Siren Queen

The magic realism of this book is quite sneaky, and in retrospect, solidly well crafted, if disorienting initially. It’s so hard to tell what’s metaphorical or not (answer: nothing is metaphorical it is all ALL literal).

This era and the subject matter and the tone and the world building all come together in an absolute symphony of literary pleasure.

This is the most unique view of Hollywood that I have ever read…there is simply nothing else like it. And I confess to loving the writing of Nghi Vo ( I had previously read The Chosen and the Beautiful). She writes with an ease and a flourish showing you images you would have never seen yourself. The fantasy aspect of the book gives it at times, an otherworldly flavor and yet her allegories are spot on. The film industry is wicked and cruel and magical in more than one way. The images from this book stayed with me long after I had finished it.

I was provided an ARC of this book from BookishFirst. When I read the first sample chapters, I really admired the way the author used supernatural/magical terms to explore everyday things and common occurrences (e.g. selling "medicine" was "selling slivers of immortality".) And, for almost the entirety of the book, it was hard discern if the narrator intended these as a flower description, or a literal way of describing the magic in these books. Such as when she describes the studio heads at selling their souls to eldritch beings in order to have the success they enjoy; were they literally creating faustian compacts or is that merely a way of describing the sacrifices they made climbing to the top? Even the more overtly magical beings such as skogsrå or the robotic wolves that stood guard at the studio could have easily been particularly fanciful descriptions or a way to add extra mystery to the characters and setting. While part of me really wanted the author to just outright tell me whether or not this magic was real, I began to relish this ambiguity. Above all, the uncertainty of the narration is perhaps the biggest reason I enjoyed this book.

Beyond that, the story itself was a very interesting take on the interwar period of cinema. Additionally, the exploration of queer identity (mostly just from the lesbian perspective, but also hints of bisexuality) in the 30's was also unique; coupled with the exploration of racial identity and how those intersect in a pre-Civil Rights era. The lead character does not want to be typecast into a stereotypical Asian role like her predecessors, but at one point feels shame for this decision. Not shame from the predominately white male directors and producers, but from an actress of color who gained her stardom playing roles that the narrator saw as beneath her. Similarly, the narrator gains success from being a monster; while she cannot be a leading lady seemingly due to her race, she instead embodies the Other and becomes famous. (If this were 10 years ago, I would have loved to write my capstone thesis on that particular nugget. )

I do feel the end of the book is quite rushed. Throughout the book, the author refers to a person who we assume is her partner, but we don't really meet her until the final pages. I would have love more development there, since the narrator mentions the conversations with this character all throughout the story. The love triangle towards the end also seems a bit shoehorned in, mostly due to the speed in which it has to develop. And this reunion with the sister fell very flat for me; with little reason for it to be there and no significant development from scene, I think the author could have found a better use for those pages. But, even with the pacing issues at the end of the novel, this book still gets a solid 4 stars from me.

I requested this book after reading some of the rave reviews posted here and they were not wrong. This is the first book by Nghi Vo that I have read and I will be searching out more. This was such a moving book. Riveting and engaging. I was drawn in instantly.

The premise that the movie industry is actually run by magic and monsters is absolutely inspired. It fits so well into the realities we know of the cutthroat aspects of the industry. Setting this in the Golden Age of film also made it even more poignant. The idea that cameras can steal your soul, that immortality depends on your name being known, that stars literally become stars--those ideas are so unique and creative.

Siren Queen is the story of Luli Wei, a child of an immigrant family who dreams of being part of the magic of film. It is Luli's story, but the people she meets along the way are drawn so well that I couldn't help being fond of them. And what characters. Memorable in so many ways, complex, nuanced, flawed, and brilliant. The characters develop and reveal themselves in an organic fashion. From her sister, to Emmeline, to Harry, Jane–they linger in my thoughts days after finishing the book.

There is an underlying darkness, an intensity, a feeling of underlying dread that accompanies what we learn of this industry, and the people who inhabit it.

The world building is nuanced and the parallels to reality painfully familiar. I wanted to know more about the magic and monsters but that was because I was curious. The story itself gives us just enough to set the scene but doesn't bog the reader down with details when the real focus of the story is on the characters.

The book explores the themes of race, of sexism, of otherness, of belonging, of connection and it explores them in detail and in a compelling way. The LGBTQ subplot is woven into the story so well, with the characters making connections and forging relationships, and the book does not shy away from the homophobia in that society and culture.

The atmosphere is rich and diverse, the writing lush and compelling.

I loved how Luli is such an appealing character because she is so complex–flawed and driven, ambitious and determined, aching for connection and very cognizant as the book goes on of her own shortcomings. This book is dark. It's complex. It's fascinating and horrifying and hurts in ways you don't expect. But it's also a kind book. A book about finding your place, making connections, going after what you want, making amends. The relationships really drive it.

