A prominent actor, on stage and screen, suddenly and inexplicably loses his ability to act. Performances are panned, and worst of all, the actor knows his performances were poor. Acting is by definition pretending to be something that one is not. A fake, a phony. But it must be at least a good phony, and he can no longer be that.
It’s a short novel, fewer than 150 pages, and the font isn’t tiny, but Roth manages to pack in a lot of anguish. The latter part of the story involves some kinky sex that, in the context of the story line, seemed gratuitous to me. I suppose at this point, given Roth’s huge body of work, all of which features sexual episodes, you have to just shrug it off with “Oh well, it’s Roth.”
It’s a short novel with a clear theme, a steady progression of plot, a fitting conclusion, a useful lesson. Speaking of which, I can see how different people could draw different lessons, and that's okay. Eye of the beholder, you know.
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