Amsterdam by Ian McEwan

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


The beginning of Amsterdam feels much like a Graham Greene book. The bitterness of Clive Linley and Vernon Halliday as they meet at the funeral of their mutual lover calls to mind the heaviness of The End of the Affair. But as well written as this book is–and Ian McEwan seems to be able to make just about anything come to life, at least for a time–this is ultimately a grim, heartless book with no redemption for just about any of the characters.

This novel is reminiscent of Greene in several ways, touching on many of the themes his books do–artistic struggle, personal integrity, intrigue, and ordinary people reacting to extraordinary situations. But unlike Greene, who takes you inside fully formed, three-dimensional characters to reveal insights into human nature, McEwan here simply uses these elements to tell a twisted story, moving around the characters like chess pieces to serve the plot and give you a shocking result. I found Clive and Vernon to become increasingly unbelievable as the plot hurdled toward to its unlikely and, really, absurd conclusion. It was unconvincing and unsatisfying.

I actually read this Booker prize winner several years ago, but revisited it in light of my love for Atonement and Saturday. My impression hasn’t changed with time. I give it three stars because you just can’t dismiss the quality of McEwan’s writing. If you’re into nihilistic tales, you’ll love this, but I’m more interested in the kinds of deeper questions that Greene would tackle. For example, why are these people like they are, and why does the world so often seem this way? There’s really nothing about that here, just depictions of selfish, narcissistic people.



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