The Elegant Variation

REVIEW: GLOVER'S MISTAKE

My review of Nick Laird's novel, Glover's Mistake, appears in this Sunday's New York Times Book Review.  Here's the opening:

“Who knows what you mean by love?” This question, posed by the immoderately gifted Nick Laird in his 2007 poem “Estimates,” runs like a burning filament through the heart of his fiction and poetry. And it illuminates his new novel, “Glover’s Mistake,” in which Laird returns to themes he has explored in two poetry collections and his first novel, “Utterly Monkey.” He continues to be interested in male friendship, in loyalty and in how the arrival of a woman can upend the cultivated effort­lessness of those friendships. But “Glover’s Mistake” tones down the rollicking beat of its predecessor and sings in a deeper, darker, more controlled key. Deceptively slim, it is as layered as any of Laird’s poems, a searching, heartfelt meditation on the mistakes of youth (and beyond).

You can read the entire review here.

Elsewhere, I cry like a little girl for Kevin Neilson's Between the Lines.

REVIEW: IN THE KITCHEN

My review of Monica Ali's new novel, In The Kitchen, has gone live at the Barnes & Noble Review. It begins thus:

What hath Anthony Bourdain wrought? In the wake of all the imitators it spawned, it can be hard to remember just how bracing Kitchen Confidential was when it was published back in 2000. There had always been famous cooks -- Julia Child, Graham Kerr -- but Bourdain somehow managed to simultaneously deglamorize the kitchen and make it sexy and dangerous. From Top Chef to Hell's Kitchen to Ratatouille, the not-so-humble chef (mostly bad-tempered, mostly male) has emerged as a cultural icon. Names like Keller, Robuchon, Senderens, and Achtaz, once known only to the cognoscenti, are now common currency, and even the layman can tell a sous-chef from a saucier.

One of the kitchen's dirty secrets that Bourdain was intent on exposing was how much of the unseen labor necessary for preparing fine food was done by people of color, often underpaid, often illegal. It's a setting that would have held obvious attractions for Monica Ali. In her two prior novels, the superb Booker-nominated Brick Lane and the less sure-footed Alejento Blue, Ali has been a messenger of multiculturalism, drawing back the veil on the subtleties of life in an increasingly diverse world with elegance and empathy. And, indeed, her new novel, In the Kitchen, is at its very best in its deft handling of a large and ethnically varied cast, as she guides them through the "part prison, part lunatic asylum, part community hall" that is the kitchen of London's Imperial Hotel.

You can read the entire review here.

VOLTE FACE

So a mere 24 hours ago we went on record suggesting that we had no interest in The Kindly Ones.  We hereby recant.  What changed?  Daniel Mendelsohn's typically thoughtful examination in the New York Review of Books:

To name a literary work after the third play in Aeschylus' trilogy, then, is to invoke, with extreme self-consciousness, two related themes: one having to do with civilization in general, and the other with human nature. The former concerns justice, its nature and uses: how it is instituted, and then executed, how much it conflicts with, regulates, and possibly appeases the more primitive thirst for vengeance, which it is meant to supersede. The latter concerns the unsettling way in which, beneath even the most pleasant, "kindly" exteriors, dark and potentially violent forces lurk. Neither, needless to say, is restricted to Greek tragedy, or classical civilization; if anything, both are intimately connected to the main preoccupation of Littell's novel, the German program of extermination during World War II.

This review is a powerful reminder that one deeply engaged critic can turn the tide of a dozen lesser opinions.  Whatever our final opinion of The Kindly Ones is likely to be, we can no longer dismiss it so easily - and we stand chastened for having been so quick to dismiss to begin with.

This is the kind of criticism we live for. 

REVIEW: OUT OF MY SKIN

The new Bookforum is now online, and the offerings include my review of John Haskell's Out Of My Skin.  Here's how it starts:

Recently on NPR, Philip Seymour Hoffman gave an interview that was surprising in its awkward, fumbling banality. For example, on the difference between theater and film actors, he offered, “I’m sitting here and [theater actors are] doing it in front of me, but the only difference is that they’re doing it and I’m watching, but ultimately we’re all people hanging out in the same building.” Yet the taut intelligence of Hoffman’s performances can scarcely be gainsaid; like the work of many post-Strasberg stars, his oeuvre is a testament to an instinctive, emotional intelligence, which is not, perhaps, so easily put into words. In his earnest new novel, Out of My Skin, John Haskell—who explored his fascination with celebrity in his debut story collection, I Am Not Jackson Pollock (2003)—delves into questions of reinvention and performance. He aims to examine the fundamental question of what it means to change, but his exegesis is marred by a propensity for mundane, ersatz profundity. Even so, one is forced to wonder whether, as in the case of Hoffman, this self-conscious tic is all part of the act.

You can read the review in its entirety here.

REVIEW: THE NORTHERN CLEMENCY

My review of Philip Hensher's Booker Prize-shortlisted novel The Northern Clemency has gone up at the Barnes & Noble Review.  It begins thus:

In hell, the old joke goes, the cooks are British. To be fair, British cuisine has come a long way -- today there are Michelin stars to be found in England. But in 1974, the year in which Philip Hensher's domestic epic, The Northern Clemency, opens, culinary times were bleak, indeed. Consider the menu on offer at Katherine Glover's cocktail party:

... pastry cases with mushroom filling, and prawn, she'd made three different quiches, she'd made Coronation Chicken (a challenge to eat standing), she'd made assemblages of cheese-and-pineapple and cold sausages, she'd made open Danish sandwiches in tiny squares, a magazine idea, and they were eating it all. There were dishes of crisps, too, and Twiglets, but those didn't count in the way of making an effort.

