And now, for another point of view

I never read reviews of a book I'm reviewing until I finish my review (if then). I do of course look at the promotional material and the blurbs the publisher has managed to obtain. For one thing, I want to know whether I am an appropriate critic for the book at all.

For example: "CIA Operative, Roger O'Neil goes deep undercover in Russia and teams up with a group of SAS Soldiers amidst a growing nuclear threat against America and a ruthless killer stalking them from the shadows" is not a book I should be reviewing. 

Nor is this: "Boy meets girl … boy dies … boy's brain is uploaded into a computer … together they explore the real meaning of love . . . a second chance through a secret government agency . . . the lovers embark on a journey of discovery as they explore the meaning of life, hope, courage . . ." I am afraid my willingness to suspend disbelief is not willing—perhaps unfairly—to accept this premise. 

When I thoroughly enjoy a book, however, I do occasionally look up the one- and two-star reviews on Amazon. If I think the book was so terrific, why doesn't everyone? Have I missed something? 

I've just given an enthusiastic review of Anne Enright's Actress, but not everyone agrees with my endorsement:

—"The prose was very disjointed, and the characters were like caricatures. I found myself not really caring what happened to any of them."

—"This is my first novel by this writer. I find I’m not really invested in most of the characters and it’s kind around so much between different generations I’m getting lost. I think also the skipping around breaks the emotional connection tonight [sic] story. Not really interested in finishing. But will try."

—"Having read Enright's previous work, I was looking forward to reading an insightful, wry, beautifully written novel. It is, instead, an insipid People magazine inspired look at a daughter with a famous actress for a mother. Oh the suffering. Men in the apartment. Drinking. Self-involved mother. Mother who seems to win the competition for cutest in the family. It was unreadable. There were hints everywhere that maybe the mother wasn't an actress but the writer Edna O'Brien and the author is imagining being the daughter Ms. O'Brien never had. In any case, don't bother. It's juvenile, repetitive (endless telling of parties and disappointments) and dull."

I didn't catch the O'Brien hints, but even if they are valid, I don't see how it diminishes Enright's novel. Indeed, if Actress is an evocation of Edna O'Brien's life by her imaginary daughter, it raises my opinion of the book another notch or so.

—"This is such a disappointment. Feels like Enright, usually such a gorgeous, fearless writer, could have penned this in her sleep. This subject doesn't remotely capture her talent, her usual ferocity or wicked humor. It's a long-winded, conventional account of an actress's silly, uninvolving life, told by her daughter. I barely recognize Enright in it. Surprisingly, disappointingly dull."

Clearly these last two people and I have different ideas of what is dull. They imply Enright's earlier work is more insightful, wry, beautifully written, gorgeous, and fearless when I thought Actress's prose was splendid. As I said in my review, I'd never heard of Enright, but with these endorsements I'll be checking out her other books. Watch this space.