Circe by Madeline Miller | Book Review

Circe by Madeline Miller
Published by Bloomsbury, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

With this novel, Madeline Miller set out to give Circe a voice; to add dimension and agency to a character normally relegated to the side lines of classic Greek mythology. On that front, she has certainly succeeded. Her version of the iconic witch is decidedly more complex, with a strong emotional drive that makes her all the more compelling. That, for me, was the greatest strength of the book.

I also enjoyed Miller’s prose. It’s incredibly readable, but is elevated by some beautiful flourishes. That’s not to say it’s perfect, however. A few particularly modern words and phrases stood out as odd choices, and these felt a little jarring stylistically. Still, it was always an easy book to get through; Miller’s passion and knowledge for mythology radiating from every page.

This enthusiasm, ironically, led to one of my gripes with the book, however. Namely, I thought Miller tried to incorporate a few too many myths and characters into the narrative. Circe’s story threw up enough potential for development as it was, meaning that some of the references to other myths felt like box ticking more than justifiable plot points.

I thought the structure of the plot itself was also somewhat flawed, though perhaps unavoidably so. The very nature of Circe’s life (she is exiled on a remote island) means that she is absent for much of the action, other characters simply relaying information to her after the fact. I can see this would have been tricky to get around without contradicting the existing canon of Circe, but I can’t pretend it served as the most riveting narrative device. On a similar vein, reading about a vastly powerful, immortal witch can take some of the jeopardy out of proceedings. I liked that there was a focus on the emotional and psychological tole of her hardships, but any physical threat from gods and monsters felt lacking, given Circe’s own godly status.

A bit of a mixed bag for me, all-in-all. But in fairness, I always suspected that would be the case, hence my hesitancy to pick this up prior to its longlisting for the Women’s Prize. Purely as a matter of personal preference, I like my mythological retellings on the radical side (i.e. authors taking themes, plot points, and character archetypes from myths, and rewriting them in a modern, real-life setting), as opposed to retellings that still indulge in the swords and sorcery of the original tales. That’s just me, however, and I can both see and respect why Miller is so popular. I could arguably have rated this more harshly, but my appreciation for her craft and how well she ultimately brought everything together convinced me to stick with a solid three stars.

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You can pick up a copy of Circe from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Pisces by Melissa Broder | Book Review

The Pisces by Melissa Broder
Published by Bloomsbury, 2018
My Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

No one is as shocked as I am about how much I enjoyed The Pisces. On paper, it’s pretty much the opposite of what I look for in fiction, with words like ‘romantic’, ‘sexy’, ‘hilarious’, and ‘magical realism’ normally major red flags for me. But a longlisting for the Women’s Prize, and some excellent reviews from my bookish friends persuaded me to make an exception. Boy, am I glad I did.

To say this book is about a woman having a lot of sex and falling in love with a merman isn’t exactly untrue, but it certainly doesn’t do it justice either. For all its erotic moments and sharply observational quips, there is in fact a lot going on beneath the surface – pun fully intended. Lucy, our narrator, is a fascinating character. Indeed, the narrative voice is bold, singular, and utterly compelling; Broder having crafted a heroine who is as frustrating as she is endearing. Yes, she can be selfish, shallow, and even cruel, but with much of that stemming from her own insecurities, and manifesting in the kind of black humour that many of us use to get through the day, it feels entirely justified and refreshingly human. As such, it is Lucy herself who keeps the narrative grounded, no matter how surreal it otherwise becomes. Her work on a PhD thesis on Sappho also allows for some wonderful references to Greek mythology, which merely heighten the novel’s fantastical air.

Through her depression, self-doubt, and obsession with finding love, Lucy becomes a conduit through which Broder examines loneliness in the modern era, and the pain of misplaced desire. As she stumbles from one bad decision and toxic relationship to another, we begin to question if love is truly what she craves, and if satisfaction can ever come when it’s the chase that imparts the greatest thrill.

The first half of the book was on track for a five star rating, and the only reason I’ve bumped it down to four is a slight over-indulgence in its sexual content in the latter half. I don’t say this from a prudish standpoint. Sexuality is of course key to the story and its themes, but there’s only so many times you can read the graphic, intimate details of someone’s sex life before you start to become desensitized; any attempt to shock, enthral, or demystify feeling slightly diluted by way of repetition.

