What Red Was by Rosie Price | Book Review

What Red Was by Rosie Price
Published by Harvill Secker, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This nuanced exploration of sexual assault and the resulting trauma manages to completely avoid the trap of salaciousness. It is in this understated and honest approach that the book’s true power lies. The story begins by showing the wonderful friendship that blossoms between Kate and Max throughout their years at university and beyond. The two are inseparable and unwaveringly honest with each other. When Kate is raped at a party by someone in Max’s inner circle, however, she must face not only the physical and mental implications of her attack, but a near impossible question: Should she tell Max the truth, and risk losing their friendship?

The friendship between Kate and Max is one of the most convincing and endearing that I’ve come across in fiction. The dynamic and chemistry between them is fantastic, and not once does Price cheapen its validity by questioning the entirely platonic nature of their relationship. It makes Kate’s dilemma following the assault all the more painful to watch unfold. It’s incredibly poignant to see Kate selflessly carry the burden of her secret alone, seeing it as an attempt to protect Max from a truth she knows will hurt him, potentially derailing their friendship.

The supporting characters are well developed and interesting in their own right. Through them, Price explores the notion that we are all dealing with our own private traumas, and the toxicity that can arise when we internalise that pain or turn to unhealthy vices for escape. She also touches on class divides. With Max’s mother, Zara, being a respected film director, he comes from a considerably wealthier background than Kate, and we soon see the privileges this has afforded his family – even if it hasn’t necessarily brought them happiness.

Throughout Kate’s attempts to understand and open up about what has happened to her, Price offers unflinching insight into the ramifications of rape, with major trigger warnings here for the likes of PTSD and self-harm. She shows us that rapists can come in many forms; that language and perspective can be used to try and warp the truth; and the frustration that can arise when the scars left by an assault are not outwardly discernible. Through Kate and Zara, however, she also explores the role that art can play in facing up to and processing trauma.

As much as I love a lot of what this book has to say, and how intelligently it says it, there were a couple of stumbling blocks right at the end that stopped me from giving it the full five stars. Being wary of spoilers, Kate presents a viewpoint in the final chapter, the wording of which I found very problematic. It was understandable given everything she’d been through, but for it to be presented as though the conclusion of her journey, rather than a mindset that could be challenged and overcome, left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I also felt that a few too many questions were left unanswered. Whilst deliberate to some extent, reflecting the idea that real stories don’t wrap up neatly, the lack of closure on certain key points was still frustrating from a narrative standpoint.

It’s a shame the book ended on a slightly negative note for me. I don’t want that to detract from the fantastic achievement this book is overall. It offers one of the most developed, thoughtful, frank, and important commentaries on sexual violence and coping with trauma that I’ve ever read.

***

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

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On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden | Book Review

On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden
Published by Avery Hill Publishing, 2018 (first published in 2016)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Walden’s science-fiction epic is a graphic novel told across two timelines. The first follows Mia as she befriends and falls in love with Grace, the new girl at school. The second, which plays out simultaneously, follows Mia several years later as she joins the crew of a ship that travels around the galaxy, repairing historic buildings. It becomes clear that she has an ulterior motive, however. Having lost all contact with Grace for more than five years, she wants to find and reconnect with her first love, to make peace with the way they parted company.

I really enjoyed the characters and the story, feeling suitably invested to keep the pages turning with ease. The sense of camaraderie between the crew is great, and the balance of charm and adventure makes for a fun read. The sci-fi society that Walden created is undoubtedly interesting, but I felt the handling of the world-building was underwhelming, failing to capitalise on the narrative’s full potential. There are no men seen or mentioned anywhere in this universe, for example. As a result, everyone’s sexuality appears to be very fluid and open, which I thought was great. However, there are references to Earth, and a very well-handled non-binary character, which means they exist within a society that acknowledges the concept of multiple genders. How and why, then, have they come to exist entirely without men? This is a prime example of an interesting idea that is given no context; the lack of development leaving the reader with unnecessarily distracting questions. Given that the book is approaching 600 pages long, there was ample opportunity to explore these finer details and flesh out the world.

In terms of the visuals, there are, again, some very interesting ideas, and I loved the colour palette. I would describe the art style as a little ‘busy’, however. Coupled with a not particularly detailed finish, this left certain characters, objects and goings on somewhat difficult to decipher, particularly during action sequences. The text is also very small. This didn’t bother me, personally, but I can see a lot of people having to strain their eyes to be able to read it.

