I didn't get far. It was becoming a nasty story that promised to become even nastier. ( )

Captures a unique time and place

It took some time to get used to the structure of the novel about which is told through letters, a biography, and various reports. Captivating and engrossing story of Paris in the 20s, 30s and 40s ( )

First, I read this book because I decided a few weeks ago to look into every Francine Prose work that came my way, this because I'd already recently admired Prose's My New American Life, Reading Like a Writer, and The Vixen.
Then, this is the second novel in the last two weeks I've enjoyed but not finished. I mean, I read the first sixty pages, then the last few chapters, followed by scattered passages that drew my interest. It spoke to me, but not loudly enough to make me try to understand everything going on in it.
Lovers at the Chameleon is a very ambitious book, but one which I am not ambitious enough to follow in depth. It is told from a half-dozen or more points of view, and covers, but not in a linear way, a century of time. It is fiction based on history, where some fictitious characters are mean to represent real people and other are their own imaginary selves.
Only by reading reviews and interviews did I get a feel for what was going on or who in the book might have been who in twentieth century France. So this becomes a book, for me at least, emeshed in the web of other books, other documents about life in Paris before, during, and after WWII.
It is, partly, about trying to recover a view of the past when there are many versions of the same stories and no real way for me to know for sure how much of each version to believe. I think this is one view Prose wanted me to take away from her ambitious book, and for that I'm glad. ( )

I really wanted to love this book, I really wanted to like this book, but it just didn't work for me. Too many narrators (reliable or not), too long, too repetitive, and often too boring. I was distracted by the "based on real people but not really" issue. Without a a Forward or an Afterward I found myself spending frustrating amounts of time trying to ascertain what was true, almost true and what was pure fiction. For some it may not matter, for me, when the subject matter is the Holocaust, the Resistance, a well known work of art, etc, it matters.

On a different level the relationships between the characters didn't ring true. I never felt the attractions/connections between any of the couples, be they be lovers or friends. I didn't like any of the characters, but that is not necessary for me to like a novel, I just found it odd that I found none of the characters especially sympathetic. At times it felt like the author was just throwing as many "names" at the reader as she could, perhaps to add authenticity to the story...

I did like the descriptions of the Chameleon Club and Paris at night, as well as Hitler's Berlin. Looking at Brassai's (on whom, I assume, Gabor is based) photography you can see the genius he had capturing/recreating the grit and beauty of night time/underground Paris. The author did a good job making me see how a photographer may have found his niche and survived financially and creatively. That's about all that I enjoyed about the novel. ( )

I gave up. I really wanted to like it; I usually love Francine Prose. But the characters seemed to blend together, and parts of it seemed very anachronistic, and... maybe I just wasn't in the right mood for it right now.