A Raw Dive into Trauma: My Thoughts on Malibu Rising
There’s something about the allure of a summer read set against the sun-soaked backdrop of Malibu that immediately captures the imagination. Taylor Jenkins Reid’s Malibu Rising had everyone buzzing, from social media feeds to literary circles, and with an ARC in hand, I was ready to dive in. I’ve often enjoyed contemporary fiction with its ripple of drama and romance, but this time it felt like I was signing up for an emotional rollercoaster. Surprisingly, what I got was a ride fueled by frustration and a sense of bewilderment.
At its core, Malibu Rising is a story about the Riva siblings navigating the aftermath of their tumultuous upbringing. The Riva family’s dysfunction, led by their infamous father, becomes an emblem of the traumas that have shaped them. In many ways, Reid’s narrative mirrors the broader theme of white nuclear families using surfboards instead of therapy to evade their profound emotional wounds. This theme resonates deeply, especially as we watch the characters flutter back and forth between past and present, struggling with their legacies. Yet, instead of multifaceted layers, I found myself grappling with a rather flat emotional landscape.
Most notable was Reid’s approach to storytelling. The prose felt at times overwhelming in its melodrama, irritatingly over-the-top. I’m typically a reader who revels in soaking up the intricate details of a new world, yet Malibu Rising had me racing through the pages with an inexplicable rage. I noted, "why I hate malibu rising? I will try to be brief (1/435)" in my annotations, showcasing just how dramatically this book challenged my patience.
The third-person omniscient perspective, which often offers intimacy and depth, felt clinical here—almost like an estranged narrator recounting a family saga instead of us living it. The back-and-forth between the siblings’ current struggles and the haunting shadows of their parents felt tedious rather than enlightening. Instead of eliciting sympathy, I found it hard to connect with the characters, which is a rarity for me since I usually thrive on character-driven narratives. June’s tragic romance with Mick, for instance, evoked anger rather than empathy, as her entire character seemed to be defined solely through her relationship with him—her depth drowned in melodrama.
Amidst the chaos, Reid’s writing did deliver some humorous moments. I emerged from my frustration with gems etched in my notes like “that’s enough heterosexuality for today” and other biting critiques that truly captured my feelings toward the narrative. One of my most striking annotations read, "the men in this book: I HATE GETTING ACCUSED OF SOME SHIT I ACTUALLY DID,” which reflects the glaring dysfunction highlighted in their toxic dynamics.
Reflecting on the wildly positive reception this book has received, I can’t help but compare my experience to how I felt about last year’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. Maybe it’s the case of a cult classic syndrome where popularity overshadows genuine critique. This certainly might explain the disconnect I felt—perhaps those who are entrenched in the author’s style may feel more sentimentally aligned to Reid’s characters than I could ever muster.
In conclusion, while Malibu Rising earned a one-star rating from me, I recognize that there exists an audience hungry for its particular blend of intensity and family drama. If you appreciate Hollywood-style melodrama filled with sun-drenched parties and tangled relationships, this might just be your next guilty pleasure. For me, however, while I waded through the layers of familial chaos, all I found was the audacity of their circumstances, leaving me feeling more exasperated than satisfied. In the end, I’m still wondering what defines a beloved book, and whether my experience means I simply wasn’t the right audience for Reid’s narrative this time around.