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eleanorfranzen 's review for:
Henry Henry
by Allen Bratton
This is a gay, incestuous, 2010s-set reimagining of Shakespeare's Henriad: let's call it Brandon Taylor meets Edward St Aubyn. As far as it goes, it's good. Bratton vividly imagines young Hal's terrifying self-destructiveness with drugs and drink, and shows it as stemming in large part from historical sexual abuse by his father, which you could argue is a symbolic mirroring of the systemic abuse of individuals by the British class system (I am convinced nothing is so devastating to a person's soul as being brought up in the expectations that surround hereditary wealth).
In another way it doesn't work at all. There are definitely queer and trauma-informed readings of the Henriad, but it isn't about queerness or trauma; rather, it's about succession and responsibility and the cost of duty. Adding those elements isn't a problem in itself, but doesn't contribute much to our understanding of the original story. Also, though I'm not convinced that it's an anti-Catholic novel per se (though I've seen it interpreted that way), the Lancaster family's Catholicism doesn't quite come across as recognisable contemporary Catholicism. Bratton is American, and while that doesn't disqualify him to write this book, his painting of the intersections of British class, sexuality and religion misses some spots. He's produced a very elegantly-turned novel, though. Worth a try if the comp in my first sentence interests you at all.
In another way it doesn't work at all. There are definitely queer and trauma-informed readings of the Henriad, but it isn't about queerness or trauma; rather, it's about succession and responsibility and the cost of duty. Adding those elements isn't a problem in itself, but doesn't contribute much to our understanding of the original story. Also, though I'm not convinced that it's an anti-Catholic novel per se (though I've seen it interpreted that way), the Lancaster family's Catholicism doesn't quite come across as recognisable contemporary Catholicism. Bratton is American, and while that doesn't disqualify him to write this book, his painting of the intersections of British class, sexuality and religion misses some spots. He's produced a very elegantly-turned novel, though. Worth a try if the comp in my first sentence interests you at all.