesthetic,') which suggest that Cooper is capable of wit- but barely any of it is on display in this dull, baggy epic. It commits the sin of being boring, which is unforgivable in this kind of novel. It's loaded with art references as though that bestows a kind of cultural seriousness (of which, more below), but the novel is just dumb. Lines like 'You have such a great body' are supposed to be classy, sexy pillow-talk. Careless writing (piles of papers 'rising in stalactites') is everywhere here, and there's a general meandering formlessness to the plot. Both trashy and (worse) pretentious, this was a slog.
I would usually just give this a 2-stars, but it's getting 1 because I found actually mean-spirited and borderline offensive - all the more annoyingly so, because it had pretensions to profundity in terms of its treatment of the Holocaust and looted art. Cooper seems (as demonstrated by her sincere author's note at the end) to think she is actually engaging with the topic of the Holocaust in a meaningful way. But while it ostensibly has some sympathy for the Jewish victims of Nazi looting, the Jewish character fits nearly every stereotype - a smooth, perpetual outsider, routinely depicted in animalistic terms. He may ultimately be redeemed but of all the bad behaviour in a novel full of it, his is depicted as the most calculating, the most despicable. And the sheer bad taste of likening the loss of a painting to the Holocaust itself (in the mind of descendants of Holocaust victims, no less) is just grotesque: 'Her howl of anguish when they dragged Pandora away in New York had haunted him like his mom’s imagined scream when her own mother was dragged off to Auschwitz.' Similarly, the process of being cross-examined in court is described thus: 'it was as if SS guards were systematically kicking Zac to death with their jackboots.' This imagery litters the book; the son of a wealthy family who, entirely voluntarily, goes to live on the streets, is described in similar terms: 'Alizarin could have been any one of the Holocaust victims Jonathan had been reading about so obsessively in Vienna.' Cooper relies on the Holocaust as a lazy trope to depict suffering, whilst actually being weirdly anti-semitic. Notably, when the crowd at an art auction is described, other attendees are described by their nationality ('Americans', 'Italians', 'Germans' and 'Danes') but the Jews are described just as Jews (perpetuating the insidious notion of Jews as perpetually loyal only to themselves, never belonging anywhere) - and, of course, their interests are financial: 'A great many Jews, their big hands seldom leaving their wives’ glittery shoulders, were there, less to bid than to see the financial outcome of one of the first looted art cases.' I don't know what possessed Cooper to think that this dull and sordid novel was the place to tackle the topic of the Holocaust - but she's done it with extremely bad taste and a hint of anti-semitism.
The class stuff was gross too. I was ready for Cooper to idealise the upper classes - she ostensibly parodies them and depicts their (many) foibles but really she loves them, forgives them anything, justifies their endless bad behaviour, and fetishises their wealth. Fine - it could function as a kind of consumerist-porn, in which we're meant to be wowed by Rupert Cambell-Black and his helicopter, and to feel pity for a family that might be forced to sell a few of their valuable paintings to balance out their finances. So far, so predictable. But, again, what tips this over from the crass into the properly annoying is the novel's pretensions of actually engaging with the question of poverty, through the sainted Alizarin's (self-inflicted) descent into homelessness and near-starvation. While this is supposed to make us empathise with the poor, instead it reveals Cooper's grotesque attitudes: 'He had made friends since he had been on the streets, not with work-shy scroungers, but quietly desperate people who, like himself, had lost their way in life.' (A charitable interpretation might be that she is mocking the stereotype of work-shy scroungers; however, given the other attitudes on display in the book, it's more realistic to read this as saying that there are work-shy scroungers amongst the homeless, but Alizarin has befriended only 'the deserving poor.' After all, the book notes that 'Tramps were always getting drunk or stoned, and picking fights' - despite the fact that this is literally the exact behaviour of the toffs throughout the book. (Again, you might charitably claim that this irony is deliberate - I'm not convinced). Alizarin is, of course, swept from poverty and illness back to the bosom of his wealthy family. Everyone behaves terribly, of course, but the novel's main villain (apart, of course, from the avaricious Jew), is the working-class-lad-made-good, who is shown to be a ghastly social-climber who never fits in, despite acquiring wealth and success. This is dyed-in-the-wool conservatism, in which the bad behaviour of the rich is eccentric and amusing, and ultimately redeemed, and the bad behaviour of the working-class man is a true sign of his bad character.
I would've loved to have enjoyed this book - or even to have found it a dumb but mindless romp. Instead it really pissed me off - it was nasty-minded, stupid and tasteless.