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A review by thelizabeth
Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
4.0
What an odd reaction I've had to this book. I really liked it! I would recommend it to you. And, I really want to complain about it!
It is, of course, based on a real hostage event in Peru in 1996. The trappings of the events are all the same: international dignitaries and tycoons held by guerrilla terrorists in a mansion for about four months. In the novel, the terrorists' tactical errors turn out to create a sort of stalemate — they can't get what they came for, but they can't quit without probably getting killed — and it results in a weird, idyllic peace. Everyone knows it is false, but no one can keep up that level of terror for that long (including, apparently, the terrorists), so this is what the novel is about. It's a situation that should never have occurred, but now that it has, there are almost no rules left. They grow into it. It's odd, and strangely nice, and definitely emotionally confusing.
In the novel, weirdly, the location isn't stated, and it's sort of awkward every time the author says "the host country." (Despite one of the girls constantly praying to her patron saint of Lima, which… only exists in one South American nation, that I know of.) I don't really get it. There's some good debate about it in this comment thread. I don't think it is the most important critique of this book, but I mention it because I do have a feeling that there's something culturally blamable on her part, that Patchett is too "but I'm being an artist" to care how her story fits the real world. (This feeling is basically completely confirmed for me just reading the description of State of Wonder, which I will never ever read. Something about it just says "no means no.") Anyway, this book doesn't really need a setting outside of the house it takes place in — it's basically a bottle episode (of Lost, maybe?) — but the intentional void of one draws a kind of weird emphasis to it, and makes me question what the author herself wants and cares about.
Hey! While we're on the subject of uncomfortable voids!
There's a bit of thematic trouble. And this part of the review is going to piss some people off. Feel free to file under, "Stupid Feminists with No Sense of Context." Sorry! But I'm not the only one who's felt this.
So, pretty early on I picked up a few uncomfy signals about Roxane, our opera singer. I'm not sure that I would call her Mary Sue, but she is an ideal in the extreme. Her voice! Enchanting! Her hair! So beautiful! Her presence! So regal! She casts a spell! The trick, here, is that Patchett is such a good author that you get totally behind this. And for a while this is actually interesting, because people drop one by one in love with Roxane, while in fact she is not even that terribly nice of a person. She's all right. But she's worried mostly about herself, and cold, sometimes, and conceited, sometimes. Like interesting characters are.
But then, the events turn so that Roxane is the only woman remaining amongst the hostages, after the women and children are released on the second day, while Roxane is labeled as valuable and kept. (It is nominally her fame that is of value, but already there are a few unacknowledged implications there.) Suddenly, now we've got all Roxane's beauty all the time, every day for all the months of the hostage crisis. And when she starts singing again, forget about it.
But, so, what this book is really about is how strange it is for these people to live together — terrorists and hostages — for months, trapped in this mansion. As the terrorists' plans are thwarted, they... don't make new ones, for whatever reason, and live in a cozy little detente in paradise. And it turns out that everyone is happy there, and doesn't particularly want to return to their regular life. An incredibly interesting situation for a novel, and an interesting way to build relationships in it: the terrorists, they are not so terrifying!
I don't know how, exactly, to critique a novel fictionalizing true events for being unrealistic. It seems like you can't, that it's against the rules. Somehow, Patchett's set her novel in a criticism-proof ivory tower. I'm not smart enough to bring it down, but something is wrong with this. I do not believe this. Real people are multifaceted, yes. And real people end up risking themselves in situations they are no match for, yes. But I cannot take them at face value, Bel Canto. I won't have it be just so to make your deep story about love and humanity more convenient.
Patchett chose to set her novel in a terrorist crisis, and then seems to want us to forget that that's the case. The only reward we get for our suspension of disbelief is, "See? I made them good people too! So I don't have to worry about them doing anything bad!" Fiction requires you to make a strange power bargain, agreeing to accept its terms on human nature — because it is fiction, because they are not real people, because the author is in charge, so you'd better keep your mouth shut and your criticisms to yourself. Authors do not need to explain themselves.
I read something once that gave a name to the part that bothered me most in this book: the Trigger By Void phenomenon. In this blogger's point of view, this suspension of disbelief in fiction is damaging when a creator is irresponsible with reality. And, it arises quite often with rape: "not because any of the male characters are menacing, but because none of them are."
DING! That is an exact description of this book. In real life, the fact that Roxane could be raped would be one of the foremost thoughts for her and for her captors.
