A Gentleman in Moscow

Well, here goes any respect my friends might've had for me: I mostly found it... irritating. It did get better as it progressed, and Towles's writing is exquisite–the main reason I continued reading–but for the most part it just felt heavyhanded. Never actually schmaltz, but too often I felt like Towles was coming awfully close to the baster. Maybe I'm too sensitive; maybe Towles blends in just the perfect hint but, like the merest trace of cilantro to those allergic, it's too much for my palate.

Speaking of palates: our protagonist, Mary Sue I mean The Count, what a palate! Possibly the most discerning and refined one in all of Moscow, eliciting bravos from top chefs. But there's more: he charms his way out of a firing squad; gains the trust of a precocious nine-year-old girl who shows him the deeply hidden secrets of the Hotel; he makes such a first impression on a haughty movie star that she seduces him then obsesses over him after she departs. He is doggedly sought out by high-level intelligence agents in need of his diplomatic and cultural knowledge. The Fates repeatedly swoop down to rescue him in dire moments of need. The authorial wish fulfillment, in short, is strong in this one. Unfortunately, there isn't that much substance to the characters–any of them–nor the story. I never felt like I understood their inner lives. They all act on cue, responding to external stimuli in accordance with the roles they've been assigned and the backstories we've been shown. They frequently utter profound, insightful Deep Truths–the kind that make this reader pause, reflect, sometimes even feel like underlining–but there's just this ever so slight greeting-card feeling about them. Like the author penned them, perfected them, then built pages of scaffolding around them so they'd sound just right at just the right time. All nice and pat, in much the way that real life tends not to be. Or is that just me?

Then there's the whole (mild spoiler alert) Les Misérables aspect of the second half. It was tender, often moving, but there was something that didn't feel right about it and I think I've just realized what (major spoiler): the Count is no Valjean; the Bishop no Javert. Hugo makes us live his characters, their impossible moral choices, their struggles to do Good. We understand them, feel for them, even suffer with them. Both are driven by powerful inner forces which most of us can intimately relate to. The Count, though, comes off merely as a shallow fop wanting to be admired; the Bishop, a petty bureaucrat much like the Work Preventers I used to deal with at LANL, whose only solace in their sad meaningless lives is the power to say no to anyone trying to do something useful. Towles's beautiful prose notwithstanding, neither really elicits my sympathies. And I think that's what bugs me: the similarities are only superficial. Everything important, everything that makes a Capital-Ess Story, is hollow.

But maybe it's just me.