Luncheon of the Boating Party

Luncheon of the Boating Party

By Susan Vreeland (448 pages)

Published by Penguin

Bookish rating: 3

Vreeland’s historical, artsy novel explores the creation of Renoir’s huge, popular painting, Luncheon of the Boating Party. She takes us to Bohemian Paris, and surmises on the crowd of models shown in the painting and Renoir’s angst in painting it, and she conveys some of the contemporary debate and criticism of Impressionism at the time.

Vreeland successfully showcases lots of historical and French cultural detail, not to mention the sense of what Paris was like 100+ years ago, and she depicts the turbulence of an art movement still in flux, not yet fully understood or appreciated. However, the novel lacks enough plot to move it forward, so we readers are subjected to pages and pages and PAGES of banter among the 13 models and teeny tiny, inconsequential scenes. This results in a choppy read. One could argue that Vreeland’s choppiness is intended to mimic the short brush stokes that give a viewer of Renoir’s work an “impression” of the subject, but I highly doubt that’s what she was aiming for. If it was, well, then I’m not a fan.

I never got terribly absorbed in the story, because there was so little story to hang onto. Parisians exchanging witticisms is interesting for a paragraph at most, but not full chapters—though Vreeland obviously does this to fill up scenes in which Renoir is painting. I mean, what can they do besides verbally interact? Each sitting of the models is mostly the same, and again, though Vreeland has carefully written these redundant scenes with clever dialogue (way too much dialogue, in my opinion) and little nuances and details that show she knows her stuff, it’s simply tiresome to read.

This is not a bad book, and it should appeal in many ways to those who love Impressionism and Renoir. However, the novel failed to grab me. I had no plot to follow, except for Renoir fussing about his painting, and the characters were (a) too numerous, (b) not super likable, and (c) not terribly interesting. Yes, parts were of the novel were done well, and Vreeland is a good writer. But overall, I just didn’t enjoy the novel that much.

The Pleasure of My Company

The Pleasure of My Company

By Steve Martin (176 pages)

Published by Hyperion

Bookish rating: 4

Okay, seriously, who doesn’t love Steve Martin? Yeah, he’s a comedic goofball, but he’s also a renaissance man! I mean, the dude can play the banjo, act a hugely wide variety of roles, is hilarious, and apparently he’s a genuinely not-sucky writer.

Did you even KNOW that he was a writer? Oh yes, he has a memoir, which I now totally want to read, and he also wrote Shopgirl, which I haven’t read, but I loved the movie (which starred Martin and Claire Danes).

The Pleasure of My Company is narrated by Daniel, who has some sort of mental health issue—autism, Asperger’s, or some sort of obsessive–compulsive disorder. We never quite know what the condition is, but Daniel is nevertheless a heartbreakingly decent guy, stuck in the mind of neurotic obsessions, compulsions, and fears.

Daniel lives by himself in his Santa Monica apartment, observing the world but unable to participate in it, due to his fear of curbs, need for balanced light wattage, and so on. His narrative voice is very matter-of-fact but also sort of disarming. He pines for three different women—his state-supplied shrink, the pharmacist at the Rite Aid, and a realtor showing the apartment across the street.

Overanalyzing absolutely everything, Daniel hyper-plans ways to interact with these women, mainly trying to appear normal. Eventually, he becomes the go-to babysitter for a toddler of one of the women, and Daniel’s narration of how the little boy interacts with him is extremely amusing and probably my favorite aspect of the novel. The toddler’s lack of predictability and logic matched up Daniel’s need for extreme order and a cause-and-effect is brilliantly portrayed, but they also have moments of being totally on the same wavelength. After all, like a toddler, Daniel loves his patterns and rituals.

The ending was a tad too tidy and almost rushed, but that’s a minor quibble. Overall, recommended. Surprisingly.



The Three Weissmanns of Westport

The Three Weissmanns of Westport

By Cathleen Schine (292 pages)

Published by Picador

Bookish rating: 4.25

This wry, snarky novel—an updated take on Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility—follows three women as they relocate from swanky Manhattan apartments to a dingy cottage in Westport. And there, they tinker in love.

Betty, the somewhat silly matriarch, is left by her husband (who decides to keep the apartment) after 48 years of marriage and dramatically refers to herself as a widow. Miranda (based on Austen’s Marianne) is the theatrical and rather naïve literary agent whose career just went down in flames. And steadfast Annie (based on Austen’s Elinor) moves in with her mom and sister to keep an eye on them. She’s the only one who watches the household budget or is gainfully employed.

