I put off writing this review for a really long time because I knew that no matter what I did, it was going to turn into My Thoughts On Mormonism, and nobody really cares about My Thoughts On Mormonism, nor is a book review really the place to discuss them. However, the Mormon faith has such a large role in this book that I can’t not address it, as it seriously influenced my enjoyment of the novel. So, inescapably: My Thoughts on Mormonism.
I have some problems with Mormonism. I don’t pretend to know or understand all the tenets of this religion, and mostly I would not care, except that the Church of Latter-Day Saints seems to have such strict rules regarding its members’ personal and social lives. I am really bothered by any faith that preaches that homosexuality is a sin, or that women must be subservient to their husbands. (I know that there are some more “mainstream” Christians who believe these things too, and I am equally bothered by that. However, that’s not what this book is about.) Reading a book that presents these attitudes as super-duper hunky dory makes me incredibly uncomfortable—almost as uncomfortable, I would wager, as a devout Mormon would find a book about the pleasures of gay sex interspersed with demon hunting (which to me would qualify as an awesome way to spend a Saturday night). I don’t have any problem with a book that’s all “yay, Mormonism!” existing (and perhaps that’s where the comparison I made above fails: I’m not going to start calling people who think they should never, ever watch an R-rated movie sinners), but I don’t particularly want to read it.
And that’s part of the problem I had with The Actor and the Housewife, I guess: it’s marketed as a mainstream book, but both the author and the main character are Mormons, and a lot of the plot is driven by a moral compass that I can’t help finding somewhat insane. The basic plot is this: Mormon housewife Becky Jack semi-improbably becomes besties with atheist movie star Felix Callahan—whose life philosophy is treated with utter fairness and respect, and in that Hale has one up on me. But then interspersed amongst the expected shenanigans there are, say, long sections in which Becky has to go to her husband and her church to get permission to maintain an entirely innocent and platonic relationship with a man she isn’t married to. And this is presented like it’s totally okay: yes, little lady, your husband and your priest can regulate every aspect of your life! In fact, they should, and if you don’t let them, you should be paralyzed with guilt! (And, you know: also no R-rated movies for you.)
There were things I really, really liked about this novel. Hale’s narrative voice was vibrant and meta and fun, and parts of the story made me laugh out loud, while other parts had me seriously choked up. The ending annoyed me a little—on a purely narrative level; I felt like Hale was being a bit of a cocktease and trying to have things both ways—but for the most part: fun book! Fun book I could never fully enjoy because I thought about living Becky’s life and I wanted to scream.
Possibly what all of this reveals is that I am less open-minded than I would like to believe. And, you know, maybe. So if that’s true, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do. I can read about women being treated unfairly in historical fiction and sometimes I can stomach it (sometimes) because I tell myself: hey, that was the time period, things got better. But this is a modern novel, and its author—clearly a really smart, funny, self-aware woman—thinks this sort of thing is just fine. And I don’t know what to do with that. At all.
All I do know is, based on her prose style and her sense of humor, I would really like to read more of Hale’s work. But based on other factors—yes, My Thoughts On Mormonism, Let Me Show You Them—I’m not sure I will, or should. And that makes me sad.