Let my preface my thoughts by saying that Lucille Ball has been my favorite famous person since I was nine – I’ve read every book, watched every documentary, and read just about every article or interview on her, down to the recollections offered by her secretary and chauffer. It’s likely that others who know little about Lucy’s life will have the detachment necessary for better enjoying this story. But as for myself, The Queen of Tuesday only left me disappointed and slightly upset that this kind of distortion is even enabled: what right do we really have to write books like this, to so aggressively reshape other people’s lives?
To begin with – Strauss’s characterization of Lucy, Desi, and their marriage is absolutely horrific. His portrayal of Lucy is not unflattering, but it seems as if he dismissed whatever he may have gleaned about her in research for this book to assign her the characteristics that best serve his narrative; she is perpetually melancholy and wry here. In many ways, Strauss’s “Lucille” is the inverse of the true woman. This “Lucille” slightly resents the TV Lucy and savors the opportunities opened up by the business end of Desilu, whereas Lucille Ball actually felt exactly opposite. His rendering of Desi is glaringly worse. For many years racist and xenophobic sentiment has led to the persistent myth that Desi was a buffoon who rode his wife’s coattails to success. Recent revisiting of Desi’s contributions to the television industry have attempted to debunk that; though he battled his personal demons, Desi was regardless a brilliant businessman and producer, which Lucy herself stressed her whole life. Yet, Strauss largely reverts to that old fallacy here; his description of Desi hems very closely to magazine articles from the fifties (!) which teasingly construed him as a “Latin American dictator.” Strauss often writes him lines in broken English (for all the ribbing about his accent, Desi actually graduated from high school in the US) and portrays him as arrogantly bumbling his responsibilities on set, while in reality Desi was largely beloved by Desilu employees. Moreover, while Desi was absolutely guilty of being a less than stellar husband, he was not for his twenty years of marriage to Lucy the cartoonish tyrant Strauss makes him out to be. It’s just frustrating how entirely stripped of nuance “Desi” in The Queen of Tuesday appears.
Then, to aid his attempt in centering the Lucy/Isidore romance, Strauss sidelines Lucy and Desi’s marriage, painting it as loveless, tedious, perpetually cruel. Even while their marriage was sometimes toxic and dysfunctional, Lucy and Desi had an intensely passionate relationship – and by many accounts of their family and friends, they remained deeply in love with one another till their deaths. Yet, Strauss does not attempt to accurately convey their bond, and that becomes clear even by the way in which they address one another in the story. Desi calls Lucy “Lucille,” though he was the one who initially nicknamed her Lucy and began exclusively calling her that shortly after they met; Lucy frequently calls Desi “Dez,” but in actuality she always pronounced his name with a soft s sound. Now, I know this may seem like a nitpicky complaint, however it precisely reflects Strauss’s much broader bastardization of Lucy and Desi’s relationship. Most inexplicable to me is Strauss’s decision to write this “affair” into the early 50s, a phase both Lucy and Desi deemed as their marriage at its happiest and healthiest, having finally achieved their long-wished-for dream of creating a family and enjoying the enormous professional success of I Love Lucy – even Desi’s rampant infidelity was largely alleviated during this time. The challenge that this fact presents to Strauss’s fictionalizing is perhaps best exemplified by how outrageously he alters the circumstances of Desi Jr.’s birth. If anything, this book would have been more readable and perhaps satisfying if Strauss had primarily set it in the late fifties, when their marriage was actually disintegrating; instead, it feels as if he’s intruding upon the one consistently good chapter they enjoyed together.
