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3.53 AVERAGE
3.53 AVERAGE
Did you pick this book up with the expectation of a semi-fun, somewhat entertaining story that never quite reaches the level of mindless popcorn amusement? Then you'll be fine.
Did you pick this up in the hopes that the depiction of the art world and its maze of buyers, collectors, academics, and appraisers would be (a) a riveting setting, (b) a chance to gain insight from an author with first-hand experience, or (c) just an endless parade of name-dropping? C is the winner, everyone else can go home.
In all honesty, this book met basically none of my expectations. The art discussions were pedestrian and pedantic all at once. The author might as well have been listing brand names for all the depth she gave the various paintings and artists she decided to squish into her prose. Watteau's life was used in the most sentimental and superficial manner possible (and I LOVE Watteau and all things rococo).
None of the above would matter if the characters had more substance. I would have settled for ANY substance. People come in and out, much like a "Love Actually" clone, and nobody makes an impression. The bad guys are bad, the good guys... exist, and the rich and idle are rich and idle. The Russian billionaire is obsessed with family drama that gets dropped after twenty pages and reads halfway between a hardened man and a goopy teenager desperate for love (and by "love" I mean literally any girl will do, which doesn't make him particularly sympathetic or memorable, he simply wants a girlfriend). Fathers are murdered in backstories with their hard drives wiped, awful exes lead their mistresses on for years and send selfish text messages after a breakup, etc. The main character's relationship with her (more or less) deadbeat mother showed some promise before the author decided that, three-quarters into the story, we really don't need either of these characters anymore. The plot will resolve itself with a swish and flick, and then all the characters will receive a two-sentence summary of what happened to them and how they lived happily ever after.
This could have been a very good read. It could have featured a main character who doesn't go from making lattes and omelettes to single-handedly designing and cooking grand dinner parties for the ridiculously affluent (who SOMEHOW have never tasted anything so delicious in their entire lives because personal chefs and deluxe caterers definitely don't exist in London...). She could have designed desserts, or main courses, or simply focused on recipe designs, or really anything slightly more manageable and less destructive of the average suspension of disbelief. She also could have had a personality besides "I'm getting over a truly terrible relationship." That would have been nice! And although I could have done without the poor attempt at romance, I would still have enjoyed it had the love interest shown any more substance. But no. Everyone was flat to the end. I could barely piece together reasons to root for the main character, and that was after spending about 200 pages in her company. Sadly, I could not muster up any energy to care about the academic's brother from Wales and his wife, who was a perfect caricature of the over-bearing, fat, television-obsessed housewife and who (it seems) tried her best to act as hateful and unintelligent as possible (even interrupting characters to ask what certain large words mean only to be told to shut up or ignored, I forget which). No, really, it was too much. I feel as though I sat through a twelve course meal during which every course was both a surprise and a devastating disappointment.
Did you pick this up in the hopes that the depiction of the art world and its maze of buyers, collectors, academics, and appraisers would be (a) a riveting setting, (b) a chance to gain insight from an author with first-hand experience, or (c) just an endless parade of name-dropping? C is the winner, everyone else can go home.
In all honesty, this book met basically none of my expectations. The art discussions were pedestrian and pedantic all at once. The author might as well have been listing brand names for all the depth she gave the various paintings and artists she decided to squish into her prose. Watteau's life was used in the most sentimental and superficial manner possible (and I LOVE Watteau and all things rococo).
None of the above would matter if the characters had more substance. I would have settled for ANY substance. People come in and out, much like a "Love Actually" clone, and nobody makes an impression. The bad guys are bad, the good guys... exist, and the rich and idle are rich and idle. The Russian billionaire is obsessed with family drama that gets dropped after twenty pages and reads halfway between a hardened man and a goopy teenager desperate for love (and by "love" I mean literally any girl will do, which doesn't make him particularly sympathetic or memorable, he simply wants a girlfriend). Fathers are murdered in backstories with their hard drives wiped, awful exes lead their mistresses on for years and send selfish text messages after a breakup, etc. The main character's relationship with her (more or less) deadbeat mother showed some promise before the author decided that, three-quarters into the story, we really don't need either of these characters anymore. The plot will resolve itself with a swish and flick, and then all the characters will receive a two-sentence summary of what happened to them and how they lived happily ever after.
This could have been a very good read. It could have featured a main character who doesn't go from making lattes and omelettes to single-handedly designing and cooking grand dinner parties for the ridiculously affluent (who SOMEHOW have never tasted anything so delicious in their entire lives because personal chefs and deluxe caterers definitely don't exist in London...). She could have designed desserts, or main courses, or simply focused on recipe designs, or really anything slightly more manageable and less destructive of the average suspension of disbelief. She also could have had a personality besides "I'm getting over a truly terrible relationship." That would have been nice! And although I could have done without the poor attempt at romance, I would still have enjoyed it had the love interest shown any more substance. But no. Everyone was flat to the end. I could barely piece together reasons to root for the main character, and that was after spending about 200 pages in her company. Sadly, I could not muster up any energy to care about the academic's brother from Wales and his wife, who was a perfect caricature of the over-bearing, fat, television-obsessed housewife and who (it seems) tried her best to act as hateful and unintelligent as possible (even interrupting characters to ask what certain large words mean only to be told to shut up or ignored, I forget which). No, really, it was too much. I feel as though I sat through a twelve course meal during which every course was both a surprise and a devastating disappointment.
I had high expectations for this book and I did enjoy it, however I felt at times things fitted too neatly. The narrative and characters were thrilling and gripping and the story kept me glued to the page. I do have reservations about how this book is resolved and the ease with which it finishes.