Highly recommended. 4.5 stars

My thanks to netgalley and the publisher for this digital ARC for my honest review.

Siren Queen is not your traditional Hollywood novel. With the rich tapestry of 1930s Golden Age cinema as its backdrop, the book weaves a story that is as enchanting as it is dark.

The typical rags-to-riches tale and transports us into a world where magic is real, and the price of fame is far steeper than one could imagine.

The racial and sexual politics laid bare are unapologetically raw and reflective of both the era it’s set in and contemporary discourse.

Siren Queen is a entertaining read that will likely resonate with those who are fascinated by the costs of fame and identity. I recommended for those who look for depth, diversity, and a touch of magic in their historical fiction.

I really wanted to like this book. It certainly had potential. But it needed at least two or more passes with an editor.

Based on the jacket description, I was expecting danger, monsters, sacrifice, triumph. Technically all those things do exist in the book, but only as window dressing.

While Vo excels at world-building, and certainly any number of fan-fiction stories could be crafted from her novel’s sturdy bones, the story she chooses to tell is frustratingly coy and cagey when it comes to the monsters, magic, or even pain and sacrifice.

In reality, this is a self-indulgent bodice-ripper daydream, masquerading as a dark drama laced with magical realism. While Vo uses beautiful and elegant prose to tell the story, most of the story’s most interesting action takes place off the page, told to readers through second-hand summary, or caught in spare glimpses or gossipy hints.

The only scenes that are told with immediacy and vivid detail are the sex scenes. It felt like the first half of the book was bored preamble to the main event, the steamy lesbian sex scene, and then it limped along until its next hot sex scene, and then quietly tapered off to a tepid and exhausted finish.

Despite a lengthy roster of characters, few were memorable, and even fewer were fully fleshed out people. Most existed as two-dimensional props, existing only to smooth the path for the protagonist, who seems to think that her life is extraordinarily difficult, but very little narrative is actually devoted to showing us anything extraordinarily bad. In fact, she seems to suffer from the things that all humans with an ounce of motivation or ambition suffer from, and often she only has to exert the barest of efforts to get what she wants, and pays very little for the privilege.

Nearly every time she encounters a difficulty of any kind, she is saved by someone/something else. It may have been a serendipitous warning before the fact, or a habit drilled into her by her parents or mentor, or her beauty, or a magical token bestowed upon her by a mysterious benefactor, or a timely tip from a kind stranger, but her part is merely to follow the advice given to her, or enlist more help, or use the gift/magical token/divinely bestowed power that she earned merely by wanting it or asking for it or patiently paying her dues for it.

It’s difficult to understand what others see in her. We’re told she’s beautiful, and a talented actress, and that’s meant to be sufficient. How she becomes such a talent is mostly glossed over, in favor of following her love life in minute detail.

Because so little characteristics, beyond physical form and the effect they have on the protagonist, are fleshed out regarding the protagonist’s love interests, her feelings of love or sorrow, joy or heartbreak, feel lackluster and distant. It’s as if a friend is telling you that they really, really love their girlfriend, and you believe them, but you can’t really see why.

I prefer stories that draw me in so thoroughly that I feel one with the protagonist, and I love who they love and hate who they hate and fear what they fear. The only character that comes close to stirring up some of that feeling is a secondary character that occupies a mere quarter of the novel. Vo’s protagonist spends the majority of the story as a passive participant, being awed, inspired or irritated by more engaging and active characters.

The men in the novel are mostly an afterthought, with the exception of one man, and even he exists only to promote or better the situation of the protagonist. I get the feeling that Vo treats men in this story the way chauvinists treated women in old stories. They are pale, sparsely sketched cardboard cutouts used to elevate or frustrate the “real people” (women) in the story.

Unfortunately, the monsters are given a cursory pass, too. We don’t get a really good physical description of any of them, just terse clues or veiled references. Even when the protagonist is face to face with monsters, they aren’t fully fleshed out for us, and as usual, we have to take her word for it when she says she’s afraid.

Personally, there’s never a moment in the entire novel where I feel afraid or concerned for the protagonist. It’s established early on that no matter what happens, she’ll sail through, relatively unscathed, and almost always better off for the encounter. Inexplicably, while all around her women are disappearing, dying, or horribly maimed, she continually walks away with not a scratch on her. The few times she actually does suffer (invariably minor) harm, she milks it for all it’s worth.

The story ends predictably and without fanfare. We never learn much of anything, other than that the protagonist got exactly what she wanted, and never had to pay any real price for it, other than the price every person has to pay for success, which is patience, perseverance, and hard work. And of course, in the case of Vo’s protagonist, a great deal of good luck.