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christinecc 's review for:
The Improbability of Love
by Hannah Rothschild
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.