Coronation Chicken can best be described as a sort of curried chicken salad, and Twiglets are packaged, Marmite-flavored snacks shaped like twigs. As exotic (and revolting) as much of this might sound to American ears, food is just one of the many effective markers Hensher deploys to situate his sweeping story of lower-middle-class British life through the tumultuous period of industrial upheaval that climaxed with the 1984 miners' strike (best known to American audiences as the backdrop of Billy Elliott) and witnessed the transition from an industrial to a service-based economy.

The entire review can be read here.

BOOK REV(I)EWERS*

Sunday's post in which we complained about Blake Bailey's fatuous lede seems to have divided opinion somewhat, but Benjamin Percy, author of Refresh, Refresh and The Language of Elk, dropped us this line, which we quote approvingly:

I've noticed a certain breed of book reviewer has regularly found his way into your crosshairs of late -- those critics who spotlight their voice, their life, upstaging the assigned book. And I'm wondering if this is indicative of a larger trend. Look at CNN. Look at Fox News. The Nightly News. Anchors have gone casual, making small talk between stories, commenting on headlines. The other day, an anchor on Headline News said, in response to a burglary gone wrong, "Wow. That was a stupid move. What a moron!" On another occasion, a female anchor responded to a report on recent fashion trends, speaking of her own shopping habits. This isn't the school of Brokaw and Cronkite.

Turn to print and online media -- and you see something similar. Every reader is invited to participate in a poll, to upload a photo, to share their story, their opinion. The democratic idea is noble -- but the result is often a clutter of ill-informed, reactionary manure that reeks of me, me, me.

And book reviews are along for the ride, as you've pointed out.

Egomaniacal reviewer or cutural phemon?  What do you think?

* Props to Ben for the headline, which was the subject line of his email.

YOUNG REVIEWERS CONTEST

Maybe the best way to deal with the book reviewing problem is to encourage new voices - which is precisely what The Virginia Quarterly Review is doing with their Young Reviewers Contest.   We've already advised at least one person we know to enter (and you know who you are), but it's open to all, and there are some great judges overseeing this one.  Plus they're tossing around $1,000 in prize money, which is more than you'll probably make as a reviewer ...

THE REAL CRISIS IN BOOK REVIEWING ...

... is that embarrassing ledes like this one are allowed to run, and at the New York Times, no less. 

I really wanted to pan this book. First of all, with the exception of Walker Percy’s “Moviegoer,” I tend to dislike literature about New Orleans (oh the decadence! the quaintness!), and publicity copy for “The House on First Street” boasted about Julia Reed’s “colorful” critique of the city’s “rich flavor.” It’s also a Hurricane Katrina memoir. I’d considered writing my own Katrina memoir, and now I realize I probably never will. True, my own house in New Orleans was reduced to a moldy ruin, and Reed’s had nothing but a broken window, but hers — previously owned by Percy’s brother Phin (fun fact) — is a 6,000-square-foot Greek Revival landmark in the historic Garden District, while my house is a 1,400-square-foot cottage in the (comparatively) raffish neighborhood of Gentilly. And not only is Julia Reed a lot richer than I, she has better journalistic cred: as an evacuee, I wrote a few columns for Slate, while Reed was bombarded with assignments from Newsweek, The Spectator and Vogue, her main employer, whose editors received an e-mail message from Reese Witherspoon, no less, asking if Reed was O.K.

One is probably not supposed to bite that hand that feeds one, but we cannot imagine that any Times reader is remotely as interested in Blake Bailey as he appears to be in himself.

REVIEW: PERSONAL DAYS

My review of Ed Park's debut novel Personal Days appears in tomorrow's New York Times Book Review.  Here's the opening:

When the Spanish philosopher Miguel de Unamuno said that “work is the only practical consolation for having been born,” he could not have foreseen the lot of the 21st-century cubicle drones who populate Ed Park’s witty and appealing first novel, “Personal Days.” Today, it seems, notions of work have been transformed from “every man a king” to mass e-mailings of cat pictures

Much is likely to be made of the similarities between “Personal Days” and “Then We Came to the End,” Joshua Ferris’s 2007 National Book Award finalist. Both are set in offices convulsed with layoffs. Both are comic ensemble pieces, and both employ the first-person plural (Ferris throughout, Park in his opening section). But considering the ubiquity of the work experience in American lives, and the thousands upon thousands of novels published annually, perhaps the question shouldn’t be why there are two work-related novels right now but why there aren’t many more.

You can read the entire review here.

"DICTATION" REVIEW

My review of Cynthia Ozick's superb Dictation: A Quartet - which I somehow managed to write without talking about myself - can now be found at the Barnes and Noble Review.  Here's the opening:

"History," wrote Henry James in a 1910 letter to his amanuensis Theodora Bosanquet, "is strangely written." This casual aside could easily serve as the epigraph of Cynthia Ozick's superb new collection, Dictation, which concerns itself with lost worlds evoked by languages -- languages that separate and obscure as readily as they bind. It can be risky to look for connective tissue between stories written years apart and published in magazines ranging from The Conradian to The New Yorker. But themes of deception, posterity, and, above all, the glory of language -- at once malleable and intractable -- knit together this quartet, recasting the whole as the harmonious product of Ozick's formidable talent.

You can read the whole thing here.  (Public thanks to Michael Gorra who alerted me to The Conradian connection.)