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3.5 stars
You might know the Mulvaneys. You might be them, or want to be them. They might live next door, or across town. Their son might date your daughter, or you might have a beer with Michael Mulvaney, Sr., sometimes. The fact is that we all know the Mulvaneys. They are all of us, in every town.
But the Mulvaneys are also our worst nightmare. Our greatest fear realized, made flesh and bone. They are the worst thing that could happen, mostly because it could happen. And you know it.
The Mulvaneys are what we are when our children are small. Idyllic, smiling, happy. Hosting neighborhood barbecues, hiding nothing. They are, as Oates even says at one point, that perfect point of drunk intoxication, that blend of happy sociability and lack of inhibitions and optimism and energy.
Until it all comes crashing down.
Because the Mulvaneys are also who we are when our children grow up. The potential unraveling, the disappointed promises. The public embarrassment.
The novel is not a perfect novel. I hated the way the women were portrayed, I was constantly irritated and disappointed by their one-dimensional representation. Furthermore, I remember when the novel first came out, and my desire to read it. I wish I had read it then - over 20 years ago - because now it is most definitely dated. Unlike Hawthorne, who was haunted by his inability to write about the present, Oates has an uncanny ability to write about the present, so aptly that it limits the value of her otherwise infinitely valuable work. And I was further saddened by the societal indictment of the family and the things that happened to them. Is this really who we are - as families, as neighbors, as Americans?
But I related. And that perhaps is Oates’ gift - beyond her beautiful ability to wind prose descriptions on top of one another (yes repetitive but still largely resonant) - her ability to relate. The Mulvaneys are definitely people I know. They are people we all know.
We Were the Mulvaneys.
You might know the Mulvaneys. You might be them, or want to be them. They might live next door, or across town. Their son might date your daughter, or you might have a beer with Michael Mulvaney, Sr., sometimes. The fact is that we all know the Mulvaneys. They are all of us, in every town.
But the Mulvaneys are also our worst nightmare. Our greatest fear realized, made flesh and bone. They are the worst thing that could happen, mostly because it could happen. And you know it.
The Mulvaneys are what we are when our children are small. Idyllic, smiling, happy. Hosting neighborhood barbecues, hiding nothing. They are, as Oates even says at one point, that perfect point of drunk intoxication, that blend of happy sociability and lack of inhibitions and optimism and energy.
Until it all comes crashing down.
Because the Mulvaneys are also who we are when our children grow up. The potential unraveling, the disappointed promises. The public embarrassment.
The novel is not a perfect novel. I hated the way the women were portrayed, I was constantly irritated and disappointed by their one-dimensional representation. Furthermore, I remember when the novel first came out, and my desire to read it. I wish I had read it then - over 20 years ago - because now it is most definitely dated. Unlike Hawthorne, who was haunted by his inability to write about the present, Oates has an uncanny ability to write about the present, so aptly that it limits the value of her otherwise infinitely valuable work. And I was further saddened by the societal indictment of the family and the things that happened to them. Is this really who we are - as families, as neighbors, as Americans?
But I related. And that perhaps is Oates’ gift - beyond her beautiful ability to wind prose descriptions on top of one another (yes repetitive but still largely resonant) - her ability to relate. The Mulvaneys are definitely people I know. They are people we all know.
We Were the Mulvaneys.