Moriarty’s ‘Strangers’ looks too familiar
It may be unfair to grade terrific novelists on a different curve, but Liane Moriarty’s new novel “Nine Perfect Strangers” (Flatiron, 453 pp., ★★☆☆) does not match up to her captivating previous books, “The Husband’s Secret” and “Big Little Lies.”
Both of those novels cut deliciously close to the bone in depicting the insecurities and jealousies of Australia’s suburbanites, which turn out to be pretty similar to their American counterparts. “Big Little Lies” became a hit series for HBO, returning for a second season next year with Nicole Kidman, Meryl Streep and Reese Witherspoon.
“Nine Perfect Strangers” is set at the Tranquillum House, a resort that promises life-altering results for the residents who make their way past kangaroo roadkill to get there. But it takes an awfully long time for this spa treatment to take effect: More than 200 pages of character development pass before the action really begins.
And these characters aren’t particularly compelling. Frances, a blowsy romance novelist, is smarting from multiple rejections: Her publisher spurned her new book, she got an especially stinging review, and she has been victimized by an online catfishing scheme that cost her dearly.
Tony is a beerbellied former football star who encounters Frances mid-hotflash along the side of the road in a menopausal meet cute. Jessica is a social media and plastic surgery-obsessed lottery winner, seeking marriage therapy with her mechanic husband, Ben. Carmel is a single mom of four who was dumped for a younger woman by her bored hubby. Lars is a gorgeous gay divorce lawyer.
The most relatable, real characters are Heather and Napoleon and their daughter, Zoe, who have escaped to Tranquillum to endure the anniversary of the death of Zoe’s twin, Zach.
The spa is run by Masha, a Russian emigre who fled the corporate world after a heart attack that left her briefly clinically dead. Masha resurrected her life, health and body, her once fleshy form now supermodel svelte.
The brusque Masha is all about results, so these nine strangers are in for daily blood tests, fasting, “noble silences,” hikes at dawn and, oh yes, smoothies with a little extra something. As in microdoses of LSD, monitored by Masha’s besotted assistant, Yao, who was the fledgling EMT on duty the day she had her heart attack.
“Strangers” evokes a potboiler more than the searing social commentary Moriarty has delivered in her previous page-turners. It’s predictable, and the twisted turns that are signature Moriarty are visible miles ahead.
Normally, I’d say “namaste” – I bow to you – Liane Moriarty, witty writer of of-the-moment plots populated by people we all know. But most of these “Strangers” are the types you’d find at central casting. Still, a mediocre Moriarty is like a bad massage: not the worst thing in the world.