If you’ve been paying attention to literary news over the last few months, you know that Rachel Cusk’s new novel, The Life of M, is supposedly a roman á clef about Natalie Portman. Cusk was supposedly friends with Portman, and rumor has it that Portman was furious that Cusk mined anecdotes that were shared between friends for a book.
Unfortunately, the backstory is the only noteworthy thing about the book. The Life of M feels like a novel-length version of a Deuxmoi blind item. The reader is left to wonder about the realities of all the anecdotes in the book—who is the dancer who insulted M’s dancing in the “ballet film,” for instance? It’s hard not to imagine Cusk chuckling and muttering “wouldn’t you like to know?”
I hated this book. It made me feel complicit in something dirty, and it didn’t offer anything beyond its sleazy backstory. The experience of reading The Life of M makes me retroactively question my enjoyment of Cusk’s other books. Avoid this one at all costs.