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mattlombardi's reviews
539 reviews
The First Bad Man by Miranda July
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
0.25
sometimes it’s a nice change of pace to read something that from the first page has sealed its fate as sheer dogshit.
I found this book discarded in my bar (not a great sign) and sure, I knew from the get-go that it would be the usual fare of post-feminist, self-diagnosed BPD twitter girl, edgy romcom slop. but I decided to power through and hope that hate-reading it would compel me to resume the dozen other better novels sitting half-finished on my nightstand. which seems an unfair comparison, as this is hardly a novel; it’s twee bullshit that believes some sort of artsy, idiosyncratic, or self-aware pretense can push the limits of what a major publisher would find acceptable to print. but it’s still just heavily-marketed corporate drivel. it’s not deep or subversive, it’s just dogshit.
I’ve already been pretty bored of these plastic modern writers who think shoveling mental illness into a book is a proper substitute for substance or character-development. but this one felt especially graceless, like she’s mocking you for expecting a book to be enjoyable. that’s not to say that I have any moral qualms with any of this trainwreck’s taboo subject matter. in fact I quite enjoy when authors push the limits of literary etiquette (Lolita being the most notable example). I just think it’s failed in this regard, on both an artistic and entertainment level.
and god damn the ham-fisted way she shoves the title into the dialogue to make it seem deep and relevant. it smacks of “I attended exactly one semester of creative writing classes.” it seems to me that this woman fails miserably at everything she attempts: acting, music, filmmaking, and now literature. no amount of nepo-baby money can fix or refine the creations of this astoundingly tasteless boor.
I found this book discarded in my bar (not a great sign) and sure, I knew from the get-go that it would be the usual fare of post-feminist, self-diagnosed BPD twitter girl, edgy romcom slop. but I decided to power through and hope that hate-reading it would compel me to resume the dozen other better novels sitting half-finished on my nightstand. which seems an unfair comparison, as this is hardly a novel; it’s twee bullshit that believes some sort of artsy, idiosyncratic, or self-aware pretense can push the limits of what a major publisher would find acceptable to print. but it’s still just heavily-marketed corporate drivel. it’s not deep or subversive, it’s just dogshit.
I’ve already been pretty bored of these plastic modern writers who think shoveling mental illness into a book is a proper substitute for substance or character-development. but this one felt especially graceless, like she’s mocking you for expecting a book to be enjoyable. that’s not to say that I have any moral qualms with any of this trainwreck’s taboo subject matter. in fact I quite enjoy when authors push the limits of literary etiquette (Lolita being the most notable example). I just think it’s failed in this regard, on both an artistic and entertainment level.
and god damn the ham-fisted way she shoves the title into the dialogue to make it seem deep and relevant. it smacks of “I attended exactly one semester of creative writing classes.” it seems to me that this woman fails miserably at everything she attempts: acting, music, filmmaking, and now literature. no amount of nepo-baby money can fix or refine the creations of this astoundingly tasteless boor.