Hello, friends! Welcome to Part Three of what was originally supposed to be a two-hander, but I got overzealous and excited and wrote too much! Parts One and Two can be found here and here; without further ado, let’s get on with this bookish show. :)
1) The Revolutionists: A Comedy, a Quartet, a Revolutionary Dream Fugue, a True Story by Lauren Gunderson (5 out of 5): Gunderson number two, and my favorite of the ones I read. Taking place during the Reign of Terror, during which Madame Guillotine cut off many a head during the French Revolution, the play follows four women: playwright Olympe de Gouges, assassin Charlotte Corday, former queen Marie Antoinette, and freedwoman abolitionist Marianne Angelle. The first three are real people; the fourth is an amalgamation of all the 18th-century black women fighting for their people’s right to be free. This play is, as Olympe herself tells you at the very beginning, a comedy that turns into a tragedy. Each of these women, if you know history, will be killed within a few weeks of each other. In real life, they never met: this play is the fantasy of them meeting, presented as if written by Olympe herself. The language takes a moment to get used to, as they all speak like it’s the 21st century: never have I thought I’d hear a Rococo-era lady use “bitch” as a pet name or shout “OMG!” as an exclamation. It took me a second to adjust. In fact, the first scene was so off-putting and jarring to me I thought I’d hate this play. It turned around rather quickly. The grounded truth of it, the emphasis on story as truth and immortality, the vulnerability, the commitment to a cause, the humanity and humility and selflessness and selfishness of these four women broke through the modern language to craft a brilliant piece. Goosebumps freckled my skin as I read that last line, said by the last woman to die as the blade is dropped: “And a story…begins.” Ow. My heart.
2) Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own by Kate Bolick (5 out of 5): I genuinely think this book changed my life. Like, I am obsessed with it. Fully, truly, inalterably obsessed with it, even months after finishing it. Part memoir, part literary analysis, part non-fiction, Bolick delves into what it means for her to be an unmarried woman and what it has meant through generations. She does this by discussing her “awakeners,” the creative female-identifying minds that have inspired her throughout her life: Maeve Brennan, Neith Boyce, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edith Wharton, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Each of these women had an unconventional relationship with marriage during their lives: some were unmarried, some married late in life, some had an open relationship, some were married than divorced (you’ll have to read to find out who’s who!). By examining these women’s lives and finding parallels to her own, in combination with research on marriage, gender, and creativity/work lives, Bolick presents an inviting, intriguing awakening of her own; within that, she finds comfort and even power in her singledom, all while never condemning or mocking marriage. I just…I’m not even quite sure how to put into words how incredible this book is. I was simply addicted from the moment I started. Bolick’s voice is clear and singular: witty, inquisitive, loving, blunt, flawed and human in all the right ways. Her awakeners’ lives are fascinating and individual; I’m so grateful I’ve been introduced to Neith, Maeve, and Edna now, as I already loved Edith and Charlotte. Her musings on marriage and gender prompted wonderment of my own, which is how you can tell it’s a damn good book. I highly, highly recommend this, regardless of relationship status. It is eye-opening, entertaining, and just a pure mind-stimulating, heart-touching delight.
3) The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (3 out of 5): Some people are not going to like me for this middle road grading of Hawthorne’s classic, and I acknowledge that. I expected to enjoy it: arguably, it’s an early feminist work, pointing out male hypocrisy and discussing forced feminine duality; I’m one of those weirdos who loves the flowery language of writers long since passed; I’ve read about Hawthorne’s life and I genuinely think he’s a fascinating gentleman. Unfortunately, I was left with the feeling of “meh.” I came in knowing the major plot twist (SPOILER: it’s the pastor), and figured everything else out within three pages of the first chapter. Hawthorne erred on the side of melodrama a touch further than he needed to; similar to my qualm with Haskell’s North and South, I did not need the swooning. If The Scarlet Letter had been structured like a traditional melodrama or moral tale, I may not have minded it so much. However, since it is clearly designed to be of the more philosophical variety, the odd faintings, sudden deaths, and gratuitous side story of witchcraft and broom-flying were not needed. It took away rather than added to the novel. Nevertheless, I do like Hawthorne’s descriptive style and I respect the controversy and near-historicity of his classic. A solid 3.