The chapters from the painting's point of view were probably the only thing I enjoyed about this. The story as a whole was boring and the writing style not my cup of tea; I felt the writer was trying to too hard.
I selected this novel off Netgalley on account of its being longlisted for the Bailey Prize. I had just finished Maestra, another novel about the shenanigans of the super-rich and the art world, and was hoping for something a little more literary. Instead, I waded through this novel over an entire week (when usually I would read at least two novels) and can only say, I preferred Maestra. I learned more about art from the latter, and it was more suspenseful and better plotted than Rothschild’s novel.
Overall a really enjoying book. While the ending felt a bit rushed and sentimental, overall I really enjoyed it.
I can see why this book was short-listed for the Bailey's Prize. It was historical, literary, and contemporary fiction all rolled into one package.
So, here’s a book that’s just a little more than 400 pages long, and 380 or so of those pages are excellent. Unfortunately, the last few border on infuriating.
- The style is very good, spangled with lots of quotable, funny and often insightful bits, on everything from the art world to food to the musings of expatriate Russian gangsters.
- The story is intriguing, following the unlikely path of a particular painting and the people around its contemporary re-discovery.
- The characters, for the most part, are fun and interesting, though oddly I think the minor characters were more memorable and sharply drawn than the main ones, even if they’re not especially original: the aforementioned Russian gangster, the ferociously fabulous society guide, the financially desperate Earl, and pretty much the whole Winkleman clan. Heck, I wouldn’t mind having dinner with the surprisingly chatty painting itself.
Sadly, Annie, the putative lead, is pretty much the least interesting personality here, with her stereotypically drunken mom running her a close second. Even they, though, have their moments (I did like their little moonlit dance on the roof).
The problem is the ending. It felt so unreasonably and unfairly rushed, and nothing frustrates me more than bad endings. I’ve given the author my time and attention for hours: I’ve made the commitment to her world, and I’m trusting that she’ll honor that commitment. But, no, she let me down, with a “Whoops! Out of time, uh, here’s a quicky answer, here’s what happened to everyone, that's it, get out.”
This made the whole book feel terribly, needlessly unbalanced. Several earlier bits could have been pruned to give room for a proper ending. How about describing one astonishing meal, instead of two (plus prep)? There’s a few pages. There were two art critics, but really, the plot only needed one—and frankly, the story would have been tighter without the fat-bashing snarkiness aimed at the other. Etc.
And, in all honesty, there was some general editoral bagginess; a sentence on the power of art was repeated almost verbatim on the very next page, that sort of thing. Another overall read-through would have helped.
As it was, the ending reminded me of a story my dad used to tell me about an old Bob and Ray radio serial, a spoof soap opera called Mary Backstayge. It ran for years, but when it eventually ended the creators decided to do it by knocking off all the characters in the final episode. Unfortunately, it was done live, and killing people by ones and twos wasn’t going fast enough. So, in the last minute or so, they just gathered all the remaining characters into a room and dropped a ceiling on them. Ta da! The End.
That became our family shorthand for desperate final moves: “Quick, drop a ceiling on them!” This felt like that—only less satisfying.
- The style is very good, spangled with lots of quotable, funny and often insightful bits, on everything from the art world to food to the musings of expatriate Russian gangsters.
- The story is intriguing, following the unlikely path of a particular painting and the people around its contemporary re-discovery.
- The characters, for the most part, are fun and interesting, though oddly I think the minor characters were more memorable and sharply drawn than the main ones, even if they’re not especially original: the aforementioned Russian gangster, the ferociously fabulous society guide, the financially desperate Earl, and pretty much the whole Winkleman clan. Heck, I wouldn’t mind having dinner with the surprisingly chatty painting itself.
Sadly, Annie, the putative lead, is pretty much the least interesting personality here, with her stereotypically drunken mom running her a close second. Even they, though, have their moments (I did like their little moonlit dance on the roof).
The problem is the ending. It felt so unreasonably and unfairly rushed, and nothing frustrates me more than bad endings. I’ve given the author my time and attention for hours: I’ve made the commitment to her world, and I’m trusting that she’ll honor that commitment. But, no, she let me down, with a “Whoops! Out of time, uh, here’s a quicky answer, here’s what happened to everyone, that's it, get out.”
This made the whole book feel terribly, needlessly unbalanced. Several earlier bits could have been pruned to give room for a proper ending. How about describing one astonishing meal, instead of two (plus prep)? There’s a few pages. There were two art critics, but really, the plot only needed one—and frankly, the story would have been tighter without the fat-bashing snarkiness aimed at the other. Etc.
And, in all honesty, there was some general editoral bagginess; a sentence on the power of art was repeated almost verbatim on the very next page, that sort of thing. Another overall read-through would have helped.
As it was, the ending reminded me of a story my dad used to tell me about an old Bob and Ray radio serial, a spoof soap opera called Mary Backstayge. It ran for years, but when it eventually ended the creators decided to do it by knocking off all the characters in the final episode. Unfortunately, it was done live, and killing people by ones and twos wasn’t going fast enough. So, in the last minute or so, they just gathered all the remaining characters into a room and dropped a ceiling on them. Ta da! The End.
That became our family shorthand for desperate final moves: “Quick, drop a ceiling on them!” This felt like that—only less satisfying.
Loved this book, the storyline was captivating and I did not give it 5 stars because it was a little predictable at times, the characters were so vast that I confused them at times and some parts of the story were a bit of a stretch to believe (like the painting knew things that it had no way of knowing). I also love that the painting is a narrator.