For a book that has been described as the best Zafon since The Shadow of the Wind, there are simply no words to describe what a consummate disappointment the experience of reading Marina was. It was a book with so much potential that simply went nowhere. It was full of two-dimensional characters and was utterly derivative of much greater works. It was wholly unoriginal and, therefore, such a disappointment to read.
I am always wary with translated books, as they seem to lose a lot in the act of translation. I feel that this might be the case with Zafon's Marina as most Spanish reviews seem to give it glowing praise. Perhaps there is something about the language and descriptions in the Spanish language that provides this novel with a depth which it lacks in English. Or maybe that Zafon's labour of love was translated by someone else, rather than the author himself, made it lose a little of its impact.
The pacing of Marina is way off. It starts with the protagonist, Oscar, being mysteriously discovered alone in a train station by a policeman, unwilling to talk about the recent ordeal which had him missing without a trace for a week. We would hope that this mystery would have a thrilling resolution; however, the reason for the week's disappearance is truly mundane as we find out toward the end of the novel. The mystery, which is unrelated to Oscar's disappearance, is also never solved organically. Instead, we follow Oscar and the titular Marina from secondary character to secondary character, giving us all the relevant information we need to know in long, convenient soliloquies with no apparent reason for doing so.
There is no sense of character for anyone in the novel. We know nothing about Oscar or Marina other than they exist in this one moment. The novel seems to be narrated by an adult Oscar, but we don't even know what he went on to become or how this tale affected his life to the point where he felt it had to be told. The motivations for secondary characters to give these two teenagers all the information they ask for are non-existent. In some cases, I would go so far as to say it would be a breach of confidentiality to have given them any of the information. A policeman decides to provide a random 15-year-old with details of an ongoing corporate investigation, and a doctor decides to share the patient information of not only a patient, but his friend? And why? Because they asked nicely? On top of that, Zafon's female characters are appallingly written; he is very old fashioned in his descriptions of women who always remain white, virginal, and fragile. The pedestal grates after a while.
When I say this book is derivative, it is because it smacks of unoriginality. The two most glaring comparisons can come from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (to the point where there is a doctor Shelley whose daughter is conveniently named Maria) with motif's of the creation of life, what playing god can mean for yourself and those around you, and the monstrosities created when you play god. The second most notable parallel is between Marina and Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera. We have the setting of an opulent theatre, the theme of physical deformity, even some vague allusions to 'carnival freaks', which is never really properly developed other than providing a convenient McGuffin through the discovery of an old photo album. The pictures of physical deformities are described by Marina and Oscar, quite distastefully, as 'horrific' (which also never goes anywhere in the plot).
This book had potential, but to say that Marina did not reach that potential is an understatement. What an absolute disappointment.