4) Long Day’s Journey into Night by Eugene O’Neill (5 out of 5): This drama student is working on catching up with the classics, as you can tell (I’m trying to alternate between classic and contemp, but that’s neither here nor there). This—O’Neill’s magnum opus—certainly lives up to its decades of hype. Semi-autobiographical, this play follows the Tyrone family, comprised of patriarch James, matriarch Mary, failure-son Jamie, and sick-son Edmund, as their dysfunction rapidly reaches an explosion within the span of a summer’s day. It is a show of depth and complexity, forcing O’Neill himself to reckon with familial wounds, cyclical pain, and deeply imbedded fears and insecurities. There is a reason Long Day’s Journey into Night wasn’t produced until after the playwright’s death: there aren’t many people out there who can relive something so deeply personal in front of a worldly audience. There is so much that could be delved into within this play, and I cannot cover it in a simple paragraph. It would take an entire academic paper or artistic analysis—Sidney Lumet, director of the 1962 film adaptation, gives a good one in his book Making Movies (see below!)—so I will simply say that O’Neill’s work on this piece is heart-shatteringly vulnerable, angering, touching, and entirely immortal. A perfect reckoning.
5) Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward (3 out of 5): I read Coward’s play after seeing the 2020 adaptation with my mom and sister (it’s nothing like the play outside of character names, I quickly learned); frankly, I enjoyed the play more than the film, but I’m not in love with the plot. I’m quite picky with comedy, to be fair, so a number of people may (and do) love it. Coward’s play follows novelist Charles Condomine: he invites over eccentric medium Madame Arcati, intending to mockingly view her work as inspiration for his newest novel; instead, he calls upon the ghost of his dead ex-wife, Elvira, causing her to get stuck in her ghostly state and wreaking havoc between Charles and his current wife, Ruth. Antics ensue. People die. Lots of psychic trances. There’s a doctor and his wife to provide a secondary plotline. All in all, it’s fine. I didn’t find any of the characters likable or sympathetic; I felt the construction was a little weak at points. It’s fine. I wish I were wowed more. The one thing I did love that the movie changed about the play is Madame Arcati: being able to see her past and build upon her character gave the story far more humanity than it ever had before.
6) Making Movies by Sidney Lumet (4.5 out of 5): I read this book over the course of a few months, an assignment for my On Camera course, and absolutely loved it. Drawing from his vast career, Lumet details the creation of film, from pre- to post-production and everything in between. He gets hyperspecific at times—giving rundowns of lens types, for instance—is always thorough, and punctuates with wonderful anecdotal evidence of what works and what doesn’t. I am constantly hungry to learn more about the creation of art, especially the mediums I love to work in; I find technical talk, artistic analysis, philosophical discussion, and the behind-the-scenes of intention and choice fascinating, and so very important. This book fed that hunger, and did it in such a way that it was easily understandable. I am not a fan of overly academic writing (I find it elitist and alienating for a majority of people), so this style of writing about art was refreshing. Communicable. Relatable. Understandable. And I learned a lot. A .5 deducted for some sexist language and toxic practices: unfortunately, that was all normalized and accepted during Lumet’s time as a director, so must be taken with historical relativity. It provides a good jumping-off point for discussion surrounding toxicity and misogyny within the industry, for sure, so I’ll give it that. Know it going in, though: it’s a touch dated there.
7) The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (4.5 out of 5): The slow burn of Wharton’s classic tricked me, I must admit. At first, I was rather bored, plot-wise. Her writing style is absolutely gorgeous, poetic simplicity of the 20th century perfected by her diligent pen. Her clear mockery of the Gilded Age New York she grew up within is analytical refreshment. She has snark and wit that still resonates today. However, though I appreciated all of this, I was somewhat bored with the “will-they-won’t-they” of Newland Archer, May Welland, and Countess Ellen Olenska. The “Is he a Victorian-era feminist or not?” of Newland irked me for a time (yes, relativity again). Then I got midway through Book One, and I was hooked. Suddenly, character complexity struck for Newland in the form of disillusionment and dissociation; suddenly, a strong female appeared in both Ellen’s escape from her naysayer family and in May’s selfless love for both Newland and her ancestry; suddenly, poetic environment matched powerful societal statement. I had to get over 100 pages in, but it was there. And that ending? Edith Wharton, you deliciously cruel woman, you. So. Good. Highly recommend.
