Review: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (New York: Little, Brown, 2013). 784 pages.
so many words.
You’ve heard about The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt’s big blockbuster of a novel, her third. Yes, I heard about it, too. People were digging it, they were loving it, they were staying up all night to read it. I wasn’t sure I was ready to commit. BECAUSE IT’S 784 PAGES LONG, PEOPLE. But then one day I noticed it was only $2.99 for the Kindle version (and even 784 pages can’t add more than a few Kindle ounces, I figured) so I took the plunge.
The Goldfinch is the story of Theo Decker, a boy in Manhattan whose mother is killed in a terrorist attack on the Metropolitan Museum of Art when he is 13. “Things would have turned out better if she had lived,” Theo tells us right up front. And he’s right: the novel tells the story of all the bad choices, bad luck, and some good luck, he finds in the decade or so after her death. Sheltered by strangers, some kind and some odd; exploited by his ne’er-do-well father; befriended by freaks and hustlers, Theo somehow manages to keep his head just above water and survive the storm that takes over his life after his mother dies. Just barely.
There’s a lot to like and even love in The Goldfinch. Tartt is a meticulous observer of detail, from the way paint covers a canvas to the subtle interior monologues we have with ourselves, minute by minute each day. “Was it wrong,” Theo wonders, “wanting to sleep late with the covers over my head and wander around a peaceful house with old seashells in drawers and wicker baskets of folded upholstery fabric stored under the parlor secretary, sunset falling in drastic coral spokes through the fanlight over the front door?” Those “drastic coral spikes:” those are so nice.
But the interested reader has heard what’s great about The Goldfinch already: it’s a ripping yarn; it’s a Dickensian tale of morality for our time; it pulls you into its own special world. Fine, if it does that for you. At times, it did for me. But the more I read of The Goldfinch, the longer my list of questions and grievances grew. I didn’t even know I had a list at first, but looking back over my notes, question marks, and increasingly agitated exlamations, I realized I had some Goldfinch Gripes. They boil down to three things: Why Are They Talking Like That?; Snobs; Plot vs. Action.
1. Why Are They Talking Like That?
Tartt is terrific at getting visual details right but not so great at the aural. This is especially the case with the way her characters speak. Theo… Theo’s fine. It’s Theo’s friends who drove me crazy.
Boris, for instance. It makes sense that Theo’s Russian friend Boris would named in honor of the mustache-twirling bad guy of “Bullwinkle” fame, Boris Badenov, because that’s exactly how he talks. “Allow me to introducing myself. I am Boris Badenov, world’s greatest no-goodnik.” This is not a quote from The Goldfinch (it’s from Rocky and Bullwinkle) but that’s what I heard every time Boris opened his mouth. “Likely you will end up in jail, Potter,” is a typical Boris comment. “Loose morals, slave to the economy. Very bad citizen, you.” Pottsylvania is not named as one of the dozen countries in which Boris had lived, but I wouldn’t be surprised; all the Badenovs come from there.
Then there’s Hobie. I can’t tell you how many times I stopped while reading his dialogue and asked myself (and the book): Wait, did Tartt say Hobie’s from upstate New York? She did, didn’t she? She did. And yet everything Hobie says sounds like something my favorite Leeds-born, London-living writer Alan Bennett would say. “Tough pull to get in but then a doddle once you’ve made it,” Hobie tells Theo. I have no idea what that means, not being British myself, but then again NEITHER IS HOBIE.
Nor, for that matter, are the Barbours, the wealthy family that shelters Theo after his mother’s death. Are they supposed to be some 21st-century version of Salinger’s Glass family? I guess not, because the Glass family did not say thing like: “Well, you know, I slightly think she’s out there playing golf today.” (Kitsey Barbour) or “We none of us drink it—Daddy always ordered this kind” (Kitsey again). Keep in mind, Kitsey is supposed to be a twentysomething young woman born sometime during the Clinton administration and raised in New York City, not in an interwar British girls’ school run by Lord Sebastian Flyte and his teddy bear. “You seem in a really dire mood,” Kitsey says. YES, IT’S BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU’RE TALKING, KITSEY.
