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safetygarden 's review for:
The Yiddish Policemen's Union
by Michael Chabon
Well. Add that to the list of media so specific I'll never be able to recommend it to anyone. Between a heavy reliance on Yiddish culture, heavy analogues to chess theory, a constant use of Yiddish language, frequent mentions of Alaska-specific Native American culture and history, a tone and protagonist so genre heavy it's almost parodic, and an absolutely bonkers plot, this book definitely wins the prize for most niche story I've ever read.
Is it good? Yes. Is it great? Not quite. I'm glad I got through to the ending, watching plot points and character arcs I'd long forgotten about finally pay off after hundreds of pages was really satisfying, but half of the journey could have been cut out with no damage to the story, and a lot of the loose threads could have either been tied up or left out competely.
The prose is nice and pretty, but just shy of the poetry the tone is looking to inspire. And scene descriptions drag on and on well beyond the necessary, often taking away from the emotional momentum of the mystery unfolding. The character dynamics are geeat, but the characters themselves are so two-dimensional it hurts. There's so much potential to explore with Berko, with Bina, with Zimbalist, and Baronshteyn, that seems wasted on gritty noir-style inner monologue. Landsman is in a psychological mess, Berko is in an ethnic-cultural split, Bina is wounded and persistent, but these traits are inferred, not explored. Maybe that's outside the scope of this story, but it's all I could think of as I was reading the hundredth paragraph about the particular hair colour of one bodyguard for someone only tangentially important to the story.
Still, the mystery itself was so insane that I couldn't stop reading, and it just kept getting more and more wild with every revelation, without ever feeling cartoonish until looked at from retrospect. The dialect and world building were pretty great, and the humour often hit just the spot.
Overall, an impressive feat of a book, if not one that everyone would enjoy.
Is it good? Yes. Is it great? Not quite. I'm glad I got through to the ending, watching plot points and character arcs I'd long forgotten about finally pay off after hundreds of pages was really satisfying, but half of the journey could have been cut out with no damage to the story, and a lot of the loose threads could have either been tied up or left out competely.
The prose is nice and pretty, but just shy of the poetry the tone is looking to inspire. And scene descriptions drag on and on well beyond the necessary, often taking away from the emotional momentum of the mystery unfolding. The character dynamics are geeat, but the characters themselves are so two-dimensional it hurts. There's so much potential to explore with Berko, with Bina, with Zimbalist, and Baronshteyn, that seems wasted on gritty noir-style inner monologue. Landsman is in a psychological mess, Berko is in an ethnic-cultural split, Bina is wounded and persistent, but these traits are inferred, not explored. Maybe that's outside the scope of this story, but it's all I could think of as I was reading the hundredth paragraph about the particular hair colour of one bodyguard for someone only tangentially important to the story.
Still, the mystery itself was so insane that I couldn't stop reading, and it just kept getting more and more wild with every revelation, without ever feeling cartoonish until looked at from retrospect. The dialect and world building were pretty great, and the humour often hit just the spot.
Overall, an impressive feat of a book, if not one that everyone would enjoy.