This subgenre of literature has become somewhat controversial, raising ethical questions about casting a fictional light on the lives of very much real individuals. Books in this subgenre seem to take one of two trajectories: a deliberately faithful, novelized adaption of the subject’s biography (much like And They Called it Camelot, which charts Jackie Kennedy’s life) or an alternative take on history wherein the author meddles with the course of events, often introducing fictional characters in the process. The latter route is much more deserving of scrutiny, and Strauss’s book fits easily into that category (while Isidore Strauss was not truly a fictional person, for all intents and purposes he was one in Lucy’s life story). I’ve read other books that have taken the same approach (The Hollywood Daughter, A Touch of Stardust, All the Stars in Heaven to name a few that also center on Old Hollywood actresses) and Strauss, by far, fares the worst in his attempt to mesh reality with fiction, real people with imaginary protagonists. Perhaps I’ll admit an increased sensitivity given my affection for Lucille Ball, but Strauss’s efforts to inject Isidore into Lucy’s life are so forced that this work almost reads like an invasive act. The only other book in this subgenre – that I’ve read – in which I think the author employs as much creative license as Strauss does with The Queen of Tuesday is Curtis Sittenfield’s Rodham, released earlier this summer. I didn’t much enjoy that book either, however, there does seem to be speculative merit to the query that launched Sittenfield’s hypothetical exploration of a world where Hillary Clinton didn’t marry Bill; that possibility leaves open interesting implications for American culture, politics, and feminism. But where is the justification for Strauss to so boldly and brashly rearrange Lucille Ball’s life? A haphazard probe of his personal family trauma?
Ultimately, Strauss screws around with Lucy’s life SO egregiously that one wonders what was even the point of placing her in this novel. It’s understandable that any author writing a novelized version of a celebrity’s life story will have to apply some artistic discretion, but Strauss intervenes to the point that his “Lucille” is shockingly detached from the Lucille Ball of reality. Strauss defends this in his afterward, writing, “This is my Lucille Ball, an imagined Lucille Ball who makes no claim to the Lucille who thrived outside these hard covers.” Yet, selecting to write a real person into a fictional story inherently creates the expectation that the author will attempt to capture that individual with some correctness. The fact that Lucille Ball is such an illustrious American icon – “Mt. Lucille,” as Strauss puts it – still does not give Strauss warrant to run roughshod with her personhood, in my view.
I believe Strauss wrote Lucy into his grandfather’s story for two reasons: firstly, his grandfather did actually have a brief encounter with her and secondly, the literary potential of her career arc. From a strictly narrative perspective, I can see the appeal of the latter motivation; the intimacy of the television medium makes the fleeting love affair between an ordinary man and a glamorous star especially poignant. That plays well in some scenes, like when Isidore must endure a viewing of I Love Lucy with his wife and their friends after previously consummating his relationship with Lucy. That is why I believe this novel would have been far more effective had Strauss written a fictional character in Lucille Ball’s place, much as Taylor Jenkins Reid did with her title character in The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. Though Reid borrowed from the life stories of a variety of Old Hollywood stars to create Evelyn Hugo, and it’s quite discernible where she plucked parts from the biographies of Rita Hayworth or Ava Gardner or Elizabeth Taylor, because she ultimately created an autonomous character it’s impossible to be disappointed by her characterization of a real individual. The Queen of Tuesday would have been a much stronger novel had Strauss done the same – crafting a fictional character, roman a clef style, would have given him the latitude to appropriately do what he inevitably does here, which is cribbing what he finds valuable about Lucy’s life (her path to stardom) and then dispensing with the rest. If he had, I would likely have bumped my rating up one star, because he does display some talent as a writer, particularly when he sketches intensely emotional highs and lows. With that being said, Strauss does overwrite a lot of his prose and frequently peppers it with so many riddles that it can sometimes be a struggle to get through the language; essentially, he overuses a tactic that could have been effectual in smaller doses.
In press for this book, Strauss has described The Queen of Tuesday as a kind of feminist reclamation of Lucy’s life. He has basically explained that Desi’s rampant womanizing led him to believe Lucy deserved a tale like this, her own chance to seek extramarital pleasure. But I’m left with the feeling that he did quite the opposite: he expunged a compelling female pioneer of agency to twist her into a paramour for his grandfather. He disregarded her true emotions and depreciated her lived experiences so she could perform as a conduit for a story about a man, and a far less intriguing man at that (seriously, Isidore’s long internal monologues are a slog to read). Lucy, Desi, and the relationship they shared, both in a professional and personal sense, deserve so much better than what Strauss has cobbled together here. He missed the opportunity to tell the true, fascinating story – complete with drama, historical consequence and a genuinely complex romance – to spin a yarn so ridiculous it’s almost impossible to suspend belief enough to swallow it.