Now, I don't want Roxane to be raped? And I don't want every book I read to talk about rape at length? It's fine to leave the subject alone — except when it's not. Except when your entire concept rests on violence and holding people against their will. Except when you have only one* woman in your story, who is so deeply beautiful, who is so desired.
* (Guess what, actually.)
So, yes, that pair of circumstances did not agree with me. The more people declared their love for Roxane, the worse it got. And the worst, of course, indeed came (so to speak) when the thematic connection was made between lust and opera. Patchett's writing about it is lovely. But what you actually get, on the page, are men getting hard-ons when Roxane sings. Men who are holding her captive, whose entire objective is to dominate her physically — they have boners for her opera, and still nothing bad happens.
BECAUSE IT IS OPERA THAT IS THE BEAUTY. GET IT. GET IT GET IT.
Sure, I'm not really an opera fan. And I won't begrudge anyone's love for it, but it does annoy me a little when it gets used in stories as hands-free symbolism. Like when an aria is put in the background of a scene in a movie as shorthand to instantly artistically-elevate it. I like beautiful art, and I think I might appreciate some opera sometime, but I will not find you more beautiful just because you are singing opera, that won't work on me. (My favorite comment about Roxane's singing, actually, was from the very beginning: when Mr. Hosokawa says her mouth looks really weird close-up, and it sort of makes him uncomfortable to see her sing so intimately, however excited he was. That was realism.)
But you know what? The book is a great read. The prose is beautiful and hugely pleasurable. It has MFA written all over it, but it wasn't too over-laden with any one trait of glory. It's a little wry, a little sad, a little lovely. The characters completely take over. Gen was my favorite early on, and Messner the Red Cross negotiator is amazing. I cried when Simon left the answering machine message.
The theme I loved the most — far more than music, though related — was actually language. The hostage group speaks many, and most cannot speak more than one. It's handled beautifully, and though the book is probably trying to argue that music is the universal one, I'd say that there's more beauty in the mess of it, the people trying to get something out of themselves and out of each other. I think that's what the book is supposed to be about, and I loved that.
And that's why I forgive you, bullshit.
It is, of course, based on a real hostage event in Peru in 1996. The trappings of the events are all the same: international dignitaries and tycoons held by guerrilla terrorists in a mansion for about four months. In the novel, the terrorists' tactical errors turn out to create a sort of stalemate — they can't get what they came for, but they can't quit without probably getting killed — and it results in a weird, idyllic peace. Everyone knows it is false, but no one can keep up that level of terror for that long (including, apparently, the terrorists), so this is what the novel is about. It's a situation that should never have occurred, but now that it has, there are almost no rules left. They grow into it. It's odd, and strangely nice, and definitely emotionally confusing.
In the novel, weirdly, the location isn't stated, and it's sort of awkward every time the author says "the host country." (Despite one of the girls constantly praying to her patron saint of Lima, which… only exists in one South American nation, that I know of.) I don't really get it. There's some good debate about it in this comment thread. I don't think it is the most important critique of this book, but I mention it because I do have a feeling that there's something culturally blamable on her part, that Patchett is too "but I'm being an artist" to care how her story fits the real world. (This feeling is basically completely confirmed for me just reading the description of State of Wonder, which I will never ever read. Something about it just says "no means no.") Anyway, this book doesn't really need a setting outside of the house it takes place in — it's basically a bottle episode (of Lost, maybe?) — but the intentional void of one draws a kind of weird emphasis to it, and makes me question what the author herself wants and cares about.
Hey! While we're on the subject of uncomfortable voids!
There's a bit of thematic trouble. And this part of the review is going to piss some people off. Feel free to file under, "Stupid Feminists with No Sense of Context." Sorry! But I'm not the only one who's felt this.
So, pretty early on I picked up a few uncomfy signals about Roxane, our opera singer. I'm not sure that I would call her Mary Sue, but she is an ideal in the extreme. Her voice! Enchanting! Her hair! So beautiful! Her presence! So regal! She casts a spell! The trick, here, is that Patchett is such a good author that you get totally behind this. And for a while this is actually interesting, because people drop one by one in love with Roxane, while in fact she is not even that terribly nice of a person. She's all right. But she's worried mostly about herself, and cold, sometimes, and conceited, sometimes. Like interesting characters are.
But then, the events turn so that Roxane is the only woman remaining amongst the hostages, after the women and children are released on the second day, while Roxane is labeled as valuable and kept. (It is nominally her fame that is of value, but already there are a few unacknowledged implications there.) Suddenly, now we've got all Roxane's beauty all the time, every day for all the months of the hostage crisis. And when she starts singing again, forget about it.