Kitsey’s a nice lead-in to the next issue: snobs and snobbishness. When Theo, who is from a lower middle-class family, is orphaned and then taken in by the Barbours, he’s stunned by their wealth. The huge antique-filled apartment on the Upper East Side, the art, the chauffers, the staff… it’s as much of an aesthetic thrill for him as the painting of the goldfinch. Tartt is terrific at describing the textures of life with the ultra-WASPs. But try as she might, she can’t quite make them into the bad guys they really are. At first I thought this was Theo’s issue and it made sense: they did take him in when his mother died, after all. Then they coldly cast him aside as we always suspected they would. Later, he’s brought back into the fold, but only because it suits their purposes and eases their guilt. They’re not good people and yet Theo — and more importantly, Tartt — can’t bring themselves to walk away from the Barbours and their money, their glamor, and most importantly, their status. THE BARBOURS ARE A**HOLES, OK? They’re snobs. But somehow we’re supposed to like them, or if not like them, forgive them, or if not forgive them, find them fascinating?
Meanwhile the poorest people in the novel, Theo’s deadbeat dad and his girlfriend, a stripper named Xandra, are simply pathetic; every aspect of Xandra, from her profession to her self-styled name (it’s really Sandra) to the fact that she hails from Florida are neon signs flashing “CHEAP” and attached to characters about whom we’re not expected to care. Xandra in particular is immediately recognizable as the kind of bimbo usually only seen in Woody Allen movies (think Mighty Aphrodite). We’re supposed to think she’s lame. But a working-class girl from Florida who decides to juice up her name by adding an X to it is light years less phony than someone like Kitsey Barbour–or any of the cold-blooded social-climbing Barbours. An adult woman (Kitsey) who refers to high heels as “Hurty-hurty shoes!” and calls her boyfriend “Meanypants” is not a glamorous ditz. She’s not even a manic pixie dream girl (that honor goes to Pippa–but let’s not even go there). She’s just a fake. While eventually even Theo manages to escape her thrall, one senses that Tartt is never fully out of love with the Barbours. Xandra can be tossed out with yesterday’s newspapers but the Barbours somehow deserve a better fate.”I was only one step away from some trailer park loner,” thinks Theo, musing about his obsession with Pippa, “stalking a girl he’d spotted in the mall.” No, not a trailer park! Not a… a… mall! The horror, folks. The horror.
3. Plot vs. Action
No question, a lot of stuff happens in The Goldfinch; that’s the “ripping” part of the yarn. But action is not the same as plot. And this novel’s plot is beside the point. There’s one MacGuffin that emerges in the beginning of the novel and is never satisfactorily resolved: Theo’s possession of the stolen Goldfinch painting. Yes, he took the painting from the Metropolitan Museum in the aftermath of the explosion. And yes, it would require some explaining on his part to make the authorities understand why a teenaged boy has this masterpiece stored in a pillowcase, but HE COULD JUST RETURN THE PAINTING TO THE AUTHORITIES AT ANY POINT WITHOUT ANY REAL NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCES. They’re not going to throw him in jail or torture him or.. anything! They’ll just be happy to get the painting back. So when, after 780 (!!) pages HE DOES EXACTLY THIS I kind of wanted to throw the book across the room. But as I mentioned, I was reading it on a Kindle and I didn’t want to dent the precious gadget.
With only 5 pages to go, I finished the novel. There’s a lot to admire in this book. But it would have been much better had it been edited more carefully and its length cut by, say, 40 perecent. That would have cut lines like this description of people in Amsterdam: “rosy housewives with armloads of flowers, tobacco-stained hippies in wire-rimmed glasses”– what, no flaxen-braided milkmaids wearing wooden clogs in this Dutch cartoon?–or this internal monologue of Theo’s: “I wanted to say goodbye to Pippa but she was nowhere in sight. Where was she? The library? The loo?” Again: NONE OF THESE CHARACTERS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BRITISH. Sigh.
A 315-page Goldfinch? Yes, pelase. As Hobie says, it might have been a “Tough pull to get in but then a doddle once you’ve made it.”