A French theater agrees to stage the latest work by Filippov—the most prestigious and lucrative opportunity of his infamous career—but first he must sever ties with his longtime collaborator and childhood friend. So the internationally acclaimed Russian director makes a reluctant trip back to his hometown to deliver the news. His journey to the Far North, where the temperature remains dangerous … dangerous all winter, unexpectedly blurs the distinctions between reality and art for this virtuoso, who prides himself on his ability to create shocking scenes and outrageous situations. And after the city’s power grid goes off-line, the brutal cold just might get the better of him.
The colder it gets, the more wickedly funny Filippov’s boozy exploits, which unravel into an unexpected chain of events—including run-ins with old lovers, meeting a woman who might be his daughter, encounters with the devil, and the unlikely affection of a dog that, like Filippov, is in desperate need of warmth.
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This book…there’s nothing positive I can say! I had to force myself to finish it, which rarely ever happens. The brief synopsis of the story sounded very intriguing, but it was absolutely nothing close to what I was expecting. It is filled with horrible characters and terrible situations that just made me cringe. Apologies to the author, but I would not recommend it.
Hmmm. This is a tough one, because the author clearly has skill: imaginative, pithy, a sharp way with words, and clever, witty observational prose. He set the place exceedingly well — I’ve never felt colder while reading a book — giving us an inside and very tangible experience with the frozen, northern region of Russia; in fact, cold was a character, so present and pervasive. And there were other interesting characters (actual people), lots of edgy, facile dialogue, and somewhere in there was the foundation for a great plot. Therein lay the biggest problem:
Plot. Even by the time I was halfway through the book, whatever plot there was could only be described as “meandering.” I kept waiting; waiting for the story to go somewhere, for the set-up to become a page-turning, leading-us-somewhere, compelling, fascinating narrative, but it did not. There were series of vignettes, one set piece after another, but no plot. Ostensibly one exists; sadly, my interest petered out before one made itself known.
Another issue for me is what I’ll call “alcohol redundancy.” The author has made his protagonist a prodigious drinker of spirits, and I’d guess he — the writer — finds this trait far more fascinating than at least this reader did. Like the cold, alcohol was such a all-encompassing, pervasive element woven into the story that it, too, became its own character.
In fact, it was a never-ending discussion, the matter of drinking and its many ramifications. This included the IDEA of drinking, the mention of drinking, the description of drinking; the detailed, anatomical, visceral, physical state of drinking and inebriation in its every form, depth, flavor, reaction, bodily fluid, impact, assault, whatever. It’s covered, over and over, page to page, chapter to chapter, to the point that I wanted to scream: “I GET IT! HE DRINKS!” Perhaps it’s a Russian theme that never gets wearying to Russians… not so much anyone else?
I kept with it for as long as I could because the author IS a good “writer” in the sense that he knows how to write prose and conjure up interesting characters. But a successful novel also requires pulling readers in with a compelling plot, piquing their interest with twists and turns, delivering an unfolding storyline that keeps them engaged. THAT was missing. So much so that after many attempts to keep going, stay involved, give the writer the respect of finishing his book, I finally faced the fact that I was simply not enjoying the experience and threw in the towel.
So it’s a mixed bag: Skillful prose, interesting characters, but thematically redundant with a negligible plot.
This a book for those who have read Russian novels. You have to understand the style of angst and suffering. Lots of drama and personal trauma!
The main character is a nutter. He loves to create chaos around himself by doing ridiculous and socially unacceptable things. I suffered with him throughout. He drank himself half to death every day. He invited frostbite by venturing out into 40-degree-below freezing weather in flimsy clothing regularly. He mistreated dogs and then felt guilty.
I finished the book because it was somewhat funny (believe it or not). I wouldn’t read it again knowing what it was like! This author is wonderfully literate but this book was incredibly self-indulgent.