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A review by slippy_underfoot
Barbara: A Novel by Joni Murphy
4.0
Barbara is an arresting exploration of a woman’s psyche, offering a quiet yet unsettling study of 20th-century malaise.
Set in 1975, the novel follows Barbara, an actress in her early 40s, who spends her downtime confined to a hotel room, engaged in a fleeting affair with her leading man while reflecting on her life and career. At first, she seems poised yet resigned: “I got to be beautiful, and that determined the direction my whole life would take.” But as her narrative unfolds, the weight of her family’s past and the turbulence of the century emerge as central to her identity. While Barbara finds power in her beauty, she’s painfully aware of the effort it takes to fit into “the endless small rectangles controlled by grown men.”
A devoted cinephile, Barbara is captivated by the alchemy of filmmaking, embracing its methods, magic, and contradictions. Her passion for the craft—workshopping characters and creating authenticity in an artificial medium—mirrors her broader quest to make sense of life’s complexities. She applies this deconstructive lens to everything: her parents’ lives, war, gender, performance, and relationships. Her observations are startling in their clarity, such as when she reflects on her father: “He had appeared as a baby in the olden days, and by the time he died, the sky was speckled with satellites.”
Barbara’s voice, marked by its understated tone, is both disarming and absorbing. Is her simplicity a way to contain the chaos of her experiences, or is it a deliberate distancing from their enormity? The narrative, though structured, flows with the organic rhythm of a therapy session—a string of reflections that feel intimate and raw. Scattered photographs deepen its resonance, grounding her memories in a tangible space.
This is a quietly affecting novel, delivering its shocks and uncertainties with measured restraint. Its unassuming tone allows its truths to settle gradually, creating an emotional impact that feels both unexpected and profound.
Set in 1975, the novel follows Barbara, an actress in her early 40s, who spends her downtime confined to a hotel room, engaged in a fleeting affair with her leading man while reflecting on her life and career. At first, she seems poised yet resigned: “I got to be beautiful, and that determined the direction my whole life would take.” But as her narrative unfolds, the weight of her family’s past and the turbulence of the century emerge as central to her identity. While Barbara finds power in her beauty, she’s painfully aware of the effort it takes to fit into “the endless small rectangles controlled by grown men.”
A devoted cinephile, Barbara is captivated by the alchemy of filmmaking, embracing its methods, magic, and contradictions. Her passion for the craft—workshopping characters and creating authenticity in an artificial medium—mirrors her broader quest to make sense of life’s complexities. She applies this deconstructive lens to everything: her parents’ lives, war, gender, performance, and relationships. Her observations are startling in their clarity, such as when she reflects on her father: “He had appeared as a baby in the olden days, and by the time he died, the sky was speckled with satellites.”
Barbara’s voice, marked by its understated tone, is both disarming and absorbing. Is her simplicity a way to contain the chaos of her experiences, or is it a deliberate distancing from their enormity? The narrative, though structured, flows with the organic rhythm of a therapy session—a string of reflections that feel intimate and raw. Scattered photographs deepen its resonance, grounding her memories in a tangible space.
This is a quietly affecting novel, delivering its shocks and uncertainties with measured restraint. Its unassuming tone allows its truths to settle gradually, creating an emotional impact that feels both unexpected and profound.