My Sister's Keeper
by Jodi Picoult
Boy, talk about a heavy read. Maybe I should have started that sentence with “Girl” instead, since the book is about two sisters. Two sisters with an incredibly unusual and tragic relationship: the younger daughter was only born to serve as an organ donor for her chronically ill sibling. Girl, talk about a heavy read.
Jodi Picoult writes 450 pages, explaining everyone’s point of view, the mother and father, and of course, both daughters. She tries to create a moral dilemma, a “What would you do” question for the readers, but it really is hard to relate to anyone. How can you sympathize with the parents who willingly bred a child for the sole purpose of giving up her blood and organs for her sister? How can you sympathize with the older daughter whose decision—no spoilers here—she knows will negatively affect everyone in her family? And how can you sympathize with the younger daughter, resentful of her sister’s illness? I am paraphrasing, of course. I guess the moral dilemma is figuring out which character is the most unlikable. My vote goes to the mother. Picoult writes a sex scene with the two parents, during which the wife requests her husband to bite her lip so she can taste blood. Picoult describes her enjoyment of tasting her blood, the iron in her blood, the freedom of her blood—as opposed to all the hospital visits in which her daughter’s poisoned blood is a reminder of her illness. I’m assuming she meant to write a realistic scene all mothers could relate to. I am not a mother, and that scene left me deeply disturbed. With all that’s going on in her life at that time, knowing that one or both of her daughters could die any given day, this mother decides to have a roll in the hay with her husband—with whom she hasn’t been getting along the entire book? Then, she tastes blood and feels happy about it? Why wouldn’t she taste blood, be instantly reminded of her daughter’s illness, and feel as turned on as a dead light bulb? I don’t understand.
Well, enough about that. As you can probably tell, I didn’t enjoy this book. The movie, believe it or not, I enjoyed even less. Joan Cusack’s performance was surprisingly moving, but besides that, the acting was atrocious. Abigail Breslin had just come off of her “I got nominated for an Oscar” high and decided to show the world she could really act. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. For your own good, skip the movie. Without giving any spoilers, I will say there are drastic differences between the book and the movie, differences so great that those who loved one version might despise the other.
Jodi Picoult writes 450 pages, explaining everyone’s point of view, the mother and father, and of course, both daughters. She tries to create a moral dilemma, a “What would you do” question for the readers, but it really is hard to relate to anyone. How can you sympathize with the parents who willingly bred a child for the sole purpose of giving up her blood and organs for her sister? How can you sympathize with the older daughter whose decision—no spoilers here—she knows will negatively affect everyone in her family? And how can you sympathize with the younger daughter, resentful of her sister’s illness? I am paraphrasing, of course. I guess the moral dilemma is figuring out which character is the most unlikable. My vote goes to the mother. Picoult writes a sex scene with the two parents, during which the wife requests her husband to bite her lip so she can taste blood. Picoult describes her enjoyment of tasting her blood, the iron in her blood, the freedom of her blood—as opposed to all the hospital visits in which her daughter’s poisoned blood is a reminder of her illness. I’m assuming she meant to write a realistic scene all mothers could relate to. I am not a mother, and that scene left me deeply disturbed. With all that’s going on in her life at that time, knowing that one or both of her daughters could die any given day, this mother decides to have a roll in the hay with her husband—with whom she hasn’t been getting along the entire book? Then, she tastes blood and feels happy about it? Why wouldn’t she taste blood, be instantly reminded of her daughter’s illness, and feel as turned on as a dead light bulb? I don’t understand.
Well, enough about that. As you can probably tell, I didn’t enjoy this book. The movie, believe it or not, I enjoyed even less. Joan Cusack’s performance was surprisingly moving, but besides that, the acting was atrocious. Abigail Breslin had just come off of her “I got nominated for an Oscar” high and decided to show the world she could really act. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. For your own good, skip the movie. Without giving any spoilers, I will say there are drastic differences between the book and the movie, differences so great that those who loved one version might despise the other.