One might be tempted to approach Women’s Hotel by the New York Times bestselling author and advice columnist with a modicum of hope, given its purported depth and charm. Yet, as the veil lifts, one is met not with a grand opus but rather a work of such insipid mediocrity that it calls into question the discerning faculties of its most ardent supporters.
The novel ostensibly aims to depict the lives of a diverse set of women residing in a less-than-stellar analog of New York City's Barbizon Hotel. One might argue that this setting, teetering on the precipice of the romantic and the banal, offers a fertile ground for narrative exploration. Instead, what we are presented with is a parade of archetypes so painfully predictable they might have been lifted straight from the pages of a particularly uninspired soap opera. You'd be better off spending a year writing about Al Bundy and the American sitcom than this kind of novel.
The protagonist, Katherine, is a curious amalgamation of the mildly cynical and the trivially suggestible, neither of which serves to endear her to the reader. Lucianne, with her half-hearted resistance to societal norms, is as engaging as a particularly tedious dinner conversation. Kitty, Ruth, Pauline, and Stephen add little to the narrative tapestry beyond their superficial quirks. If one is seeking character development, one would be better served by examining the pattern on a particularly drab wallpaper.
The novel's attempt at humor is anemic at best, with wit that is neither sharp enough to be memorable nor subtle enough to be effective. The reader is left to wade through a mire of tedious anecdotes and contrived situations, all under the guise of 'modern classic' status. The grand ambition to evoke the likes of Dawn Powell and Rona Jaffe is, quite frankly, laughable. It falls lamentably short of the incisive social commentary and rich character studies these authors so deftly managed.
Moreover, the novel's tone, purportedly akin to The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Lessons in Chemistry, instead evokes a disjointed mishmash of self-congratulatory quips and overblown sentimentality. If the intention was to produce something as immersive and charming as these comparisons suggest, it has wholly failed to deliver. Perhaps this entire novel needed a little more time to ferment in order to become the delicious dish it was meant to become.
While there are moments where the author’s skill shines through—albeit faintly—these are fleeting and insufficient to redeem the work as a whole. One can only hope that future literary endeavors might strive for a semblance of sophistication and coherence.
- An Academic Who Knows Better
