Book Review: The Comfort of Strangers was Ian McEwan's second novel. Actually it seems to be a short story that was left to grow too long, like a hidden zucchini. McEwan can write, but here his letter-perfect descriptions go on, repeated, padding out the minimal story. It's good as far as it goes, creating atmosphere, incisively portraying the couple's relationship as it teeters, one moment hostile, the next making love in the afternoon, but unbalanced, precarious, about to fall any moment. Their trembling relationship creates a nervousness, wondering when one of them will crack, that parallels the foreboding the reader feels as they journey through the cobbled streets, always ending in upset and the same mysterious strangers. The Comfort of Strangers is a Gothic tale at heart, two naive and distracted tourists constantly lost in dusty streets and the filtered Venetian sunlight. It's just not quite enough. McEwan only had enough material for a short story, but by this time he felt he should be writing novels. The man can write, but there isn't enough story to hang all that writing on. And after that the reader may also wonder about verisimilitude, the credibility of the story. While telling his tale McEwan brings the reader into his intricately spun web, but on reflection the reader may feel bamboozled just a bit. Manipulated. The Comfort of Strangers is good enough, there's just not a lot of there there. [3★]
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