8) Primates of Park Avenue by Dr. Wednesday Martin (3.5 out of 5): This book comprised my fun non-fiction of the time. Part memoir, part anthropological study, the story follows Dr. Wednesday Martin (her doctorate is in the realm of anthropology) as she marries into a prominent Upper East Side family, entering the world of the wealthy and all the insanity that it holds. We follow her through trying to find an apartment in a “worthy” building, breaking into the pack of vicious UES mamas via Alpha Male Dad, the hunt for a Birkin bag, the cults of SoulCycle and Pure Barre, and what actually bonds this group of highly competitive humans together. It was fun, and, frankly, as humanizing as it was ridiculous. It would have been a middle ground for me, but it gets a .5 for the gut punch that is the final section of the book. Without giving too much away (while also giving a brief TW): it covers the bonds of female friendship through child loss, and I found myself tearing up multiple times. That has to up it a bit.
9) Radium Girls by D.W. Gregory (4 out of 5): This 2000 play follows a story that has experienced revamped fascination in the past few years: that of the Radium Girls, young women (many immigrants) who painted the radioluminescent dials of the 1920s. Using their tongue and teeth to point the brush, these young women—girls, really—contracted horrific diseases caused by radioactivity. Their bones disintegrated, starting with their jaw, the majority dying a painful, ugly death. When the remaining workers figured out what was happening, they joined forces with a union to take U.S. Radium Corp. to court. What follows is one of the most prominent labor and consumer fights of the 20th century, forgotten until the early 21st. In particular, Gregory follows Grace Fryer, a girl of 15, a dialpainter, as she fights for reparations and future safety protocols. She has watched her friends die, and is herself dying. We, the audience, go back and forth between the perspectives of the dialpainters and of the Radium Corp., seeing the struggle of one side and the manipulation of the other, humanity versus commercialization. Gregory manages to humanize and sympathize with the President of the Corp., though, a move I thought highly effective: though we hate the measures he’s going to, we see the family he’s trying to protect. I loathe when villains are just villains for villainy’s sake; a sympathetic villain is the best kind. In short, this play was heartfelt and incredibly saddening; also, slightly confusing with how many characters there were, but Gregory handled it as well as she could. Overall, a good one.
10) Chain of Iron by Cassandra Clare (5 out of 5): Y’all already know what I’m going to say here. I love this universe. I love this series. I love these characters. I love the statements on what makes a family, racism, sexism, homophobia, and identity. Yes, yes, yes. All the yes.
11) Juliet the Maniac by Juliet Escoria (4.5 out of 5): Before I begin this one, I do want to send out a massive TW, though I won’t speak in depth about any of these topics here: graphic descriptions of self-harm, moments of suicide ideation, graphic descriptions of suicide, grooming, sexual assault, drug use, violence. A lot happens in this book. Though its cover decrees “A Novel,” it is a memoir of Juliet Escoria’s experience with drug use, self-harm, and toxic relationships after she is diagnosed as bipolar. A gifted academic and talented writer, her world turns upside down after she is sent to a psychiatric ward, and, then, to a special camp/school for kids with mental health issues (one that has since been shut down for sketchy practices, so that should tell you a lot). It is an incredibly heavy book, albeit a very important one. Not only does Escoria not shy away from talking of difficult topics, she’s also well-versed in the evolving treatment of mental disorders, and gives her audience a good dose of information and research. Her tonality is blunt and unforgiving; she structures her novel as a series of vignettes, almost, including some entitled “Letters from the Future.” In that way, the story ends with a bitter hopefulness. It is difficult to read, I won’t lie, but I found myself happy to have read it. It is eye-opening, especially as someone who, though I have a diagnosed mental illness, has never had anything as bad as Juliet and her friends. I’ve never had to deal in depth with the still-archaic treatment of folks struggling with mental illness in this country. The novel is revelatory, in a sense. And Escoria’s voice is so unique and unwavering, it’s empowering in its own vulnerability. A powerful, hard read.
And there we are! Just in time for May, too. Worry not: I have a better plan moving forward; you’ll see. ;)
Thanks for reading, all! Out of curiosity, have you read any of these before? Any you’d like to read? Let me know if you do!
Have a wonderful day, my friends. I love you all.
Rhiannon