Though I had been hesitant about the magical realism elements of the story (it’s a form I often struggle with in a full-length novel), I felt Broder pitched it just right. For me, the genre always works best when we can never be entirely certain how much is real, and how much exists within the psyche of a complex narrator, so I was pleased to see this dynamic play out during the book’s brilliant climax. There was a kind of self-awareness for her own metaphor in general that I found admirable. It made the book all the more fun and engaging to read.

Unapologetic, unsentimental, and wholly original, The Pisces swept me away, and I was left feeling both satisfied and delighted by what is sure to be a memorable reading experience.

***

You can pick up a copy of The Pisces from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Beauty and the Beast | Theatre Review

Show: Beauty and the Beast
Venue: Festival Theatre, Edinburgh
Date: 14^th March 2019
Company: Birmingham Royal Ballet
Choreography: David Bintley
Music: Composed by Glenn Buhr, performed by Royal Ballet Sinfonia
Principal dancers: Maureya Lebowitz (Belle), Yasuo Atsuji (The Beast), & Beatrice Parma (Wild Girl)

Based on the classic story we all know and love, Birmingham Royal Ballet’s take on Beauty and the Beast made for a rich and visually captivating performance. The show really is a feast for the eyes, its greatest strength being the sumptuous costume design, ornate set pieces, and moody lighting; all of which come together to create an atmosphere that feels entirely in-keeping with the story’s fairy tale origins.

Sonically, the show is also a hit. Buhr’s specially composed score is seamlessly performed by the Royal Ballet Sinfonia. Intricate and textured, the music has a timeless, whimsical quality, honouring the extensive history of the narrative. As for injecting something new into proceedings, that’s where the choreography comes in. Though it is playful and original, the heavy leaning towards storytelling over conventional dance means there are a few moments in which the pace drags. When the show hits its stride, however, it’s an arresting experience, the second Act in particular really showing off the quality of the production across all departments.

Production shots, courtesy of Birmingham Royal Ballet.

Each member of the company did a good job with what they were given, and a couple of the big group routines were excellent. The standout individual performer was undoubtedly Beatrice Parma as the vixen-turned-woman. Her movement fused classical ballet with a strange vulpine quality. Her entire presence on stage was enigmatic and compelling.

Having seen a fair few ballets in my time, I can’t say this one ranks amongst the best, but it’s well worth catching during its UK tour if you have the chance. The recognisable story and approachable presentation make it accessible for enthusiasts and newcomers alike.

Praise Song for the Butterflies by Bernice L. McFadden | Book Review

Praise Song for the Butterflies by Bernice L. McFadden
Published by Jacaranda, 2018
My Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Rating this book has proven tricky, as there are elements of it that I loved, and elements that I found underwhelming and frustrating. The story follows Abeo, a young West African girl whose family falls on hard times in the 1980s. Her desperate father eventually sacrifices her to a religious shrine, where she endures physical, emotional, and sexual abuse; an ancient practice that was believed to atone for the sins of a family’s ancestors, thus breaking the chain of bad luck for future generations.

I thought the first half of the book was very strong. I quickly became invested in Abeo and her mother, and enjoyed McFadden’s unassuming prose, which is punctuated by moments of beauty. There’s a looming sense of threat as events begin to spiral beyond the characters’ control, and some very effective foreshadowing in a scene which sees the family visit a former prison for Africans who were to be sold into slavery. This introduced one of the book’s greatest thematic threads, in which McFadden draws parallels between events of the past, Abeo’s present, and our current day. It’s no mistake that the book was published now, after all. There are undeniable similarities to events that are playing out across the world today (we’ve all seen the plight of young refugees displaced by war, and the sickening images of migrant children seized by border authorities and placed in cages). The book serves as a powerful wake up call; an eye-opening look at the pattern of human error that echoes throughout time; the way in which we allow children to become collateral damage in the struggles, fears, and instabilities that arise with adult conflict. By educating ourselves about the past, we can better understand our present, and thus strive for better in the future.

