Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

**SPOILERS** City of Girls started as a 5 star read. 2/3 in it fell to 3 stars. By the end I settled on 2 stars. The story is not fluid, nor does it make much sense. 'City of Girls' is an off-Broadway play written and executed by a Hollywood writer once married to the Lily Playhouse's owner, Aunt Peg. Aunt Peg is a New Yorker through and through. Her niece Vivian, the protagonist, is living with her after failing out of Vassar College and disappointing her well-to-do parents. At the age of 80, Vivian receives a very brief letter from a woman named Angela, simply asking Vivian about the nature of the relationship between her and Angela's father. This simple question asked on page 2, turns into a nearly 500 page open-letter to Angela, disclosing everything Vivian did between 1940 to present (basically dismissing Angela's question and revealing every single orgasm she has ever had.) Why? I have no clue! It is revealed in the last 2 or 3 chapters who Angela's father actually was to Vivian and- get this- it has nothing to do with 'City of Girls' whatsoever. I was pleased to read about the strong women depicted in this novel. Unfortunately, the authors eagerness to accuratley celebrate feminism missed the mark. The novel is named City of Girls, The failing Lily Playhouse Theatres hit which resurrects the company. That was written and developed by a man... A man that is intentionally called to save the day. Huh? The first 2/3 of this novel offer a rich, descriptive look into pre- WWII New York City's theater district. I was captivated and intrigued, eagerly awaiting the finale. I was curiously predicting who Angela's mother and father could possibly be as I learned more and more about the Lily Playhouse showgirls and young love interests of Vivian's youth. They were elaborately recounted with care. So when I found out who Angela's father was, and that he had nothing to do with the letters objective, and he was weakly introduced and developed, I could not help but become sorely disappointed. Not only that, but the most developed characters we meet early on pretty much fall of the planet. Their departure was weak. Elizabeth Gilbert gave us the most narcissistic character I've ever read since her memoir, Eat, Pray, Love. This attempt to write a progressive piece fell completely short. Many hot-button issues were narrated, but with such a desperation that it felt unnatural. For example: Vivian loses her virginity after being set up by her showgirl friends to meet a married man who had a fetish for showgirls. He meets with one every Saturday and then pays them. Gilbert insists to the reader that it was not in fact prostitution because there's a "mutual agreement". After losing her virginity, Vivian walks away, laughing all the way back to the diner where her friends are eagerly awaiting to hear about her first sexual encounter. Give me a break. No privileged 19 year old girl is going to suddenly abandon her virginity and act as if it were just another day in the life. Later, Vivian goes into great detail discussing her sexual relationship with her first love, including but not excluding in great detail, her first time receiving oral sex. Later we get to hear about her first time masturbating, oh! And the random three-way she has with her best friend and a married man. These are the issues with the book; it's not the content so much as the way Gilbert executes the storyline. None of this has anything to do with Angela's question which sets the book up for this story you're about to read. So I have to beg the question: if somebody wrote you a letter asking how you knew their father, would you tell them about how you moved to New York City a naive virgin, lost your virginity to a married man who paid you for the sex, had a three-way with your best friend and the husband of the woman you admire most at the theater, repeatedly discuss the intimate details of your sex life, divulge your scandals, go in to lengthy detail about your family and friends who never even met your father, spend hundreds of pages talking about a play your aunt and her ex-husband made, talk about your small-business ventures, only to close the letter with a couple of pages talking about how you did indeed meet their father? If I were Angela I would have replied: Dear Vivian, Sorry I asked. Don't call me, I'll call you. Angela. If this review is confusing you and all over the place then you already have a great idea of what it was like to read this book.