An altogether easy and enjoyable reading experience that was worth the time, if not as well executed as it could have been.

***

If you’d like to pick up a copy of On a Sunbeam, you can find it on Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro & Cornelia Funke | Book Review

Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro & Cornelia Funke
Published by Bloomsbury, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Pan’s Labyrinth is one of my all-time favourite films. More than a decade on from its release, writer-director Guillermo del Toro has teamed up with fantasy novelist Cornelia Funk to create an official novelisation. Set against the backdrop of war-torn Spain in 1944, the story follows a young girl as she gets embroiled in a dark and fantastical adventure, drawing heavily on elements of fairy tale and horror. This thread sits in juxtaposition with the very real brutalities of war, with del Toro exploring the concept of monsters both human and imagined, alongside themes of loss, grief, family, and resilience.

Sticking faithfully to the original narrative, if you like the film, it’s hard to imagine you’d be disappointed with the book. Ironically, however, my love for the film was probably what stopped me from completely adoring this; any small discrepancies or shortcomings standing out more than they likely would have to the casual reader.

The sinister and whimsical tone is translated well from screen to page. The prose is simple and very readable, but it’s occasionally punctuated by some striking imagery that serves as a nice nod to the strong aesthetic prowess of the film: “The trees anchored so deeply in the moss-covered soil they laced the bones of the dead with their roots while their branches reached for the stars.” I did think, however, that there was a tendency to repeat certain words and phrases. This could have been deliberate; a nod to the straightforward, motif-driven nature of fairy tales, but it stood out a little clumsily at times – especially the overuse of the modern phrase, ‘for sure’. I also think it was just a little too meek. Yes, it might be a fairy tale that flirts with the magical, but this story is dark and otherworldly. I wish Funke had embraced that, pushing for a lush and evocative feel, rather than pitching for what feels at times like a middle grade audience.

I love that it is, in many ways, a love letter to the power of storytelling, and the escapism if offers from the darkness of our own world: “When she opened the book, the white pages were so bright against the shadows that filled the forest, and the words they offered granted shelter and comfort. The letters were like footprints in the snow, a wide white landscape untouched by pain, unharmed by memories too dark to keep, too sweet to let go of.” This ties in nicely with one of my favourite aspects of the film; the ability to interpret it as genuine fantasy, or the imaginings of a troubled young girl desperate to escape.

The book features some gorgeous illustrations, courtesy of Allen Williams.

The book is interspersed with short stories; fairy tales that can stand on their own, but which also serve as backstory for certain characters, locations, and events throughout the main narrative. These offer additional context not possible in the film, but I felt they interrupted the flow of the story somewhat, and threatened to push it towards full blown fantasy, rather than leaving things open to interpretation (though the stories could be read as the beloved tales that have fuelled Ofelia’s imagination, I suppose). Sometimes less is more, and I’m not sure we needed to know all of these extraneous details.

It’s hard to separate this from my love for the film, and therefore to judge it as its own piece of literature. The story, characters, setting, themes, and overall atmosphere crafted by del Toro are all fantastic – as I knew they would be. Revisiting the world he created via a new medium was at once nostalgic and fresh, and in that sense, I loved it. That said, I do think it would work best for people already familiar with the movie.

I suppose it was always going to be hard to please such an avid fan of the original, hence why this review for a book I actually very much enjoyed has come across more harshly than intended: I just wasn’t wholly convinced by Funke’s prose; a darker and more mature approach could have made this my dream read. Nonetheless, it offered a solid reading experience, and it was certainly worth picking up, even if it is a rare instance in which I’d argue firmly that the film is better than the book.

***

If you’d like to give Pan’s Labyrinth a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts, particularly how you felt it compared to the film!

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The Girls by Emma Cline | Book Review

The Girls by Emma Cline
Published by Vintage, 2016
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This was the book of the summer a few years back. Having waited a sufficient amount of time for the hype to die down, I hoped I’d be able to go into this feeling neutral and open-minded. Perhaps my expectations were still too high, however, as I can’t help but feel a little underwhelmed.