Though the concept throws up a lot of potential for sensationalism, mercifully, I felt this was largely avoided. McFadden doesn’t shy away from the horrors that Abeo faces during her time in the shrine, but her somewhat distant, fast-moving narrative approach means we never become too bogged down by the harrowing details. What’s more, the book is always underpinned by a feeling of hope, with moments of kindness, and themes of sisterhood and recovery guiding us through the darkness.

The second half of the book focusses on the notion of facing up to the shame of our past, further enhancing the book’s thematic resonance. It moves very quickly, however. There are significant time jumps; important characters come and go without notice; and some of the book’s potential emotional development isn’t capitalised on. There is also a particular plot point that I felt was handled poorly; the one moment in which McFadden tipped into gratuitous suffering. It’s not the plot point itself that I took issue with. It felt inevitable, and made sense from a narrative perspective, but it could have been done in a way that was circumstantially in-keeping with the rest of the story, and no less tragic for it. Instead, it unfolded in a way that was entirely avoidable, making it feel needlessly cruel on the author’s part.

The book’s opening scene is bold, shocking, and instantly hooked me in. By contrast, I found the closing scene weak and clichéd. That, in essence, sums up my prevailing attitude towards the book as a whole. It starts strong, and has a lot of potential, but whilst its heart is in the right place, and it sets out to impart a commendable message, I found the execution left me wanting.

Overall, I’m glad this was longlisted for the Women’s Prize. I hadn’t heard of it before, and likely wouldn’t have picked it up otherwise, but I truly admire what McFadden was trying to say – even if the way she said it was a little clumsy at times.

***

You can pick up a copy of Praise Song for the Butterflies from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite | Book Review

My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite
Published by Doubleday, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Put simply, this sort-of-thriller is a fun, fast read, with a pleasing dash of the macabre. The story opens with Korede, whose sister, Ayoola, has come to her for help. Help, that is, getting rid of her boyfriend’s body. Though Ayoola claims she killed him in self-defence, this is the third of her partners to die under suspicious circumstances. Familial love pushes Korede to act, but her evidently dangerous sister soon sets her sights on the man she secretly harbours feelings for. With someone she cares about at risk of becoming her sister’s next victim, the strength of her loyalty is put to the test.

People who pick this up expecting a full-blown thriller will likely be left disappointed. The shocks, twists, and core element of mystery that normally underpin the genre are more-or-less absent here. Instead, this serves much better as a character study of two fascinating women, exploring the limits of sisterhood, the duty of family, what it takes to make a murderer, and if such a crime can ever be justified.

The prose itself is very simple, but it propels the story forward at a gripping pace. I also really liked the way social media was implemented into the story. Its inclusion can feel forced in many contemporary reads, but here it felt natural, and allowed Braithwaite to bring a satirical edge to the narrative. In a similar vein, it has to be said that she implements a couple of tropes, but she does so in an often blackly funny way, once again adding a touch of wit, and allowing for some social commentary; particularly with regards to the weight society puts on physical beauty.

In terms of emotional development, things could definitely have delved deeper, but I absolutely flew through the book, and I can easily see it being one of the most accessible and commercially popular offerings from the Women’s Prize longlist.

***

You can pick up a copy of My Sister, the Serial Killer from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

The Dreamers by Karen Thompson Walker | Book Review

The Dreamers by Karen Thompson Walker
Published by Scribner UK, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The Dreamers is a remarkably assured novel that is as gripping as it is intellectually stimulating. The plot focuses on a small US college town that is quarantined after the outbreak of a strange virus. Sufferers fall into a deep, uninterrupted slumber; their brains recording unusually high levels of activity. Though they can be kept alive intravenously, the scale of the epidemic makes it increasingly difficult for the remaining medical staff to meet their needs, before they too succumb to the sleep sickness.

Karen Thompson Walker’s prose is understated yet brilliant. There’s a gentle, almost hypnotic feel to the book as a whole; a dreamy quality that is a perfect match for the narrative’s tone and content. She also manages to create a tangible sense of mounting tension as the virus spreads throughout the town; a quiet claustrophobia that is accented by some real gut-punch moments.

