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A review by fyoosha
The Wicked Cometh by Laura Carlin
2.0
I wanted to like this book so much more than I did. I had such high hopes. I wanted to love it. Unfortunately, it was a huge disappointment.
On its face, The Wicked Cometh has so many great things going for it:
1. One of the most gorgeous covers (and endpages) I've ever seen!
2. Victorian London!
3. Mysterious and gruesome murders in Victorian London!
4. Lesbians!!! In Victorian London!!!!
5. Dark family secrets!
Alas, none of that means anything in the face of the awful writing and characterization.
The writing is stilted, staccato, and melodramatic, as is the dialogue. These characters...may as well not even exist. Does Hester have a personality? Does Rebekah? Does anyone else exist for any reason other than to further the plot? Nope. Hester keeps bashing us over the head with how wonderful Rebekah is but like...why is she so wonderful? Who knows! We're just told - over and over again - that Rebekah is The Best but the narrative doesn't show us anything to prove this.
As for Hester, not only is she the blandest character imaginable, but she feels the need to explicitly narrate every single thing that is happening, as though she's explaining herself to a five-year-old. She consistently bashes the reader over the head with banal and completely unnecessary explanations of the current situation. This is consistent of the narrative as a whole: it's a lot of telling and not a lot of showing, which is frustrating to say the least, but also lends itself well to a narrative that engenders apathy from the reader.
The plot is convoluted and contrived, strung together by random coincidences and plot devices that I struggled to wrap my head around. It also meanders a lot; not a ton actually happens in this book but it's stretched out to a rather dull and boring 337 pages, made all the more difficult to get through because of the stiff writing and lack of characterization. Everything felt scripted; there was no suspense or excitement whatsoever. I just could not bring myself to care about anything at all that was happening, so even when the ~big reveals~ happened, I kinda just shrugged. I was just happy to be done.
And it's a shame, because the writing isn't always awful; in fact, there are occasionally really lovely descriptions and turns of phrases (such as the final sentence). The author also does a fantastic job bringing 19th-century London to life; it's clear that she is someone who knows London very, very well and did a great deal of research. The descriptions of London's slums were vivid and harrowing; there were moments when I felt like I was reading a novel actually published in the 19th-century.
But it was just so utterly soulless; I felt like I was reading an administrative report of a series of events rather than a novel. I found myself mourning this novel's potential and struggling to see the light at the end of the book.
On its face, The Wicked Cometh has so many great things going for it:
1. One of the most gorgeous covers (and endpages) I've ever seen!
2. Victorian London!
3. Mysterious and gruesome murders in Victorian London!
4. Lesbians!!! In Victorian London!!!!
5. Dark family secrets!
Alas, none of that means anything in the face of the awful writing and characterization.
The writing is stilted, staccato, and melodramatic, as is the dialogue. These characters...may as well not even exist. Does Hester have a personality? Does Rebekah? Does anyone else exist for any reason other than to further the plot? Nope. Hester keeps bashing us over the head with how wonderful Rebekah is but like...why is she so wonderful? Who knows! We're just told - over and over again - that Rebekah is The Best but the narrative doesn't show us anything to prove this.
As for Hester, not only is she the blandest character imaginable, but she feels the need to explicitly narrate every single thing that is happening, as though she's explaining herself to a five-year-old. She consistently bashes the reader over the head with banal and completely unnecessary explanations of the current situation. This is consistent of the narrative as a whole: it's a lot of telling and not a lot of showing, which is frustrating to say the least, but also lends itself well to a narrative that engenders apathy from the reader.
The plot is convoluted and contrived, strung together by random coincidences and plot devices that I struggled to wrap my head around. It also meanders a lot; not a ton actually happens in this book but it's stretched out to a rather dull and boring 337 pages, made all the more difficult to get through because of the stiff writing and lack of characterization. Everything felt scripted; there was no suspense or excitement whatsoever. I just could not bring myself to care about anything at all that was happening, so even when the ~big reveals~ happened, I kinda just shrugged. I was just happy to be done.
And it's a shame, because the writing isn't always awful; in fact, there are occasionally really lovely descriptions and turns of phrases (such as the final sentence). The author also does a fantastic job bringing 19th-century London to life; it's clear that she is someone who knows London very, very well and did a great deal of research. The descriptions of London's slums were vivid and harrowing; there were moments when I felt like I was reading a novel actually published in the 19th-century.
But it was just so utterly soulless; I felt like I was reading an administrative report of a series of events rather than a novel. I found myself mourning this novel's potential and struggling to see the light at the end of the book.