September 13, 2023
If I had a nickel for every book I've read this years whose author's most famous work was adapted to a critically acclaimed film, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. Amsterdam, by Ian McEwan, is a very English story about men, power, politics, gossip, and death. Described by a trusted source (my girlfriend) as a “boy book”, it deals with the strangeness of male friendship in a culture that abhors expression, and the distinct challenges that arise when both parties are, in fact, not very good people. The two leads of this story are a deeply narcissistic composer riddled with insecurity (naturally) and a newspaper editor best described as vacant (while being simultaneously terrified and quite proud of the fact). McEwan explores both the privilege of these esteemed roles and the sense of self (or lack thereof) that comes with great success in a modern world. The politics espoused by these not-yet-old-but-not-quite-young-anymore members of the middle class intelligentsia are, as you’d expect, quite liberal, which is to say they are progressive in theory but rather uninterested in actual change. Throughout the novel morality seems to be more of a social indicator for scoring points and garnering good public opinion more than it is a real value system for making good decisions. It isn’t quite clear whether McEwan is trying to “play both sides” as it were, but through a modern lens there arises a very clear moral center in this novel, and it certainly leans progressive even as all the characters on display reveal their hypocritical natures.
This is especially clear in the development of Clive Linley, the composer. The author has captured very well the roots of a mentality that has overtaken the old guard of music academia, a longing to “retvrn” to an older, less progressive dogma, and a simultaneous conviction that this, in fact, is the subversion. The book, written in the 90s, digs into the beginnings of this movement, when the academics in question were in their 40s, and were just beginning to claim the power and clout that they currently wield. The reactionary move away from the minimalism of the 70s and the avant-garde and experimental tendencies of the middle 20th-century led to a group of musicians (represented here by Linley) viewing themselves as the spiritual successors to a line of composition and theory that found its peak in the work of Beethoven. This uplifting of a particular period of musical history as the absolute pinnacle of achievement that all musicians should strive to align with is both a symptom and cause of a deep institutional racism and euro-centrism that still persists across every level of music academia. McEwan does not seem to endorse this world view, but instead uses Linley as a focal point for satirizing the self-aggrandization that comes from viewing oneself as part of a sort of sacred lineage of art.
As a musician by training, I was very impressed by McEwan’s grasp of the finer points of music terminology. Too often authors fall into the trap of wanting to discuss music, but not understanding the words they want to use, and what results is a kind of nonsensical jargon that is nice to read but doesn’t actually mean anything. It seems this author either is a musician himself, or spent time researching what he was trying to convey, and does a fairly good job writing about music accurately and meaningfully.
McEwan’s writing in general includes some of the most poignant, heartbreaking prose I’ve ever read, both with regard to processing death and with regard to the terrifying ordeal of understanding one’s place in the world. Even as I found myself irritated or in contempt of either or both of the main characters, I could not help but be moved by the deeply human experience of considering one’s own legacy, and that is due in no small part to McEwan’s ability to turn a phrase. Some of the most quotable passages describes the human condition that I’ve ever read are found in this novel. On a more structural level, the twist at the end of the book is masterfully laid out, layered with the utmost subtlety throughout the book, and yet in retrospect the clues feel so very obvious. The author has created the kind of story that feels good to be fooled by.
The plot of the book is nominally centered around the death of a mutual lover of these two men, but this is somewhat misleading. While Molly (the woman in question) appears sparsely throughout the book, and her death is the indirect cause for much of the plot, the focus is squarely on the relationship of these two men. Obviously I cannot know what the author intended to convey as to the nature of that relationship, but to me, it read as implicitly but strongly queer. The tumultuous nature of the friendship between these two men is one rooted in affection and shared experience, but mostly in what reads as deep and undefined feeling, the kind that arises from an undiscovered aspect of one’s own identity, and often leads to fear and anger borne of discomfort, jealously, and misunderstanding. If that’s not a stereotypical trope incumbent to the depiction of gay love in media, then I don’t know what is.
McEwan has written an incisive examination of the structures of power at work in society, and an even more striking exploration of the ways in which ambitious men fail to see their own failings, especially their interpersonal ones.
7.5/10
A few notes that I wanted to include but didn’t know where else to fit in:
This story is exclusively and explicitly white. Every character, both present and mentioned, is white. This doesn’t explicitly detract from the book, but in a modern context it feels worth mentioning.
I think this story would option well to film, which makes sense given the success of Atonement (another of McEwan’s novels) in that medium.
There are almost no women, and certainly no women with more than a few pages dedicated to them, in this book. Again, not explicitly bad, but certainly worth noting.
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