asandwich

My word, where to begin?

I don't think I've ever read anything quite like Radiance before. It doesn't even particularly feel like a Valente novel for the most part. It's complicated, even frustrating at times, but it's also meticulous and beautiful, wistful, brave, melancholy and just downright bizarre. In my feeble capacity to elucidate, here is a list of names and things that may do a better job of capturing some of the essence of this book: Jules Verne, Georges Méliès, Fritz Lang, Roger Zelazny, Ray Bradbury, Forbidden Planet, H.P. Lovecraft, detective noir, murder mystery, Amelia Earhart, William Shakespeare, Greta Garbo, Douglas Fairbanks, Lillian Gish, King of the Rocket Men, Flash Gordon (and just about every other ridiculous Saturday matinee serial you can think of). And I still don't think we’re even getting remotely close. This book ticked so many of my boxes - and quite a few more boxes I didn't even know I had. The blurb describes Radiance as ‘decopunk’, which is both wonderfully accurate and something we need much, much more of.

And yet, beyond all of the retro-futuristic imagery, there lies a story of the difficult relationship between a woman and her movie director father amidst the opulence and decadence of the film industry during its ‘golden age’, her desire to break free of his shadow and become something great in her own right, and the hole that's left in the lives of those closest to her when the unthinkable happens.

This book completely destroyed me in all the best ways.