Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: none
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
Oh dear me. This poor book. Having just finished Siren Queen, I realised I needed something totally different or it was going to be unfair on everybody involved. And I guess I should have picked something from tbr instead of my NetGalley queue because I deliberately try to go into NetGalley books as, you know, un-influenced as possible. In any case, I thought a contemporary-set thriller would be a suitable change of pace. And then about twenty pages into said contemporary thriller, discovered it was about film-making, Hollywood, and #metoo.
So, I’m sorry, Complicit. My emotions weren’t as engaged as they should have been when I read you, but that’s about me, not about you. Because this is an engaging thriller that has a lot to say about a lot of complicated things, including the film industry, in the immigrant experience in America and, of course, the dynamics of abuse and exploitation. In some ways, ‘thriller’ doesn’t feel like a wholly adequate description of this book. It’s got that interweaving of past and present structure that so many thrillers use to keep you compulsively reading but … but what’s notable here is that you already know what’s going to happen (the entitled, clearly abusive man is going to do what men like that do) and even what happens afterwards (the heroine is teaching at a community college when the book opens). So it’s essentially using the mechanics of the thriller to reflect the emotional and psychological intensities of living with the memory of abuse and a conviction of your own—the clue is in the name—complicity.
In fact, the whole theme of complicity is inextricable with the expectations of the thriller: thrillers prime us to expect guilt, dark revelations, sudden shifts in sympathy. What we have in Complicity is something far more banal and far more tragic: a narrator, convinced of her own guilt priming the reader to expect some terrible third act disclosure that proves she was the villain all along. And I’m not saying the heroine is without responsibility of here, but … I mean … the book is called Complicit. Not tell us that this is a story about complicity (like, duh) but to force us interrogate what it actually means when we talk about complicity, especially when it comes to women, and especially in the context of rape culture.
In any case, the book is narrated by Sarah Lai, the daughter of hard-working immigrant parents who find her desire to work in the film industry incomprehensible to the point of selfishness. But, through luck more than judgement, she does manage to land an internship at a small, independent production company. From there, she secures a permanent (and paid) position as a kind of all-around do-everything person, hoping to succeed by sheer dint of hard work, talent and loyalty. The naivety of this, of course, kind of painful to read. Not least because Sarah is genuinely good at her job: unfortunately, while this leads to partial recognition, it also leads to a good deal of exploitation, often by people who do not themselves as exploitative, like her boss, Sylvia. A successful indie film brings the company to the attention of Hugo North, a billionaire who has decided he wants to invest in the film business. What follows is a predicable powerplay—predicable in the sense of typical, not in the sense of the book itself being predicable—between the debauchery-seeking billionaire with the money, the easily influenced director who believes himself a visionary, a woman trying to retain control of her production company while juggling a family, an up-and-coming starlet about to get her big break, and Sarah herself.
Like most thrillers, the narrative structure is set in the present—in the aftermath of something terrible—with the defeated, damaged heroine agreeing to tell her story to a journalist from New York Times, a man who has built his career on #metoo stories. Occasionally there are sections from his interviews with other people involved in the story Sarah is telling: they offer potentially needed context but, for me, they felt on the edge of being overtly utilitarian. Regardless, it’s an interesting framing device and I wasn’t completely sure how I felt—or how I was meant to feel—about Thom Gallagher as the story progressed. He’s specifically an “insider”, a handsome white American man from an already established family of politicians and I never got a handle, perhaps because Sarah didn’t either, on whether he believed his own rhetoric or was just yet another man exploiting women—the trauma of women—for personal gain. He didn’t come across as particularly predatory, and says all the right things, but it’s hard to overlook the optics here: an Asian American woman from a working-class background telling her story to a white American man steeped in privilege. But, on the other hand, without Thom the book would consist (with the exception of a gay hairdresser) almost entirely of men who were either ignorant or actively abusive. And perhaps the message here need not be women cannot escape the power of men, even if the men are trying to use their power good, but that systems of abuse are a problem for everyone. Not merely those directly impacted.
For me, one of the most painful aspects of the book was Sarah’s understanding herself as shaped by her upbringing as the child of immigrants. Not just the degree to which this condemns to her to permanent outsider status, missing all of the connections that white, middle class Americans take for granted, but the fact the values her family instilled in her—work hard and you will be rewarded—ultimately render her so very vulnerable for exploitation. I don’t want make to trite points about the myth of America but Sarah’s story is at once deeply personal, and deeply embedded in its cultural context. I think it would be simple enough to view Complicit as another #metoo or post #metoo story but it’s asking bigger questions than that. About power and the use of power, about marginalisation and vulnerability, and about the cultural, ideological and institutional systems that allow abuse and exploitation to flourish.
The book ends after the publication of Thom’s article in a space of delicate potential. Sarah has learned to see herself differently and, therefore, her current life as less of a punishment for her previous actions. We don’t learn if anything actually changes for her or for the other people in Thom’s story, but there’s a sense of hope, I think, that wasn’t there before. We don’t even learn what happens to Hugo North but this feels appropriate: it is not, and never was, his story. Although, on the subject of Hugh North, I was mildly bewildered that he was British? I mean, I know we���re the pricks who used to have an empire and yes we Brexited like a bunch of dorks but … like … as a British person working in American publishing, I can tell you right now that if you’re looking for an embodiment of cultural imperialism it’s, um, it’s really not us? Maybe it was an attempt to distance the fictional character Hugo North from any high-profile Hollywood types who have semi-recently been identified as abusers (not that I’m saying British people in positions of power aren’t just as capable of abuse and exploitation as Americans) but it just seems a very specific choice? Especially when the sort of new money “I made my money in real estate” billionaire he is feels like such an American archetype to me. Plus, have you seen how small our island is? I don’t think real estate is quite the same sort of deal over here. It doesn’t help—and forgive my Brit-picking here—that he just doesn’t talk like a British person, at least it didn’t sound that way to me. We don’t, for example, say gotten.
The other thing that kind of bothers me about Hugo North—unless he was a deliberately nod to the ‘all British people are evil’ Hollywood thing—is that he, too, is a Hollywood outsider. Not, of course in the same way Sarah is. He is, of course a man with money and privilege but he’s from a different country, he earned his money in a different industry, and he doesn’t actually know the movie business very well. Maybe I’m just being defensive because I don’t like “all British people are evil” as a trope (oddly enough?) but Hugo North did disconcert me. Intentionally or not, he ended up feeling to me like a slightly peculiar attempt to displace the problem Hollywood’s rape culture onto someone/something from outside of Hollywood itself. And I don’t know if that’s … a useful way to look at this particular problem?
Anyway, whatever you may personally feel about its portrayal of British abusers, this is really good book. Gripping and nuanced, and written with what is clearly an insider’s eye in terms of its subject material. Strongly recommended, though do take care of yourself given the triggering subject material.