I’ll start with what I did like. The story follows a teenage girl who gets drawn into the periphery of a cult at the tale end of the 1960s, the stifling heat of summer reflected in the heady, claustrophobic atmosphere. In an age where radicalisation is a pressing issue, I really appreciate the way Cline addressed Evie’s inception into the group. She shows us how easy it is for a young and impressionable person to be drawn towards the wrong kind of people, when society has taught them to seek validation and purpose through the attention and affection of others. I also liked the non-linear timeline. Though the sections following Evie in adulthood add little to the overall plot, having her look back with retrospect on her teen years allows for a more analytical, perceptive, and mature narrative voice.

Here’s where things came a little unstuck for me, however. Though I was pleasantly surprised by how lyrical Cline’s prose was, there was a glut of superfluous metaphors, meaning she edged towards style over substance at times. I also think the book simply plays all its cards too early. From the opening pages, we know that Evie spends the summer of 1969 with this group; we know how and why she first becomes involved with them; we know the horrific act of violence they will go on to commit; and we know that Evie will not take part in this act herself. The book thus went on to feel sluggish and overly long, with little room left for unexpected developments regarding plot or themes. With so much build up to a climax we already know, and both Evie and the reader held at something of a distance throughout, the emotional payoff feels lacking. I also thought there was a massive leap from the cult’s (admittedly toxic) behaviour and dynamic, to the brutal murder of four innocent people, with no real in between. The motivation behind said murder was also so ridiculous it left me feeling baffled more than disturbed.

All-in-all, I just don’t think the book really goes anywhere. It has a fascinating concept, and some interesting characters and ideas to work with, but by the end, they – and the reader – remain in exactly the same position in which they started. Perhaps if plot details had unfolded more organically, or things had been condensed somehow, the book could have had more impact. As it is, it left me wondering what Cline wanted to say.

***

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

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My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing | Book Review

My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing
Published by Michael Joseph, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Sometimes, you want thought-provoking thematic depth, and sometimes, you just want a good story that sees you flying through the pages. The next time you’re in the mood for the latter, you could do a lot worse than My Lovely Wife.

This well-plotted and deliciously dark thriller isn’t a whodunnit. On the contrary, we know from the off that the unnamed protagonist and his wife have been literally getting away with murder for quite some time. As such, it’s never about who is committing these awful crimes, but why, and if and how they will get away with it. Putting us inside the mind of a serial killer not only makes us constantly question our narrator’s reliability, but it allows Downing to pose interesting questions about our own moral compasses. Though he is undoubtedly a horrible human being, he shows himself to be surprisingly remorseful at times, and genuinely caring towards his teenage children. Emerging as the lesser of two evils when held up against his wife, some may find themselves sympathising with or even rooting for him, leaving us – the reader – in a bizarre moral quandary.

I loved the way this dynamic advanced throughout the story. The more complex the characters’ web of secrets and lies became in order to cover their tracks, the more the ripple effects began to impact those closest to them – their children, their friends, and their community. Watching their disparate reactions to this, and once again asking us to consider if there is some kind of ‘scale’ of badness, was a unique and refreshing angle from which to approach a thriller.

With such a melodramatic setup – a husband and wife committing a spate of murders whilst trying to uphold their domestic obligations – there’s a slight suspension of disbelief required. The readable prose and well-placed twists keep everything moving at a great pace, however, meaning I was more than willing to submit myself to the story and enjoy it at face value. I would definitely read more from this author.

***

If you’d like to give My Lovely Wife a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer | Book Review

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer
Published by Penguin, 2015 (first published in 1962)
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

With biting hints of the rise in feminism that was to come, Penelope Mortimer’s The Pumpkin Eater chronicles the breakdown and attempted mental reconstruction of a woman left deeply unsatisfied by her role as wife and mother. There are whispers of scandal and rumour bubbling beneath the surface, and an oddly gripping quality to the somewhat scant narrative. That said, the book focusses on a perceptive look at society, and a sense of subtle power, over any salacious shock value. In that respect, it’s the kind of feminism that feels quietly revolutionary for its time, rather than anything particularly ground-breaking for the modern reader.

Speaking of this book feeling ‘of its time’, there are several uses of uncomfortably outdated racial and queer slurs. There’s an argument for making contextual allowances for this kind of thing in classic literature, but I can’t pretend it didn’t jar me out of the story. Once you get beyond this (and thankfully most examples come early in the book), Mortimer’s prose feels very sharp, particularly in her use of dialogue. There’s a bluntness to the heroine’s narrative voice, and this allows for moments of dry, deadpan humour.

