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A review by hoffmann_fanatic
The Magicians by Lev Grossman
2.0
It's been a while since I read fantasy after a lengthy 'literary' binge, and a while since I finished a book and felt so strongly against it. I'd passed over this book a couple times with vague interest, eventually happening on it again after finding one of the actors on the TV show in a list of Indian-Americans on Wikipedia (yes, I was bored) and having an "I-should-read-this" moment.
The other initially appealing aspect of this book was its supposed existence as both satire and fantasy, which is usually a good combination if pulled off right (e.g. Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Tomcat Murr, Golden Ass). Unfortunately, I've noticed that such hybrid books require a certain amount of detachment from the plot to be effective, and the plot itself must be simple, not complex. Overloading the story with needless characters in these sorts of novels lends too much gravitas to the satirical plot, which fails to be simplistically heartwarming.
Richard, Janet, Penny, Eliot, Anais...the characters run together into one massive amalgam of a generic, mildly competent friend of Quentin's. The characters lacked individuality; usually, I have no trouble forming a mental picture of secondary characters in a novel, but I couldn't picture any of the aforementioned characters, aside from Grossman's unhelpful physical characteristics like "fat" and "busty". Every character seems to have an untamed level of snark, and the inconsistency in intelligence between one day and another for some of these characters is completely unrealistic. One or two additional characters, aside from Quentin and Alice, could have balanced out the plot nicely and allowed room for more development.
Brakebills, itself, is a perfect example of the too-much-gravitas problem illustrated above. Making the oft-mentioned comparison to Hogwarts, it takes itself much too seriously for a novel loaded with references and supposedly spoofing "magic-school" and portal-fantasy novels. Grossman seems to have too much fun hanging out in his adolescence with these characters, rather than directly showing in supercilious fashion the degree of disrepair of the school (which Rowling managed to do very, very well). The same applies to Fillory, where Grossman himself seems to enjoy and obsess over the place, not just Quentin. There's a conflict in aesthetic here, a bright and pastel-filled place attempting to be portrayed through serious tone. I'd certainly appreciate a bit more author-voice in this book as a whole, and the sequels, I'm told, go straight into Fillory without a mark of regard for Earth.
The redeeming mark saving this book from a one-star review is Grossman's ability to write Quentin as a fairly realistic college student, albeit a few IQ levels lower than he claims. The ups and downs of life are reflected beautifully in Grossman's writing, and while I think diagnosing Quentin with depression (as in the show) is a little far, I don't think I've seen a character better written through so many moods and confidence levels as Grossman writes Quentin. Particularly noteworthy is the startlingly accurate way Quentin cannot recall information about the Fillory books (something he knows better than almost anyone) in times of high stress, while many other authors would assume that Quentin's knowledge base is consistent.
But in all, it was a sagging book that was overburdened with needless characters, had an unbalanced and fragmented plot, and overall, took itself too seriously. When I started, I was expecting a jagged social commentary through the dynamics of an elite magic school. What I got--a fantasy adventure--was fine, but there was much more potential for this book.
The other initially appealing aspect of this book was its supposed existence as both satire and fantasy, which is usually a good combination if pulled off right (e.g. Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Tomcat Murr, Golden Ass). Unfortunately, I've noticed that such hybrid books require a certain amount of detachment from the plot to be effective, and the plot itself must be simple, not complex. Overloading the story with needless characters in these sorts of novels lends too much gravitas to the satirical plot, which fails to be simplistically heartwarming.
Richard, Janet, Penny, Eliot, Anais...the characters run together into one massive amalgam of a generic, mildly competent friend of Quentin's. The characters lacked individuality; usually, I have no trouble forming a mental picture of secondary characters in a novel, but I couldn't picture any of the aforementioned characters, aside from Grossman's unhelpful physical characteristics like "fat" and "busty". Every character seems to have an untamed level of snark, and the inconsistency in intelligence between one day and another for some of these characters is completely unrealistic. One or two additional characters, aside from Quentin and Alice, could have balanced out the plot nicely and allowed room for more development.
Brakebills, itself, is a perfect example of the too-much-gravitas problem illustrated above. Making the oft-mentioned comparison to Hogwarts, it takes itself much too seriously for a novel loaded with references and supposedly spoofing "magic-school" and portal-fantasy novels. Grossman seems to have too much fun hanging out in his adolescence with these characters, rather than directly showing in supercilious fashion the degree of disrepair of the school (which Rowling managed to do very, very well). The same applies to Fillory, where Grossman himself seems to enjoy and obsess over the place, not just Quentin. There's a conflict in aesthetic here, a bright and pastel-filled place attempting to be portrayed through serious tone. I'd certainly appreciate a bit more author-voice in this book as a whole, and the sequels, I'm told, go straight into Fillory without a mark of regard for Earth.
The redeeming mark saving this book from a one-star review is Grossman's ability to write Quentin as a fairly realistic college student, albeit a few IQ levels lower than he claims. The ups and downs of life are reflected beautifully in Grossman's writing, and while I think diagnosing Quentin with depression (as in the show) is a little far, I don't think I've seen a character better written through so many moods and confidence levels as Grossman writes Quentin. Particularly noteworthy is the startlingly accurate way Quentin cannot recall information about the Fillory books (something he knows better than almost anyone) in times of high stress, while many other authors would assume that Quentin's knowledge base is consistent.
But in all, it was a sagging book that was overburdened with needless characters, had an unbalanced and fragmented plot, and overall, took itself too seriously. When I started, I was expecting a jagged social commentary through the dynamics of an elite magic school. What I got--a fantasy adventure--was fine, but there was much more potential for this book.