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A review by yanulya
Petropolis by Anya Ulinich
2.0
Well, I always think i have a weakness for books about Russian immigrants, Russian-Americans, or other Eastern Europeans in America. However, i've noticed a trend lately among contemporary novels written by Young Russian Immigrants or Young Americans of Russian Descent. The trend consists of books that try so hard to be satirical, lovingly mocking both Russian and American culture, while also trying to hard to be _current_ and capture minute details of contemporary pop culture so perfectly, that they end up... well... shall i say... _slight_?
What i mean is, they get caught up in the irony and the details and what is lost in return is any sense of depth, heft, beauty, artful storytelling, or the ability to move the reader. This is actually pretty sad, because i actually _like_ the mockery, the satire, but not at the expense of overall quality of the novel itself. Unfortunately, it is rare that i see the perfect combination of the humor and the depth. So far, Jonathan Safran Foer has come the closest. Anya Ulinich's Petropolis, which i had such high hopes for and was perhaps a little too excited to read, falls short.
The writing is not terrible, in fact, in places it is quite comical, and in others it is rather poignant, for fleeting moments, but overall, it felt like it was trying a little too hard to be funny and ironic, a little too hard to be contemporary and hip, and not hard enough to present the whole package well. Overall i found the tone inconsistent - the first half delights in ironic names and details (e.g. the main character's hometown "Asbestos 2"), while the second half is just sad and serious. My suspension of disbelief was often broken by unrealistic-seeming dialogue or emotional descriptions, as well as the presence of some of my literary pet-peeves (seemingly unnecessary descriptions of things like masturbation and getting high. perhaps i'm just a literary prude).
This book reminded me a bit of "The Russian Debutante's Handbook" - funny at first, promising a light and entertaining read, but then becoming less funny, the character becoming less sympathetic or interesting, and the story becoming less believable, as it went on.
I do think i'm making the book sound worse than it is. There were certainly parts that were fun to read, and i do admit i delighted in some of the details that only one raised surrounded by both Russian and American culture could fully delight in. Some of the details she captures about Russian parents were entirely spot on (resulting in several of those moments when i thought "OH! its not just MY crazy parents who say that!"). If Goodreads had "half" ratings, i'd have given this book 2 1/2 stars rather than 2. But, i think my overall disappointment, and the feeling that there was potential for so much more, keeps it from a 3.
Part of my problem may be what i call "cormac mccarthy syndrome." Once you've read writing like his, which can sometimes only be described as "painfully beautiful," it becomes close to impossible for any, especially contemporary, author to compare.
Now i'm on to finally read The Road to make up for this. Let's hope it doesnt disappoint.
What i mean is, they get caught up in the irony and the details and what is lost in return is any sense of depth, heft, beauty, artful storytelling, or the ability to move the reader. This is actually pretty sad, because i actually _like_ the mockery, the satire, but not at the expense of overall quality of the novel itself. Unfortunately, it is rare that i see the perfect combination of the humor and the depth. So far, Jonathan Safran Foer has come the closest. Anya Ulinich's Petropolis, which i had such high hopes for and was perhaps a little too excited to read, falls short.
The writing is not terrible, in fact, in places it is quite comical, and in others it is rather poignant, for fleeting moments, but overall, it felt like it was trying a little too hard to be funny and ironic, a little too hard to be contemporary and hip, and not hard enough to present the whole package well. Overall i found the tone inconsistent - the first half delights in ironic names and details (e.g. the main character's hometown "Asbestos 2"), while the second half is just sad and serious. My suspension of disbelief was often broken by unrealistic-seeming dialogue or emotional descriptions, as well as the presence of some of my literary pet-peeves (seemingly unnecessary descriptions of things like masturbation and getting high. perhaps i'm just a literary prude).
This book reminded me a bit of "The Russian Debutante's Handbook" - funny at first, promising a light and entertaining read, but then becoming less funny, the character becoming less sympathetic or interesting, and the story becoming less believable, as it went on.
I do think i'm making the book sound worse than it is. There were certainly parts that were fun to read, and i do admit i delighted in some of the details that only one raised surrounded by both Russian and American culture could fully delight in. Some of the details she captures about Russian parents were entirely spot on (resulting in several of those moments when i thought "OH! its not just MY crazy parents who say that!"). If Goodreads had "half" ratings, i'd have given this book 2 1/2 stars rather than 2. But, i think my overall disappointment, and the feeling that there was potential for so much more, keeps it from a 3.
Part of my problem may be what i call "cormac mccarthy syndrome." Once you've read writing like his, which can sometimes only be described as "painfully beautiful," it becomes close to impossible for any, especially contemporary, author to compare.
Now i'm on to finally read The Road to make up for this. Let's hope it doesnt disappoint.