 Schine mimics Austen’s ironic tone, but she does so with a New York (and often Jewish) twist, and the result is hilarious but also sort of poignant. The women are so flawed but believable—in a ridiculously non-believable sort of way. I can’t quite explain it. Schine also narrates from an omniscient point of view, flawlessly bouncing from one character’s point of view to the next. The result is delightful observation and introspection, with nothing muddled or sloppy about it.

 If you’re an Austen-phile, you may read along the entire book, thinking you know how it ends. You don’t. And that was one of my favorite parts of this novel.

It’s refreshing to read a novel as well-written as Three Weismanns, with line upon line of wit, irony, parody, droll observation, and even a little romance. Recommended.



Galway Bay

Galway Bay

By Mary Pat Kelly (550 pages)

Published by Grand Central

Bookish rating: 4

Galway Bay qualifies, I think, as an “epic.” Spanning about 60 years, we follow Honora Kelly, from the “before times” in Ireland during the 1840s, through the Great Starvation, across the Atlantic, and during her life in Chicago.

Kelly covers a lot of ground in 550 pages. She sets up a sparkling Irish ideal, with (a few too many) fairy or ancient stories, pipe music, green hills, and the blue Galway Bay. Then “blight” on the potato crop three times in four years combined with evil landlords and an effed up government blocking aid cause around 1 million Irish peasants die. Although difficult to read, especially as Honora narrates as a mother with starving children, the years of blight are the most compelling of Kelly’s novel.

Galway Bay is good historical fiction. Honora has a unique and believable voice, the story is steeped in thick historical context, and the writing is very good. Although not written in dialect (thank goodness—dialect always reads as forced to me), Kelly effectively conveys that lively Irish lilt in in the dialogue as well as the rest of the writing. Irish words are sprinkled throughout, blessedly with a glossary at the back of the book. Although lending a nice Irish element, the syntax (I know, how boring) is really where Kelly pulls off a believable Irish tone for the book. The language sometimes veers a little too sentimental and preachy in Honora’s internal pondering, but it’s not terrible. Just a tad distracting and a little cheesy.

Kelly falls prey to a glitch I often see in historical fiction, especially epic-type fiction: the compulsion to include every possible historical event as personally affecting the heroine. The Great Starvation and Civil War I get. But loads of Irish politics, Irish-American politics, the Chicago fire, every influential Irish person, and on and on stretched credibility. The final 150 pages or so felt like a speedy, packed , bulleted list of Important Irish-American Moments in History, and I found myself anxious to get to the last page.

Galway Bay is a long but rewarding read for those interested in Irish, Irish-American, and Chicago history. Recommended, if you’ve got the time.

Catching Fire

Catching Fire
By Suzanne Collins (391 pages)
Published by Scholastic
Bookish rating: 3.5

I don't really care for writing reviews for books like Catching Fire, the second book in the wildly popular Hunger Games trilogy. Thousands upon thousands reviews already exist; I can't add much to the conversation.

But here we are. Is Catching Fire as good as The Hunger Games? No, but it's still quite good. We meet up with our archery heroine Katniss, who finds herself wanting to start a rebellion against the Panem (futuristic North America) government as well as in a Twilight-esque love triangle with Gale and Peeta.

Like the first book, Collins excels at plotting and pacing. She raises the stakes at the exact right spots, which makes for lots of page turning. Or, well, Kindle clicking. Lots of characters come and go, and Collins at subtly highlighting those you need to remember and those who aren't so important.

Catching Fire is clearly a transition novel, capitalizing on the adrenaline of the first book and steering us to the big climax and conclusion in the third book.

If you read and enjoyed The Hunger Games, recommended.

The Off Season

The Off Season

By Catherine Gilbert Murdock (300 pages)

Published by Graphia

Bookish rating: 3.5

I wasn’t absolutely in love with Murdock’s Dairy Queen, the first book in this sporty farm girl series, and yet I found myself coming back for more D.J. Schwenk.

The Off Season picks up almost immediately where Dairy Queen left off, with D.J. playing football on the (boys’) high school team, her family’s dairy farm facing major economic strife, her boyfriend who happens to be QB for her school’s rival team, and her family that can’t communicate worth cow poo. (The family dynamics—especially between D.J. and her remarkably-complex-for-a-YA-novel dad—remain the strongest part of this book.)

