Review of Malibu Rising by Taylor Jenkins Reid
I was drawn to Malibu Rising for a multitude of reasons: the vibrant imagery of sun-soaked beaches, the allure of wealthy, glamorous lives intertwined with the haunting shadows of familial trauma, and of course, the buzz that surrounded Taylor Jenkins Reid’s latest offering. Coming into this with no previous expectations—having never read her work before—I was eager to dive into the world she created. Little did I know, my anticipation would soon turn into a whirlwind of frustration and, ironically, an unexpectedly rapid reading pace fueled by a mix of disbelief and a sense of urgency to get through.
The novel centers around the Riva siblings, each grappling with their own tumultuous relationship to their absent father and the legacy of pain he instilled in them. Themes of family trauma, the pressures of celebrity culture, and the shallow pursuits of the affluent echo throughout the narrative. My experience was decidedly tumultuous; the story felt like a charade of melodrama that left me utterly unmoved. Instead of sinking into the layers of emotional depth I expect from character-driven fiction, I found myself racing through the pages in a fit of ire, taking note of my reactions—not quite the reading experience I’d anticipated!
Reid’s writing style often felt disjointed, lacking the artistry and depth that could have made these characters truly shine. The omniscient third-person perspective, which I usually relish, seemed clinical here, and it created an emotional distance that kept me at arm’s length. The characters often felt more like archetypes than fully realized beings, and moments of genuine connection and emotional struggle were muddied by melodramatic head-jumping. I found myself cursing the repetitiveness of their struggles—one annotation I noted was simply, “fathers will be like hope I am not a person to you guys but a concept.” Alas, how many times can one reflect on a man’s inability to prioritize family before it becomes a tedious refrain?
One standout experience was my encounter with the narrative’s approach to romance. The doomed love affair between June and Mick Riva left a bitter taste in my mouth, completed by the knowledge that June’s entire identity seemed to hinge on a man who was nothing short of a serial cheater. The inner workings of their relationship read like the worst kind of heartbreak, ultimately defining June’s character as merely the sum of her disappointments—a tragic yet frustrating discussion about love that didn’t resonate with me.
There were, however, moments of humor and poignant truth that managed to rise above the tumult: “that’s enough heterosexuality for today” was a particularly cheeky take that echoed my own sentiments as the melodrama unfolded. By focusing on moments of levity amid the undeniably heavy themes, I took solace in knowing others were sharing similar frustrations.
In the end, I couldn’t quite align with the overwhelming praise this book seemed to garner across various platforms. Perhaps Malibu Rising hits home for those entrenched in the world of commercial fiction, buoyed by its nostalgic nod to old Hollywood. For me, it fell short, rendering a curious study into how popularity can sometimes eclipse substance in the realm of contemporary literature.
If you find solace in books that parallel reality TV-like scenarios, filled with glamorous settings but ultimately unsatisfying character arcs, Malibu Rising might just be for you. But if you enjoy deeply layered narratives that invite introspection and genuine connection, you may want to swim further out into different waters. I could only close this book with a restless sigh, feeling like a castaway amidst the glittering waves.