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The philosophy of Fame

by Maxine R. Ang

Philosophical actresses, jaded models, and slightly insane Russian magnates populate Paulo Coelho’s Winner Stands Alone. The twelfth novel by the bestselling author promises to be one of his grimmest ones yet, one that tries hard to read as a social commentary and an action-adventure piece at the same time.

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In the glamorous world of the Cannes Film Festival, Coelho assembles his motley crew of tyrants, fools, and pawns alike: Igor, the steely Russian tycoon who will stop at nothing to win back his ex-wife Ewa; Jasmine, the fashion world’s darling who finds that being a model isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; and Ewa, the elegant Russian wife who attempts to run from her demons.

These, plus a handful of other characters such as an abused Portuguese vendor, a jaded African model, and a disillusioned film distributor, portray the glitz and grime of a fame-obsessed society.

Igor, seeking to win back Ewa through a string of bizarre murders of strangers, is a murky half-drawn sketch of man. As the lead character, he is smart, sophisticated and, bizarrely enough, equipped with elite Russian fighting skills.

Sadly, the plot ambles along with all the excitement and effort of a rusty roller coaster car. The book is a slow torturous read from start to finish. It starts off with all the promise of an exciting, adrenaline-pumping ride, but after the last page, the reader feels like he has been on the kiddie ride all along.

There is no sense of movement or thrill at all as Igor, the murderer, progresses from victim to victim. The killer could have been choosing vegetables at a market for all the thrill that trickles from the pages. The methods employed are ingenious, but a bit too contrived: a rare African poison, an airborne drug, and an elusive martial art move that slowly but surely chokes the life out of his target.

It is hard to sympathize with any of the characters. Coelho makes the mistake of assigning to his characters hastily drawn-up biographies, making them rattle hollowly on the pages. Like characters in children’s parables, they are given oversized roles to fill—the Policeman, the Murderer, the Actress. In fact, one such character is simply called The Star.

Coelho also has the habit of inserting scientific sidenotes into the killing scenes. He weighs down the potentially thrilling moments with pedantic statements and overbearing monologues. For example, Igor takes up too much time discussing the impact of a Beretta Px4 bullet or the deadly effects of a certain poison, while the victim often sits mesmerized. In such cases, the reader is unable to move on and feels like shouting at Igor to pull the trigger and just get it over with.

But aside from the Angel of Death’s voice in his head, coupled with his continuous, detached social commentary of the Festival, Coelho makes no effort to help the readers relate to Igor. If he has such a great love for Ewa, why are there no details given of their courtship? If he’s such a charming man, why does his dialogue read more like a preacher’s sermon?

While his killing spree may stem from a motivation to reclaim Ewa, Igor inspires no compassion as a stricken husband. He doesn’t even provoke healthy amounts of revulsion as a killer, seeing as how he’s more likely to bore his victims to death with his page-long monologues.

Another too-convenient character is Gabriela, who is plucked from anonymity and suddenly thrust into the limelight. In her auditions, she promptly launches into a philosophical meditation of her fears and dreams as an actress.

In such moments, it seems like Coelho is simply using his characters as empty vessels to put forth his own opinions on the world of cinema. The moral message seems forced and thus, unwanted.

Coelho often relies on short, powerful moments in his other novels to make an impact on readers. In The Winner Stands Alone, however, these moments are too few and far in between. Coelho’s dramatic and lyrical narrative seems disjointed and out of place in the high-paced world of actresses and models.

Aside from sounding ridiculous, the book’s sentiments take on a tinge of condescension. Nothing is exempt from his social observation, from neckties to blood diamonds, to mobile phones. Coelho observes people who cling to their cellular phones, noting that the device was “no longer simply a method of communication with others but… a way of showing others how important you are.”

In attempting to translate his usual inspiring and succinct moral and religious opinions, Coelho comes off more as a cynic than anything. He notes that the Festival is all about “making spur-of-the-moment decisions, telling lies if necessary, pretending to be younger than you are, smiling at people you loathe, feigning an interest in people who bore you, saying ‘I love you’ without a thought for the consequences, or stabbing in the back a friend who once helped you out, but who has now become an undesirable rival.”

Coelho states that The Winner Stands Alone isn’t meant to be a thriller, but rather a “crude portrait of where we are now.” Given that the novel tries so hard to be both a high-speed action novel and a modern-day condemnation of the excesses and vices of the rich, it falls flat on its face, and fails to be either.

Rating: ★★☆☆☆


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