First, D.J. effs up her shoulder, requiring her to choose between finishing the football season or being healed enough to play basketball, when the latter can almost definitely ensure her a college scholarship (and her folks are broke). Then her brother, who plays college ball for the University of Washington, gets a major spinal cord injury during a game. She hops a plane to Seattle to care for him, and frankly, much of this part of the book seems eerily similar to Season 1 of Friday Night Lights. Just saying.

A few quibbles. First, whether D.J. and her fam live in Wisconsin or not, I cannot imagine them all referring to UW (that is, “U-Dub”) as “the University of Washington” or even “Washington” among themselves and to each other, especially if their son or brother is second QB for UW. If you have spent more than 14 seconds in the Pacific Northwest, you know it’s U-Dub. So, that whole UW aspect just didn’t ring true to me.

Second, if we have to hear all about Wisconsin, a little detail on Seattle—since D.J. travels there—would’ve been nice. Was it drizzly? Anything? There was no sense of PLACE when she was in Seattle, unlike every other location she jumps around to.

Last, my biggest quibble is the same I had with the first book—oh, those interminable internal monologues that go on for pages and pages. Murdock can cover 4 or 5 events with nary a line of dialogue, which makes for the temptation to SKIM. I get that she’s trying to give us D.J.’s “voice” and all, but lordy. And speaking of voice, countless reviews rave about D.J.’s unique, fantastic, oh so witty voice, but I’m not crazy about it. Her tone comes across as too young and naïve—too “well, shucks” or something. Honestly, it sounds like a grown-up trying to write “young and insecure,” but maybe I’m just cranky or something.

Despite that my “quibbles” section takes up more space than anything else in this review, I actually did like the book. The family farm stress paired with the football is refreshing for YA literature (though the book could’ve used a lot more football). And, despite her sounding too young and written by the heavy hand of a Grown-Up, I do find D.J. Schwenk endearing, perceptive, and ultimately a character that I—and, more importantly, adolescent girls—can root for. What the heck, recommended.

When Washington Was in Vogue

When Washington Was in Vogue

By Edward Christopher Williams (285 pages)

Published by Amistad

Bookish rating: 3.5

When Washington Was in Vogue is one of those tricky books to review, because it has a lot of value but turned out to be a bit of a chore to get through.

The book is “a lost novel of the Harlem Renaissance,” which means it was found as published in The Messenger from January 1925 through June 1926, as an English PhD student, Adam McKible, was doing research for his dissertation. Certainly, there is a special “discovery” element that, frankly, is so often absent from literary research. I mean, it’s hard to compare with discovering new fossils, miracle drugs, or planets, such as in the sciences.

So when English nerds discover something, it’s pretty exciting.

The novel is a simple love story, told through letters via Davy Carr’s narration. Well read, well educated, and quite contemplative, Davy has an opinion on pretty much everything. As a piece of historical writing, this is useful for revealing some fascinating nuances, habits, fashions, manners, and dynamics of Washington, DC, and the DC “Black Bourgeoisie” of the 1920s. Also, as someone pretty familiar with DC, having lived there for awhile, Davy's descriptions of areas almost a century ago were eerily fascinating.

This is, of course, a novel of the Harlem Renaisssance, but Davy’s criticism of racism is surprisingly understated. For example, he writes to his friend Bob, “The downtown theaters here segregate colored people, and some of them will not sell them seats anywhere but in the gallery. Naturally, that lets me out. You will say, of course, that since I can ‘get by,’ such a rule should not bother me. But for some reason difficult to explain, it does” (p. 15). The reason it bugs him seems pretty clear to me!

More interestingly, Davy criticizes how folks—women in particular—who are light-skinned enough to “pass” not only do so (and really, who could blame them?), but leverage it against other Black women. Davy describes a shocking scene in which some light-skinned women who can pass and thus attend certain theatrical events that are absolutely closed to Black people, chat among themselves, asking a dark-skinned woman her opinion of such performances, knowing perfectly well that she cannot attend them. Davy, livid, views what he calls “the color line” among the Black bourgeoisie that places higher  value on lighter skin as “a dreadful confession of admitted interiority” (p. 75).

When Washington Was in Vogue has a lot of charm and tremendous historical value. It is, however, not literarily fantastic or amazing. Descriptions get long-winded and tiresome, and Davy can be a tad stuffy and unlikable at times. Although it’s a nice book, and most definitely an asset to furthering understanding of the Harlem Renaissance, ultimately, from a strictly literary point of view, it’s just a nice little love story.