I really appreciate that we get to follow the epidemic from its inception. Many dystopian or speculative stories drop us in at the deep end, society already decimated. Here, we experience the slow, creeping sense of fear along with the characters, as the gravity of the situation gradually becomes clear. This makes it feel all the more plausible and unsettling.

The story is told from the perspective of various characters, who weave in and out of each other’s lives in small but impactful ways. This allows Thompson Walker to explore the prevailing humanity, and the simple moments of domesticity that prevail, even in times of great distress.

The book is, in many ways, about the beauty and wonder of life itself. This means there is a slight element of the ‘having-kids-is-incredible-and-you-just-aren’t-whole-until-you’ve-done-it-yourself’ attitude in a couple of the characters’ sections. It’s never too heavy handed, and it makes sense given those particular characters’ circumstances, but it’s a thematic trope that can feel a little exclusionary. This was the only small gripe holding me back from a five-star rating.

That said, I love how contemplative the book is despite its immense readability. At face value, it may well serve as an engrossing, character-driven story with a lot of heart, but there is a deceptive amount of thematic nuance running beneath the surface. This includes thought-provoking commentary on the abstract nature of time; how certain patterns echo throughout the past, present, and future, and the possibility of parallel or even cyclical realities. There is also an inherent interest in the mystery of dreams; a beautiful reminder of how little we yet understand about the complexity of the human brain.

And whilst I was left feeling wholly satisfied in terms of the narrative, the author doesn’t feel the need to hand us all the answers with regards to these bigger issues. As such, it’s a book that is sure to spark conversation, and one I’d love to see more people read.

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You can pick up a copy of The Dreamers from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Milkman by Anna Burns | Book Review

Milkman by Anna Burns
Published by Faber & Faber, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

My main takeaway from Milkman is renewed interest in the line between appreciation and enjoyment when it comes to reading. Well-conceived and skilfully constructed, Anna Burns’ Booker winning novel is undoubtedly a perceptive and valuable piece of literature, but I can’t pretend that always made for a particularly pleasant reading experience.

The plot is thin at best, but what we do get concerns a young woman attempting to navigate the traps of daily life during the Troubles. Attracting the attention and harassment of an undesirable man known only as ‘Milkman’, she too becomes undesirable by association; the focus of rumour and vilification within her community. The story itself takes a backseat, however, the book propelled far more by its singular narrative voice, and its evocation of a society ruled by institutionalised oppression, violence, and division.

I greatly admired Milkman for its themes and overall tone, and was impressed by its contemplative, intersectional look at how toxic hearsay can be within a community, with Burns taking into account wider societal issues including gender, class, religion, and sexuality; all with a tinge of absurdist black humour, and a backdrop of looming danger.

Stylistically, I really liked the omission of character names. Sometimes, this can feel like an unnecessary gimmick, but in this instance, it was used to great effect. Characters repeatedly have their sense of identity taken from them, their truth warped by lies and scandal. Our names are the biggest markers of our individuality, and so, to me, stripping them away reflected the notion of a stolen sense of control over your own life. On another level, it establishes the idea that these characters are every-people; interchangeable with those in many communities across Ireland at this time, when experiences of violence were the norm. It also draws a parallel with the level of suppression the characters are subject to. When association with virtually anything could get you into trouble with ‘the other side’, thoughts, words, hopes, feelings, and opinions had to be omitted or hidden. Burns riffs on this idea of self-censorship, her characters living under such a strict regime, and so afraid of standing out, that even the potential connotations of a name have become hazardous.

For all that, the stream-of-consciousness style can be very frustrating. With little plot to grasp onto in the first place, its circular narrative and repeated tangents can make the book feel overly long, and needlessly verbose. For me, its merits made the effort worthwhile. It’s the kind of book I’m glad to have read, but which I’d be hesitant to recommend widely. In the hands of the right reader (those with an interest in Irish history, and voice-driven studies of an insular community), it offers an intelligent, shrewdly observant, and original reading experience that captures the atmosphere of a society simmering with tension, and tearing itself apart from the inside out.

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If you fancy giving Milkman a go, you can pick up a copy by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!