Two rich, idle young women, abandoned by glamourous, thoughtless parents, go in search for love and self-respect across three continents in Lokko's jet-setting "blockbuster" of a novel.
Laure St Lazare is the 16 year old daughter of a runaway mother who lives with her widowed, loveless grandmother in a rambling mansion in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Despite her good family, she has dark, "bitter chocolate" skin, which is undesirable in her native land.
Melanie Miller is the 18 year old daughter of a rock star father, divorced from her mother who is now married to a wealthy, prize-winning architect and lives in London. Her father has constantly neglected her and at the start of the novel he fails to show for her 18th birthday.
I bought this book on a whim from ebay, the description proclaiming the novel to be from "the author who brought brains to the blockbuster". I don't usually read this type of book, for good reason, but I like to try something different once in a while.
On reflection, I might have to go back to my comfort zone for a while again after this vapid experience!
The heroines, though supposedly adults and empowering female figures, get "butterflies" or become "weak at the knees" when they see men that they tend to fall in love with after just one or two empty conversations.
They do achieve things during the course of the story, but for the most part they only get on by doing "glamour" work, dating rich boyfriends - even if they happen to be an obvious asshole - or just by being beautiful and therefore finding men to indulge them. How empowering is that?
Their fortunes never fluctuate before clumsy forewarnings, their thoughts and emotions are expressed in a litany of air-headed triteness as they constantly muse like teenagers over questions that the author has already answered for the reader.
In addition, the one narrative secret that Lokko holds onto, one supposed to enthuse some kind of mystery and joy to the proceedings, is blatantly signposted right from the start, then amounts to nothing much when it is finally revealed.
I almost stopped reading at page 24 when the stultifyingly moronic Melanie, dancing topless and singing in front of her mirror, becomes aware that her stepfather is watching her from the opening in the door and reflects:
"He'd been unable to take his eyes off her. Norbert Kreizer, the forty-something world-famous architect, her mother's husband... he'd been unable to look away. She had made him look at her, he who barely registered her presence. And the most remarkable thing of all? She hadn't said a word." - oh dear.
The comments on the back cover also play up just how "intelligent" the novel is in comparison to the usual fare in the genre, but I failed to notice any. What I did notice though was that it was considerably less crass than these type of books generally are, which is something of a commendation I suppose.
Reading Bitter Chocolate only led me to ask myself the question: Why read trash?
After all, reading requires attention and effort. If you want trash why not just watch TV? You actually get to see the beautiful people then, the clothes, the locations, not just read about them.