But, so, what this book is really about is how strange it is for these people to live together — terrorists and hostages — for months, trapped in this mansion. As the terrorists' plans are thwarted, they... don't make new ones, for whatever reason, and live in a cozy little detente in paradise. And it turns out that everyone is happy there, and doesn't particularly want to return to their regular life. An incredibly interesting situation for a novel, and an interesting way to build relationships in it: the terrorists, they are not so terrifying!
I don't know how, exactly, to critique a novel fictionalizing true events for being unrealistic. It seems like you can't, that it's against the rules. Somehow, Patchett's set her novel in a criticism-proof ivory tower. I'm not smart enough to bring it down, but something is wrong with this. I do not believe this. Real people are multifaceted, yes. And real people end up risking themselves in situations they are no match for, yes. But I cannot take them at face value, Bel Canto. I won't have it be just so to make your deep story about love and humanity more convenient.
Patchett chose to set her novel in a terrorist crisis, and then seems to want us to forget that that's the case. The only reward we get for our suspension of disbelief is, "See? I made them good people too! So I don't have to worry about them doing anything bad!" Fiction requires you to make a strange power bargain, agreeing to accept its terms on human nature — because it is fiction, because they are not real people, because the author is in charge, so you'd better keep your mouth shut and your criticisms to yourself. Authors do not need to explain themselves.
I read something once that gave a name to the part that bothered me most in this book: the Trigger By Void phenomenon. In this blogger's point of view, this suspension of disbelief in fiction is damaging when a creator is irresponsible with reality. And, it arises quite often with rape: "not because any of the male characters are menacing, but because none of them are."
DING! That is an exact description of this book. In real life, the fact that Roxane could be raped would be one of the foremost thoughts for her and for her captors.
Now, I don't want Roxane to be raped? And I don't want every book I read to talk about rape at length? It's fine to leave the subject alone — except when it's not. Except when your entire concept rests on violence and holding people against their will. Except when you have only one* woman in your story, who is so deeply beautiful, who is so desired.
* (Guess what, actually
Spoiler
there are two more women there, amongst the terrorists. And even though one of them becomes very integral to the story and is a great character, I'd still argue that Roxane is the only woman who "counts" in this safety issue. For one thing, she is the only one who is hostage. For another, we could make this argument really boil over and say that I think because she is the only white woman, she is therefore the only reader/author stand-in to be worried aboutSo, yes, that pair of circumstances did not agree with me. The more people declared their love for Roxane, the worse it got. And the worst, of course, indeed came (so to speak) when the thematic connection was made between lust and opera. Patchett's writing about it is lovely. But what you actually get, on the page, are men getting hard-ons when Roxane sings. Men who are holding her captive, whose entire objective is to dominate her physically — they have boners for her opera, and still nothing bad happens.
BECAUSE IT IS OPERA THAT IS THE BEAUTY. GET IT. GET IT GET IT.
Sure, I'm not really an opera fan. And I won't begrudge anyone's love for it, but it does annoy me a little when it gets used in stories as hands-free symbolism. Like when an aria is put in the background of a scene in a movie as shorthand to instantly artistically-elevate it. I like beautiful art, and I think I might appreciate some opera sometime, but I will not find you more beautiful just because you are singing opera, that won't work on me. (My favorite comment about Roxane's singing, actually, was from the very beginning: when Mr. Hosokawa says her mouth looks really weird close-up, and it sort of makes him uncomfortable to see her sing so intimately, however excited he was. That was realism.)
But you know what? The book is a great read. The prose is beautiful and hugely pleasurable. It has MFA written all over it, but it wasn't too over-laden with any one trait of glory. It's a little wry, a little sad, a little lovely. The characters completely take over. Gen was my favorite early on, and Messner the Red Cross negotiator is amazing. I cried when Simon left the answering machine message.
Spoiler
I had mixed feelings when they started to fall in love; Gen and Carmen were pretty awesome, eventually, but Hosokawa and Roxane made no sense whatsoever. And without any input from the author on what to think, I didn't know what to think. I definitely don't believe that the Epilogue was intended to be about love, so I'm going to pretend that didn't happen.The theme I loved the most — far more than music, though related — was actually language. The hostage group speaks many, and most cannot speak more than one. It's handled beautifully, and though the book is probably trying to argue that music is the universal one, I'd say that there's more beauty in the mess of it, the people trying to get something out of themselves and out of each other. I think that's what the book is supposed to be about, and I loved that.
And that's why I forgive you, bullshit.