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A review by ridgewaygirl
The Improbability of Love by Hannah Rothschild
2.0
If I were to make a list of things I liked in books, this one would check off a good number of them. It's set in the London't art world. It has a plucky heroine. There's a forgotten masterpiece discovered in a junk shop. It's shortlisted for a prize. There's a love story. It goes a bit meta, in that the painting itself narrates portions of the novel. There are even Nazis and Holocaust survivors. It really does check off so many boxes for me.
And yet, I had to push myself to finish. While Rothschild clearly knows a great deal about art, she communicates as little of that knowledge as she can. This is a novel written as though the author is imagining the subsequent screenplay as she writes. I've read other books that give the impression that the author is picturing the story more as a movie than a book, and it can work, but here, with the large cast of characters and references to history and art, it does not. What happens instead is that the characters, of which there are simply too many, become cartoon-like. Rothschild needs each one to be memorable based not on their inner lives, but on physical quirks and exaggerations. Humorous novels are difficult to pull off, and Rothschild relies heavily on stereo-types to make her characters funny. So the gay man spends the book wearing more and more outrageous outfits. The male lead falls in love with our plucky and beautiful heroine at first sight and never deviates from his slavish devotion (which quickly made him more creepy than anything else, but tastes in stalkerish behavior vary). And the leading professional expert on Rococo art? Well, she's overweight. So every single scene that involves her, has her either eating while the other characters look on disdainfully, or mentions that her shirt is smeared with whatever she just finished eating off-stage. A second fat woman appears near the end of the novel, and here Rothschild simply has the other characters yell insults at her for being so unattractive. Her husband makes a comment about how she'd be lucky to get raped. This is a humorous moment.
And so, this book, that held so much potential, became an exercise in endurance, and I have no doubt that the dislike I felt for this book colored my impressions of it. I noticed every continuation error or factual mistake that, in a better book, I might have been willing to overlook. Rothschild clearly knows about the art she's writing about and she also knows about expensive items, but she failed to do even cursory research on the criminal side of things, leading her to point out that because one bad guy wore gloves, no DNA could be found on the scene, for example, and she failed to look up some of the more basic working of the British criminal justice system.
Many other readers have enjoyed this novel, and it has made the shortlist for this year's Baileys Prize, so if the premise of the novel appeals to you, don't be put off by me. But don't say I didn't warn you.
And yet, I had to push myself to finish. While Rothschild clearly knows a great deal about art, she communicates as little of that knowledge as she can. This is a novel written as though the author is imagining the subsequent screenplay as she writes. I've read other books that give the impression that the author is picturing the story more as a movie than a book, and it can work, but here, with the large cast of characters and references to history and art, it does not. What happens instead is that the characters, of which there are simply too many, become cartoon-like. Rothschild needs each one to be memorable based not on their inner lives, but on physical quirks and exaggerations. Humorous novels are difficult to pull off, and Rothschild relies heavily on stereo-types to make her characters funny. So the gay man spends the book wearing more and more outrageous outfits. The male lead falls in love with our plucky and beautiful heroine at first sight and never deviates from his slavish devotion (which quickly made him more creepy than anything else, but tastes in stalkerish behavior vary). And the leading professional expert on Rococo art? Well, she's overweight. So every single scene that involves her, has her either eating while the other characters look on disdainfully, or mentions that her shirt is smeared with whatever she just finished eating off-stage. A second fat woman appears near the end of the novel, and here Rothschild simply has the other characters yell insults at her for being so unattractive. Her husband makes a comment about how she'd be lucky to get raped. This is a humorous moment.
And so, this book, that held so much potential, became an exercise in endurance, and I have no doubt that the dislike I felt for this book colored my impressions of it. I noticed every continuation error or factual mistake that, in a better book, I might have been willing to overlook. Rothschild clearly knows about the art she's writing about and she also knows about expensive items, but she failed to do even cursory research on the criminal side of things, leading her to point out that because one bad guy wore gloves, no DNA could be found on the scene, for example, and she failed to look up some of the more basic working of the British criminal justice system.
Many other readers have enjoyed this novel, and it has made the shortlist for this year's Baileys Prize, so if the premise of the novel appeals to you, don't be put off by me. But don't say I didn't warn you.