I almost put this book down. I only picked it up from the 7 Day Express Loans shelf at the library because of the setting. Not because Michaelides is a New York Times bestselling author or because his first novel debuted at #1 and sold 6.5 million copies. I just really wanted some Grecian atmosphere because I’ve just booked a writer’s retreat in the Cyclades. But the beginning bored me, even though from the first line it promised to be “a tale of murder.”
It was set on an ex-movie star’s private Greek island as promised, but not all of it. (That too was a lie.) And yes, there were moments where the sand and surf and wind buffeted me into that island world, but much of it is set on another island entirely. England. The Fury, of course, refers to the mad Grecian wind—a wind that plays as antagonistic a role as the insane trickster narrator, Elliot Chase (not his real name.) Nothing is real about this narrator. But I enjoyed moments like this:
“We made our way to the coast and began to search the beaches. This was an arduous task, with the wind attacking us as we walked. The fury was relentless, slashing our faces, hurling sand at us, screaming in our ears, shoving us off-balance every chance it got” (160).
It is a locked room murder mystery, I suppose, considering there are only seven people on the island: Lana, the ex-Hollywood actress who owns Aura (the island named after the Goddess); her seventeen-year-old son Leo; her studly boyfriend, Jason; her best girlfriend, a messed up actress named Kate; Agathi, the old woman who is Lana’s faithful servant; Nikos (I can’t remember why he’s there to tell you the truth, perhaps he’s another servant); and Elliot, our fiendish narrator who’s Lana’s friend and obsessed with her.
I say “fiendish” because the author breaks all kinds of writerly rules; like popping in with his opinions when he’s not in the room and can’t possibly know what’s being said. This cardinal “point-of-view” rule haunts me and I dare not break it. But I suppose a NewYork Times #1 bestselling author can do whatever he wants. Elliott frequently pops in with his first-person voice and is the most twisted fuck I’ve read in a long while. I caution you: Don’t believe what he says because three pages later, he’ll admit to making it up and give you a completely different version of the events. Oh, and the characters are actors, playing parts for the narrator, and at times the author, who continues to rewrite the script of this five-act prose-play. It’s brilliant really. Even if it’s as infuriating as that damn wind.
So, why didn’t I put this book down? One word. Spellbinding. Michaelides caught me in his trickster spell and forced me to keep reading, and, as I read, the action revved up—driven by lies and self-propelled by an annoying narrator. I can’t say I’ve read anything like it before.
Is there a murder? Yes. But that’s all I’ll tell you. To know more, you’ll have to mount the wind and see where she takes you. Who of these seven players is the victim and who the killer, I will not say.