By moving back and forth through time to examine several formative relationships and experiences, we see how often the protagonist has sought happiness in the wrong places, based on external pressures and societal expectations more than genuine desire. We also see how often she has lacked autonomy, with various men (her father, her doctor, her therapist, and her husbands) repeatedly assuming they know exactly what she wants and how she feels without bothering to ask her. In this respect, the book looks at the everyday ways in which women were (and sadly still are) betrayed by the men in their lives, the roles ascribed to them, and sometimes even the fellow women they thought they could trust.

Having divorced several times, and accrued an ‘army of children’, the protagonist remains nameless throughout, having been consistently defined by her relationship to the man in her life at any given time. Her many children also remain nameless and numberless, hinting at the sense of disconnect she feels from her own life. There is one notable exception to this rule – her adolescent daughter, Dinah. Beautiful, on the cusp of adulthood, and thus beginning to emerge from the indeterminate mass of children as her own person, the reason for singling her out remained frustratingly unexplored. I wondered if perhaps the narrator, and Mortimer, saw Dinah as something of a second chance; a glimmer of hope that the next generation of girls may have the power and opportunity to forge their own identities. There was real potential in this thread, and I wish more had been done with it.

When the book is at its most honest and observant, it can be wonderfully poignant, like this section, in which our heroine realises she’s been left so jaded by life that she doesn’t even know how to be happy anymore: “I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I’m like, how can I know what I want? I only know that whether I’m good or bad, whether I’m a bitch or not, whether I’m strong or weak or contemptible or a bloody martyr – I mean whether I’m fat or thin, tall or short, because I don’t know – I want to be happy. I want to find a way to be happy.”

If there had been a little more of this, a little less casual prejudice, and a little more punch and cohesion in the overall delivery, this could have been fantastic. As it is, it’s still a worthwhile read, and a perfectly valid cornerstone in the literary feminist canon.

***

If you’d like to give The Pumpkin Eater a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui | Book Review

The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui
Published by Abrams Books, 2017
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this deeply personal yet outwardly ambitious graphic memoir, Thi Bui recounts her family’s experience of displacement following the collapse of South Vietnam in the wake of the war, and their attempts to resettle in the US.

The book opens with the birth of Bui’s first child. Becoming a parent forces her to evaluate her relationship with her own parents; a relationship that has been tempered by supressed emotion carried with them from their homeland. By exploring her parents’ childhoods in relation to her own, she hopes to better understand why they became the people they did. Though on the surface the book thus functions as a multi-generational family memoir, this serves largely as a framework, allowing Bui to look at the notion of inherited trauma and whether or not it’s possible to break the chain of fear, anger, and resentment that refugee parents often unknowingly pass on to their offspring.

The timeline is fluid, rather than linear, creating an anecdotal feel. Instead of walking us through everything step-by-step, Bui weaves past into present; her own childhood into her parents’ childhoods, and so on. This ties nicely into the book’s central theme, reflecting the idea of shared heritage. It also allows her to highlight the similarities and differences in their experiences, as well as the culture divide between Vietnam and America.

The graphic memoir format works very well for this particular story. Traversing several countries throughout their lives, and speaking different languages (English, French, and Vietnamese) depending on their location and circumstances, art serves as a consistent universal language that binds everything together in a coherent, visual way. The style itself employs simple yet expressive watercolours, with muted peach tones running throughout.

An example of the art style, courtesy of Thi Bui and Abrams Books.

There are uncomfortable truths to be gleaned from the Bui family’s experiences, like the immense class divide, the impact of poverty, the strict surveillance, and the harsh persecution that reigned during French colonisation and the resulting war between the North and South, but also long after US troops had left Vietnam (something the Western media did little to reflect at the time). It also shows how unwelcome many refugees seeking a better life were made to feel in the US (parallels with the world’s current political climate are hard to ignore). Through all of this, Bui asks herself how much of this refugee experience informs who she is, and how much is down to her alone. More importantly, she wonders if immigrant families will always carry the burden of their lineage, or if future generations may be free to grow up independent of that stigma.

I found this eye-opening on a historical and political level, as well as engaging on an emotional one. The book was supposedly a long time in the making, but I think Thi Bui has crafted something quite special, offering a unique and overlooked perspective on an important piece of recent history.

***

If you’d like to give The Best We Could Do a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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