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A review by terieh
A Bright Ray of Darkness by Ethan Hawke
2.0
This book made me angry. I do not understand why it has good reviews. It should not have been published, or at the very least, had an editor with some courage to tell Ethan Hawke, "I'm sorry, dude, but this just isn't good."
The only reason I finished it is because I wanted to like this book, but there was very little to like about it. I did not care about the protagonist AT ALL. William Harding is a 32-year-old man-child who lives only in and for his body (mainly, his penis), and has no self-awareness. His childishness was unbearable, and it was in everything he said, did, and thought.
Here is a sample of some of the drivel that Hawke employed as "imagery": "I had seven minutes before I went onstage and tears were leaping from my eyes like paratroopers." What a ridiculous, cartoonish simile. I'm supposed to have some pathos for this character? He's a grown man and a father, and he thinks and sounds like a 15-year-old boy.
Here's a really particularly nauseating description of a young starlet at a party: "I immediately made eye contact with a dead ringer for a twenty-one-year-old Brigitte Bardot. This woman was a stone-cold fox. She was a walking key lime pie--if you *love* key lime pie. She was the type of woman that even heterosexual women would love to see naked. Her tits were huge, gravity-defying. She could drive cross-country for a month, not change her jeans, and her pussy would still smell like crushed roses. Her hair fell softly with each gentle toss of her head, moving like the mane of a unicorn..."
That is teeeeeeerrible writing and it made me almost throw the book across the room.
William, a famous film actor, is cast in a Broadway production of King Henry the IV, and you would think that this backdrop with Shakespeare would add to the story. NOPE. The novel's chapters are set up as scenes and acts as some sort of homage to the Bard, but the bulk of the book's structure is basically different minor characters giving 3-page long monologues of "life advice" to the narrator and then there are awkwardly inserted tellings of the performances of the play.
This book is just immature, all around. I have many, many high school students that write better than this, and that's why it angers me that it was published. If Ethan Hawke wants to be a successful novelist on top of his acting career, he should hire a ghostwriter.
1.5 stars
The only reason I finished it is because I wanted to like this book, but there was very little to like about it. I did not care about the protagonist AT ALL. William Harding is a 32-year-old man-child who lives only in and for his body (mainly, his penis), and has no self-awareness. His childishness was unbearable, and it was in everything he said, did, and thought.
Here is a sample of some of the drivel that Hawke employed as "imagery": "I had seven minutes before I went onstage and tears were leaping from my eyes like paratroopers." What a ridiculous, cartoonish simile. I'm supposed to have some pathos for this character? He's a grown man and a father, and he thinks and sounds like a 15-year-old boy.
Here's a really particularly nauseating description of a young starlet at a party: "I immediately made eye contact with a dead ringer for a twenty-one-year-old Brigitte Bardot. This woman was a stone-cold fox. She was a walking key lime pie--if you *love* key lime pie. She was the type of woman that even heterosexual women would love to see naked. Her tits were huge, gravity-defying. She could drive cross-country for a month, not change her jeans, and her pussy would still smell like crushed roses. Her hair fell softly with each gentle toss of her head, moving like the mane of a unicorn..."
That is teeeeeeerrible writing and it made me almost throw the book across the room.
William, a famous film actor, is cast in a Broadway production of King Henry the IV, and you would think that this backdrop with Shakespeare would add to the story. NOPE. The novel's chapters are set up as scenes and acts as some sort of homage to the Bard, but the bulk of the book's structure is basically different minor characters giving 3-page long monologues of "life advice" to the narrator and then there are awkwardly inserted tellings of the performances of the play.
This book is just immature, all around. I have many, many high school students that write better than this, and that's why it angers me that it was published. If Ethan Hawke wants to be a successful novelist on top of his acting career, he should hire a ghostwriter.
1.5 stars